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mephisto-reporting · 7 months ago

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Jealousy, Jealousy with Sylus

Plot: Reader becomes jealous of Sylus and MC's closeness, distancing herself and seeking comfort in another LI. Sylus notices her growing distance and takes action. Based on this request. Pairing: Sylus x Non MC reader Content Warning: Insecurities, injuries, mention of blood, jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort Note: Reader is not the MC of the game. I think I got quite carried away writing this because I am a sucker for angst. [ A disclaimer note - Please be respectful of the request ]

The faint hum of the air condition echoed through the Onychinus base, its opulent, luxurious atmosphere doing little to distract from the knot twisting in your stomach. You stood across from Luke and Kieran, their crow masks tilted slightly as if to gauge your reaction.

"Boss isn't here today," Luke said casually, his hands tucked into his pockets. "He’s in Linkon, Boss man’s got other things to handle."

Kieran, his mask tilted slightly to the side, gave a confused grunt. "But I thought he was meeting with her...?"

Luke raised a brow, correcting him. "No, no, he was meeting with Miss Hunter."

Miss Hunter.

The words hit you like a sledgehammer, even though they shouldn’t have. You were a hunter too, an informant who had been feeding Sylus critical intel on the association’s movements for two years now. But she was different. Special.

Captain Jenna’s star pupil, with her rare Anhaunsen-class Resonance Evol, was someone Sylus had spent weeks trying to connect with, both literally and emotionally. You weren’t blind to the necessity of it; resonating with her was crucial for his goals, ones he hadn’t entirely shared with you but that you trusted him to pursue.

Trusted him. Loved him.

You forced a tight smile. "Thanks for the update. I'll let you two get back to it."

Luke and Kieran exchanged a glance, but you were already walking away, the echo of your boots swallowed by the hum of the base.

The ride back to Linkon was supposed to clear your mind. It didn’t.

The cool wind whipped against your face, but all it did was sting the tears pooling in your eyes. The road stretched endlessly ahead, yet the pressure in your chest only grew. Sylus hadn’t seen you in two months. Two months of unanswered calls and messages reduced to half-hearted responses when they came at all.

You understood why he was focused on her. She was crucial to his plans. She was everything you weren’t: poised, pretty, powerful, and, most importantly, someone he needed.

But understanding didn’t make it hurt any less.

The world blurred around you as your thoughts spiraled. You had always known your place in Sylus’ life. You were the informant, the quiet insider who helped him stay two steps ahead of the hunters. Somewhere along the way, though, you had fallen for him. For the man who wasn’t as cold and calculated as others believed. It had been two long years since you started working with Sylus. Two years filled with secrecy, lies, and hidden truths. But over those years, you'd found yourself tangled in emotions for him that you couldn’t shake. Sylus, with his cold authority, his dangerous smile, his complex nature… He was all you could think about. He wasn’t as dismissive as people thought. He had a way of looking at you when no one was watching—a fleeting softness that you cherished, even if you couldn’t be certain if it was real.

And now, it felt like you were losing him.

Your bike screeched to a halt near Meow’s Café. You hadn’t planned to stop, but the sight of the familiar storefront tugged at you. Perhaps a coffee and a moment to breathe would help.

The glass windows glinted under the midday sun, and your breath hitched as you looked inside.

Sylus was there. With her.

They sat at a small table, a deck of Kitty cards spread between them. He was leaning back, his smirk in full display as she laughed at something he said. It was the kind of laugh that reached her eyes, the kind of moment you had only ever dreamed of sharing with him.

You froze, your hands tightening on your helmet.

For a fleeting second, you wanted to march inside and demand answers. To ask him why he had time to play cards but couldn’t return your calls. To tell him how his absence had hollowed you out.

But you didn’t.

He looks so happy... you thought bitterly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

The truth gnawed at you. Every interaction, every ignored message, every unread notification on your phone—it was because of her. Because Sylus had more important things to do. She was the one who mattered now. She was the one who he had to resonate with, had to bond with, had to make fall for him.

And you? You were just a pawn, a tool—forgotten. And there you were. Alone. Watching through a window, the warmth of the cafe contrasting the cold, empty feeling in your stomach. He hadn’t even bothered to let you know he was back. He was with her. You couldn’t bear to watch any longer, but you couldn’t look away either. It felt like the world was spinning faster than you could catch up, and you were left stranded, dizzy, and abandoned.

Instead, you turned away, your chest tight and vision blurred. The world felt suffocating, the weight of your unspoken feelings dragging you down as you climbed back onto your bike.

It was for the best, right?

You couldn’t keep doing this. You couldn’t keep waiting for him, couldn’t keep fooling yourself that there was something real between you two. He was busy. He had her. And you.. well, you didn’t even know why you bothered anymore.

The ride back to your apartment was a blur of taillights and muffled engine noise. The city’s glow that usually brought you some sense of comfort felt glaring and alien tonight. By the time you made it inside, the suffocating silence of your small space was overwhelming.

For someone who prided herself on being strong and independent, you barely made it to your couch before the sobs overtook you. Hot, angry tears streamed down your face as you clutched a pillow to your chest, trying in vain to keep your cries muffled. It felt as though something within you had been ripped apart, leaving an aching, hollow void that throbbed with every thought of him.

You replayed the image of him at the café in your mind, over and over, as if some part of you wanted to punish yourself further. His smirk. Her laughter. The ease of their interaction. It contrasted so sharply with the heaviness that now weighed on your heart.

Every chime of your phone made you flinch, hope briefly sparking to life, only to be cruelly snuffed out when the screen lit up with messages from others—work updates, pointless notifications, or friends checking in. Nothing from him. Of course, there wouldn’t be.

You wiped at your face, your chest tightening as you scrolled through the last few conversations you’d had with Sylus. They were short, clipped responses. A "thanks" here, an "I’m busy" there. You’d convinced yourself for weeks that he wasn’t brushing you off, that his focus was just elsewhere. But deep down, you knew. You’d always known.

You weren’t as important to him as he was to you.

That realization settled over you like a heavy blanket, suffocating and final. And yet, you tried to convince yourself it was okay. He doesn’t owe me anything, you told yourself, though the thought only twisted the knife deeper. He’s free to choose who he spends his time with.

But it didn’t stop the tears.

The days that followed were a haze of exhaustion and numbness. You threw yourself into your work, spending long hours tracking and confronting wanderers. The physical exhaustion helped, even if just a little. At least when you were in the middle of a fight, the pain in your chest was drowned out by the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Still, the nights were the worst. Alone in your apartment, the quiet crept in like a suffocating fog. You tried to distract yourself—reading, cleaning, even organizing old mission reports. Anything to keep your mind from drifting back to him. But it was impossible.

Each time you saw his name in your contacts, you hesitated. Your thumb hovered over the call button more times than you cared to admit, but the fear of hearing his indifferent voice stopped you every time. What would you even say? That you missed him? That you wanted to see him? That you’d fallen for him, even though you knew it would never be mutual?

No. You couldn’t do that to yourself.

You worked harder, pushed yourself further. Every wanderer you fought became a stand-in for your frustrations, your insecurities. You told yourself that if you could just stay busy enough, the ache would go away. But no matter how many missions you completed or how many late nights you spent staring at your phone, the weight in your chest never fully lifted.

By the end of the week, you were exhausted—physically and emotionally. But you were surviving. Barely. The bell above the door jingled softly as you pushed into the chocolatier’s shop, the rich scent of cocoa and vanilla wrapping around you like a warm embrace. The day had been grueling—hours of chasing leads, a narrow escape from a particularly aggressive wanderer, and not a single bite of food since morning. Your stomach growled in protest, a sharp reminder that you’d been running on fumes for too long.

Rows of meticulously crafted chocolates gleamed beneath the glass counter, their perfect swirls and shimmering finishes almost too beautiful to eat. Almost. You leaned forward slightly, scanning the display, your reflection ghosting over the pristine surface.

Dark chocolate truffles. Raspberry ganache. Caramel hazelnut clusters. The options were overwhelming, and your indecision felt heavier than it should’ve. Your chest still ached from the lingering emotions you’d been suppressing all week. The quiet joy of the shop felt alien, like stepping into a world you no longer belonged to.

Just pick something and go, you thought, your fingers tightening on the strap of your bag. But the choices seemed endless, each one whispering promises of sweetness you weren’t sure you deserved.

"If you’re struggling," a soft, measured voice spoke behind you, "the pistachio crème chocolate is an excellent choice."

Startled, you turned, your gaze falling on a man standing a few steps away. Tall and lean, he exuded an understated confidence that was both intimidating and captivating. Dark hair fell in against his forehead, and sharp hazel-green eyes, softened by gold flecks peered at you from behind thin-framed glasses. His white doctor’s coat was open, revealing a simple black shirt beneath, and he held a small paper bag in one hand.

You blinked, caught off guard by both his suggestion and his presence. "Oh, uh… thank you," you stammered, trying not to sound as flustered as you felt. "I’ll… I’ll try that."

The shopkeeper nodded and carefully packed your selection as you stole another glance at the stranger. There was an air of calm authority about him, a quiet assurance that made you feel oddly exposed, like he could see straight through you.

He waited patiently as the shopkeeper handed you your bag, but just as you were about to leave, his voice cut through the quiet again—this time, more direct. "Chocolates shouldn’t be your first meal of the day."

The statement was delivered without malice, his tone stoic and matter-of-fact, yet it hit like a stone to the chest. Your lips parted in shock, the question forming before you could stop it: How does he know? But before you could say anything, he was already moving toward the door. The bells jingled softly as it closed behind him, leaving you standing frozen in place. The stranger’s words lingered, intertwining with the rest of your messy emotions. Your fingers clenched the small bag of chocolates as you tried to process the brief encounter.

A soft gleam on the floor caught your attention, breaking your spiraling thoughts. A wallet, its sleek leather worn but well-kept, lay just inches from where the man had stood. You knelt and picked it up, your heart thudding as you opened it to check for identification.

The name embossed on his hospital ID was like a jolt: Dr. Zayne. Your eyes widened. Doctor Zayne? The name was familiar—a renowned surgeon whose skills and precision were legendary, often described as a miracle worker. You’d imagined someone older, more weathered, not… this.

For a moment, you stared at the ID, piecing together the puzzle of the composed, enigmatic man who had called you out so effortlessly. You tried the number listed on a card tucked into his wallet, but it rang unanswered, the sterile monotone only adding to your frustration.

"Of course, he wouldn’t answer," you muttered under your breath, chewing your lip as you debated your next move. The idea of keeping his wallet overnight felt wrong, and leaving it here in the shop seemed equally careless.

That left one option.

The hospital loomed ahead as you approached, its towering structure illuminated against the evening sky. Anxiety gnawed at your insides, twisting with every step you took through the sterile white halls. You weren’t sure why you felt so on edge—maybe it was the overwhelming sense of inadequacy that had been haunting you lately, or maybe it was the lingering impression of Zayne’s knowing gaze.

At the reception desk, you hesitated, gripping the wallet tightly as you cleared your throat. "Hi, um, I’m here to return something for Dr. Zayne. He… accidentally dropped this."

The receptionist barely looked up, taking the wallet with a polite but indifferent smile. "Dr. Zayne isn’t in right now. I’ll make sure he gets this when he’s back."

"Oh," You nodded, murmuring a quick thanks before retreating back toward the exit. You thought nothing of this interaction as you left. You did what you thought was right and left the hospital back towards your apartment.

The days blurred together in a haze of work and routine. You buried yourself in assignments from the Hunter’s Association, throwing yourself into dangerous missions with a single-minded intensity. Anything to keep your mind occupied.

Sylus messaged you once during that time, his tone professional as he asked for updates regarding a lead he was tracking. You’d responded quickly, sticking strictly to business. No pleasantries, no banter—just the information he needed. He didn’t press, didn’t call you out for your uncharacteristic coldness. Maybe he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and chose not to say anything.

That night, you jogged through the dimly lit streets, your breath fogging in the cool air as you tried to exorcise the restless energy gnawing at you. The rhythmic slap of your sneakers against the pavement was grounding, steady. Jogging had always been your go-to, a way to clear your head and silence the endless stream of "what-ifs" and "if-onlys" that plagued your mind.

But no amount of movement could completely shake Sylus from your thoughts.

His voice, his presence—it clung to you, even now.

Why didn’t he ask how I’ve been? Why didn’t I?

You shook your head, annoyed at yourself. There was no point in dwelling. Sylus wasn’t the kind of person to give you what you wanted, and even if he did, could you trust it? Could you trust him?

The sound of skidding tires yanked you out of your spiraling thoughts.

“Look out!”

Before you could process the warning, a cyclist veered wildly toward you, their momentum too strong to stop. There wasn’t even time to brace yourself. The impact hit like a freight train, and suddenly, you were on the ground, tangled with the bike and its rider. Pain blossomed sharp and hot in your knees as the asphalt scraped them raw.

For a moment, you just lay there, stunned. The world tilted unsteadily, the city lights smearing together like a watercolor painting.

“Hey, you okay?” The cyclist’s voice snapped you back. They were scrambling off you, helmet slightly askew but otherwise unscathed. You shook your head to clear it, wincing as you sat up. You pushed yourself up, shaking the dizziness from your head, and checked on the cyclist who had crashed into you. They were already scrambling to their feet, looking slightly dazed but otherwise unharmed, their helmet and guards having done their job.

“I’m fine,” you managed, even as your knees throbbed in protest. “Are you?”

“Yeah, thanks to the gear,” they said, pulling off their helmet to inspect a small crack along its surface. “Guess it did its job.”

Relief washed over you. “Good. Let me just—”

“Wait.” A different voice cut in, firm but calm. You stood there, still trying to regain your bearings when a figure appeared beside you, moving with a grace that immediately caught your attention. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw who it was. Dr. Zayne. The same man who had crossed your path in the chocolatier's shop just days ago. His sharp eyes locked onto yours, and for a split second, everything else seemed to vanish. His expression shifted from mild surprise to something more concerned as he took in your state.

Without saying a word, he immediately began assessing you, his gaze narrowing at the blood now staining your knees. You winced, feeling the sting of the cuts that had begun to bloom with a fiery intensity, but you were determined not to show it. You were used to pain—used to the sharp discomfort that came with being a hunter. You didn’t need help. You could handle this on your own. You’d always been able to.

But Dr. Zayne wasn’t having any of it.

His voice, low and steady, broke through the haze of your thoughts. "You’re bleeding. Those need first aid," he said firmly, his frown deepening as he glanced at your scraped knees. "Sit. Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute."

You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him you were fine, but the words caught in your throat. He wasn’t asking. His tone, though gentle, was authoritative—demanding in its own quiet way. There was something about the way he carried himself, that calm, unflinching presence, that made it impossible to argue.

"I’m fine, I am a hunter." you managed to say, your voice rougher than you intended. "I can handle it at home. Really." You tried to force a reassuring smile

“Is this a hunter thing?” he interrupted, one brow arching skeptically. “Are all of you this stubborn about basic care, or is it just you?”

The words should have been biting, but his tone was almost... patient. Like he was accustomed to dealing with difficult people.

You flushed, suddenly hyper-aware of the sting in your knees and the heat of his gaze. “I’m not being stubborn,” you muttered. “I just don’t want to bother anyone over something so small.”

“Small injuries have a way of turning into bigger problems,” he said, folding his arms. “And I’m not bothered. As a doctor, I’m asking you to wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Without waiting for your protest, he turned and strode off, leaving you no room to argue.

You sat stiffly on the bench, gripping the edge as the minutes dragged on. The ache in your knees was nothing compared to the gnawing discomfort blooming in your chest. Anxiety clawed at you, whispering insidious doubts.

He’s wasting his time on you.He probably thinks you’re pathetic and weak.Why couldn’t you have just gotten up and left?

Your fingers curled into fists, the tension radiating through your body.

The sound of footsteps interrupted your spiraling thoughts, and Dr. Zayne was back, carrying a small first aid kit. He knelt in front of you without a word, his hands steady as he cleaned the cuts on your knees. The gentle pressure of his fingers as he worked felt almost surreal. His silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was just… calm. You found yourself drawn to it, to the quiet that seemed to settle around him.

"You’re lucky," he said, glancing up at you as he bandaged your knees. "That could’ve been a lot worse."

You nodded, the words caught in your throat. There were so many things you wanted to say, things you wanted to ask him, but you didn’t know where to start. So you remained silent, watching as he finished his work, his hands moving with the practiced precision of someone who had seen too many injuries to count.

When he was done, he straightened up and met your gaze. "You should be more careful," he said softly, his voice a little lighter than before, though there was still a note of concern underlying his words. "Next time, don’t run so late at night. You never know what could happen."

You forced a tight smile, the words feeling like they were coming from someone else. "I’ll keep that in mind," you said, your voice quieter now.

Dr. Zayne took a step back after finishing the bandages, his sharp gaze softening ever so slightly as he packed the first aid kit. You glanced at him, your mouth opening to thank him, but before you could get the words out, he said, almost in unison, “Thank you.”

Both of you froze, the simultaneous expressions of gratitude hanging awkwardly in the air. A surprised laugh slipped out of you, breaking the tension.

“You first,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “I was just going to say thank you for… you know, helping with this.” You gestured vaguely toward your knees, the bandages clinging to your skin. “You didn’t have to.”

The moment stretched between you, awkward yet somehow comforting. Zayne gave a small, almost amused smile at the simultaneous gratitude, but his gaze softened when it landed on you, his concern still present.

"Thank you for returning my wallet," he said, his tone steady but with a hint of appreciation.

His words caught you off guard. “Oh, right! That. It wasn’t a big deal, really.” You fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve, avoiding his gaze. “I found it at the chocolatier shop. I figured it was better to bring it to the hospital than leave it lying around.”

He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. “I appreciate it. Not many people would go out of their way like that.”

You tried not to let his kindness throw you off, but it wasn’t easy. There was something about Zayne that made you feel... small in a way you didn’t like to feel. He was kind, yes, but that kindness made you wonder if you were deserving of it. Why should you be the one he cared about?

But before you could dwell on that any further, his voice cut through your swirling thoughts.

"Have you eaten today?" His tone was light, but there was an edge of sincerity beneath it, one that made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. It reminded you of that conversation in the shop, of how he had so effortlessly read through your tiredness.

The sheepish look that crossed your face must’ve been obvious, because Zayne sighed, the sound so deep that it almost felt like a reprimand. He pinched the bridge of his nose in a gesture that was both familiar and surprisingly endearing.

“You’ve got to take care of yourself,” he said, his voice almost too gentle for the weight of his words. “It’s not healthy to go without food, especially if you’re going to keep running around like you hunters do.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him it wasn’t a big deal, but Zayne didn’t give you the chance.

"There’s a diner close by. It’s the least I can do to thank you for returning my wallet."

You shook your head instinctively, trying to backpedal. "It’s really not necessary," you said, but Zayne wasn’t having any of it. His eyes were firm, and there was an undeniable warmth behind them that almost made you feel guilty for refusing.

"Yes, it is," he replied, his tone steady but with a hint of finality. "Now, come on.”

You hesitated for a moment, the unease building in your chest like a brick wall, but the thought of Zayne’s calm, commanding presence made it impossible to say no. So, with a quiet sigh, you relented.

"I’ll pay," you muttered as he led the way, the words almost reflexive. You always felt like you had to pay your way—like it was your responsibility to do so, especially with someone who had helped you, even in the smallest of ways. You were used to standing on your own two feet.

Zayne only gave you a side glance, his lips quirking up in the barest of smiles. "No, you won’t. It’s my thank you, remember?"

The diner wasn’t far from where you had been, a cozy, low-lit place with a soft hum of quiet conversations and the clink of silverware against plates. The familiar scent of warm food—steak, mashed potatoes, and the unmistakable aroma of fresh bread—immediately filled the air as you stepped inside. You followed Zayne to a small booth in the back, the vinyl seats creaking under your weight as you slid in.

You wanted to say something—thank you, maybe—but the words felt stuck, trapped somewhere in the pit of your stomach, along with everything else that had been piling up for weeks. Zayne didn’t seem to notice, his focus already turning to the menu as he gestured for you to pick something.

You wanted to ask him more, to understand him in the same way you understood the empty streets you ran through, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just end up looking foolish. So, instead, you stared at the menu in front of you, unable to focus on the choices, as your mind churned with questions that had no answers.

Zayne ordered for both of you, his voice low as he made his choices, and when he looked at you, you caught a flicker of something—perhaps curiosity, or was it concern? It was hard to tell.

"You should eat more regularly," he said again, as though the words were a reminder he had to repeat for his own peace of mind. You nodded, letting the silence fill the space between you for a moment.

The food arrived, warm and satisfying, and you took a bite, surprised at how hungry you were despite the earlier denials. Zayne watched you for a moment, his gaze softening as you ate, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet it. His concern, his care—it felt too much. You weren’t used to people worrying about you.

But as the meal went on, you found yourself starting to relax, the initial tension loosening from your shoulders. Zayne was easy to talk to, his calm, steady presence settling you in a way you hadn’t expected. By the end of the meal, you felt... lighter.

"Call me Zayne," he said when the check came, his voice quiet but sincere.

You blinked, a little caught off guard by the request. "Zayne?" you echoed, testing the name on your tongue.

"Yes," he replied with a small, patient smile. "It’s easier than 'Dr. Zayne,' don’t you think?"

You blinked, taken aback. “Are you sure? I mean, you’ve earned the title—”

“And I’ll still have it in the hospital,” he interrupted, amusement flickering in his eyes. “But here, it’s just Zayne.”

You nodded slowly, testing the name in your mind. It felt strange, almost too personal. But there was something grounding about it, too.

By the time dessert arrived, the knot of anxiety in your chest had loosened considerably. The warmth of the diner, the steady cadence of his voice, and the shared laughter over a poorly made joke had a way of pulling you out of your own head. For the first time in what felt like weeks, you weren’t obsessing over your failures or doubts.

As you finished your meal, Zayne pulled out his phone and slid it across the table. “Here,” he said simply. “Add your number. In case you ever need anything.”

You hesitated, the gesture feeling far more intimate than it probably was. But his expression was patient, expectant, and you found yourself entering your contact information before you could overthink it. When you handed the phone back, his lips twitched into a faint smile.

“Thanks again for returning my wallet,” he said, his tone lighter now. “And for the company.”

You felt your cheeks flush, but this time, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “It’s not a problem,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips.

As you stepped out of the diner and into the cool night air, a strange sense of calm settled over you. Zayne walked you to the corner where your paths would diverge, his presence steady and reassuring.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, his voice softer now, almost intimate.

“You too,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

The diner’s warmth lingered even as you stepped into the cool night air. For the first time in what felt like weeks, your chest didn’t feel as tight, the oppressive weight that had been bearing down on you now lifting slightly. You still felt the ache of Sylus’ absence—a hollow, gnawing sensation that seemed to creep in whenever you let your guard down, but it wasn’t as suffocating as it had been. Instead, a new sensation fluttered in its place, tentative and fragile: excitement. It was strange to feel this way, to look forward to the possibility of a friendship formed under such unlikely circumstances. Zayne’s calm demeanor, his steady presence, had surprised you.

As you walked, the sound of fluttering wings caught your attention. Instinctively, your heart skipped, your mind jumping to Mephisto. You tilted your head to the dark sky, half-expecting to see the telltale silhouette of his familiar. But it was just a cluster of pigeons, their wings catching the faint glow of the streetlights as they soared away.

Right. Of course. It was unlikely that Sylus was watching you tonight.

You exhaled, a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and forced your thoughts away from him. Zayne had offered you a rare moment of normalcy, and you weren’t about to let your memories of Sylus overshadow that.

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The following weeks were a blur of activity, and before long, you found yourself stationed at an outpost on the outskirts of Linkon. A metaflux surge had disrupted the area, and the temporary makeshift hospital was bustling with injured workers, hunters, and even a few civilians caught in the chaos. The air was thick with tension, the metallic tang of metaflux faint but persistent, a reminder of the unseen dangers that lurked just beyond the safety of the encampment.

Zayne was assigned as the doctor for the outpost, and you often found yourself crossing paths with him. At first, your interactions were brief—a nod here, a shared glance there—but over time, you began to talk. It started with simple pleasantries, discussions about the metaflux readings or the influx of patients, but it wasn’t long before the conversations deepened.

You learned that Zayne had a dry sense of humor, his sharp wit often catching you off guard. He’d tease you about your stubbornness, and you’d retort with a quip about his overly serious nature. Despite his professionalism, there was a warmth to him, a quiet compassion that made him easy to trust. And though you’d never admit it, you found yourself looking forward to those moments of shared laughter, those fleeting glimpses of something lighter amidst the chaos.

But even as your friendship with Zayne grew, Sylus lingered at the edges of your thoughts, a shadow you couldn’t quite shake. The conversations you had with him were sparse and strictly work-related—updates from the Association, bits of intel you passed along to him. It felt transactional, a far cry from the intimacy you once shared. Yet, every time his name appeared on your screen, your heart still raced, betraying the fragile boundaries you’d tried to set.

One evening, a message from Sylus broke the monotony of your routine.

‘Come over tomorrow night, Darling. I have an exquisite wine I’d like you to try—procured it during a recent deal.’

The invitation was simple, almost casual. For a moment, you imagined it—the rich scent of wine filling the air, his sharp yet alluring gaze fixed on you as he poured you a glass. But reality quickly crept in, dragging you back to the present. You couldn’t go. You couldn’t risk it. Not when your heart was still so fragile, still aching in ways you didn’t want to admit.

You stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as your mind raced. The truth was, you wanted to see him. But you knew better. You had to keep your distance—for your own sake, if nothing else.

‘I’m tired..'

You typed, the words feeling hollow as they formed.

'Busy day tomorrow. Maybe another time.’

You hesitated before hitting send, the weight of the message pressing down on you. When his reply came, it was as simple as his invitation.

‘Okay.’

The finality of it hit you like a brick, and for a moment, you felt like your breath had been stolen away. He didn’t push. He didn’t argue. That empty “okay” hung in the air, leaving you with the quiet realization that, once again, you had lost yourself in the haze of someone else’s world.

You tried not to read too much into it, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he had already moved on. That he didn’t care enough to fight for your attention. Instead, it felt like you were just a passing thought, like an aftertaste that wasn’t worth savoring.

Miss Hunter. The words echoed in your mind. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the tears to stay behind your eyelids, but they pressed hard, a sting that never seemed to fully fade. You rubbed your forehead, trying to push away the thoughts. But even as you did, you couldn’t escape the suffocating feeling in your chest—the one that always came when you were reminded of how little you meant to him. You felt foolish, but you couldn’t help it. It was like you were always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to come back, to pull you back into his orbit with that practiced charm, that voice that made you feel wanted, if only for a little while.

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The dinner with Zayne had been a welcome reprieve. It had been two weeks since you last saw him, the demands of work pulling both of you in different directions. But tonight, seated across from him in a small, cozy bistro, you found solace in the familiar rhythm of your conversations. The mellow lights softened the sharp angles of his face as he recounted a mishap earlier in the week involving a particularly irritable patient.

His dry humor, paired with the subtle lift of his brow, drew a laugh from you—a genuine, light sound that felt foreign after the weight of recent days. For a while, the world outside blurred away. You weren’t Miss Hunter; you weren’t anything other than a person sharing a meal with a friend.

As the meal wound down, Zayne looked at you over the rim of his glass, his expression calm. “You’re doing better than when we first met.” he remarked softly.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Am I?”

He nodded. His calm demeanor always had a way of grounding you, and tonight was no exception.

The meal wrapped up with the two of you trading small updates and light banter. You paid for your half of the meal, Zayne insisting it wasn’t necessary, but you’d insisted back. There was a sense of normalcy here, something you weren’t willing to let go of easily. When you parted ways outside the diner, the night air was cool and quiet. Zayne’s warm farewell echoed softly in your ears as you waved goodbye and headed back toward your apartment.

As you walked, you felt lighter somehow. The stress of the past few weeks hadn’t vanished, but Zayne’s steady presence had reminded you of something important—moments of peace still existed, even in the chaos.

The faint scent of lavender greeted you as you unlocked your apartment door, a hint of the candle you’d left burning earlier. The lights were off, and the air felt too still—unnaturally so. Your heart skipped, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. A lump formed in your throat, panic curling its fingers around your chest.

You flicked the light switch, and the sudden brightness flooded the room, revealing the figure sitting on your couch. Sylus.

You froze. Your body stiffened, caught between fight or flight.

Your yelp of surprise filled the space, your pulse racing as you clutched the doorframe for support. “What—Sylus? What are you doing here?”

He was sitting on your couch, one arm draped casually along the backrest, his other hand resting on his knee. The dim light of the room softened the sharp edges of his face, but his expression was anything but gentle. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, tracked your every movement as if he were dissecting you with just a glance.

“How—what are you doing here?” you stammered, your voice shaky as your pulse raced.

Sylus didn’t respond right away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his gaze dragging over you slowly, deliberately. His silence was louder than any words he could have spoken, and it made your skin prickle.

“Darling,” he finally murmured, his voice low and smooth, laced with something you couldn’t quite name. “You look… exhausted.”

You blinked, still standing frozen by the door. His tone was soft, almost tender, but it was the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers tapped against his knee, that betrayed his underlying tension.

“Y-yeah,” you stammered, your voice wavering as you took a cautious step forward. “It’s been a long day. What are you doing here?”

Sylus leaned back, the leather of the couch creaking faintly under his weight. “A long day,” he echoed, his lips curving into a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yet you had time for dinner.”

“I…” you faltered, scrambling for a response. “It was just…”

“Just dinner,” he interrupted smoothly, his tone unreadable. “With… someone else.”

The air felt thick, charged with a tension that made your skin prickle. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words stuck in your throat. His eyes narrowed slightly, his expression still calm but his body language telling a different story. The way his fingers drummed against his knee, the slight clench of his jaw, the flicker of something dark in his gaze.

Your heart pounded, your thoughts racing. Why was he here? What did he want? And why did his presence—his very existence in your space—make your chest ache in that familiar, suffocating way?

“I didn’t think…” You stopped yourself, your voice trembling. “You didn’t say you’d be coming by. You can’t just—”

“Can’t just what?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft as he rose from the couch, his movements fluid and deliberate. “Show up to see what’s wrong?”

Your breath hitched as he closed the distance between you, his height and presence suddenly overwhelming. “Nothing’s wrong…”you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Is that so?” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, his eyes boring into yours. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you’ve been avoiding me, Darling.”

The accusation hung in the air, sharp and unyielding.

“I’ve been busy…” you said weakly, your voice lacking conviction.

“Busy,” he repeated, his gaze flicking over you again, this time with something close to disdain. “Too busy for me, but not too busy for… him.”

Your hands fidgeted at your sides, your breath coming in shallow bursts. You wanted to move, to put distance between you, but your legs felt rooted to the spot. “I didn’t think dinner with a friend would..”

“Friend?” he interrupted, the single word slicing through your sentence. His lips curved into something that might have been a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, the anxiety swirling in your chest mixing with something else—something raw and painful that you didn’t want to name. The memories of your last exchange with Sylus came flooding back—the curt messages, the unspoken finality of his “okay.” You had tried to convince yourself that it didn’t matter, that you didn’t need his validation. But standing here now, under the weight of his gaze, you felt every crack in the fragile walls you had built to keep him out.

“I don’t understand what you want from me,” you said finally, the words trembling as they left your lips.

His eyes softened slightly, but the tension in his posture didn’t ease. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something, something important, but the moment passed as quickly as it came. Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a gesture so gentle it felt almost foreign.

“Don’t make me feel like I’m a stranger to you.” he said quietly, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability that made your chest ache.

Don’t make me feel like I’m a stranger to you. The words echoed in your mind, repeating, twisting, until all you could hear was the raw edge of betrayal laced in his tone.

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and bitter, a little too loud in the quiet of your apartment. Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you felt the space around you grow smaller. You couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think. All you could feel was the heat of anger building inside of you, raw and unrefined.

“That’s rich,” you scoffed, finally managing to find your voice. “That’s really rich, coming from you of all people.”

Sylus blinked, a subtle flash of surprise crossing his face, but it quickly masked over. His lips tightened, his brow furrowed ever so slightly, but it wasn’t enough. You had to push, you couldn’t hold back now. The words were tumbling out before you could even stop them. Your breath hitched, a strangled sob lodged somewhere in the back of your throat, but you refused to let it spill. You wouldn’t let him see you break—not like this, not in front of him. You knew the truth. He knew the truth. It hurt, yes, but you weren’t the one to blame.

“You've been treating me like a stranger for months,” you continued, your voice trembling with anger you hadn't fully realized was there. “Barely responding to my messages, not answering my calls, and when I do see you, it’s like you can’t be bothered. You don’t even see me.” You felt the weight of every unreturned message, every unanswered call, every promise left in limbo. “I’ve had to hear from Luke and Kieran that you’re in Linkon. But you couldn’t even make time to see me.”

You felt the ache deep in your chest, that familiar, suffocating knot forming. He didn’t deserve your pain. Not anymore. You wouldn’t let him have that. Not this time.

You took a shaky breath, suddenly feeling raw, exposed. “You don’t have to feel obligated to check on me, Sylus,” you said, your words clipped and cutting through the thick silence between you. “You don’t have to feel pity for me. I know where I stand. I know my place in your life.”

His expression, that unreadable mask, cracked for the briefest of moments. His lips parted, his gaze flicking to your face, then back down to the floor. His jaw clenched. But his eyes… They weren’t the same as they’d been earlier. The hardness was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous, something even more intimate. The storm was gathering, but it wasn’t just in the air—no, it was inside him too.

“You know where you stand?” His voice was quieter now, but there was an edge to it, a slight tightness you hadn’t noticed before. He took a step forward, his body closing the space between you, like a wave of raw energy crashing toward you. His proximity only made your pulse race faster, but you couldn’t back down. Not now.

“I’m just an informant, right?” you bit out, every word feeling like it sliced through the night air, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You don’t have to pretend you care, Sylus. So don’t stand there with that look on your face like I’m some important thing you need to check on.”

The air between you grew heavy, thick with unsaid words and stifled tension. Every inch of your body was telling you to get away, to shut down, to stop this before it tore you apart. But your feet felt heavy, stuck in place. Sylus’s presence was like gravity, pulling you toward him.

"You think that's all you are?" he murmured, his voice dangerously low, like the calm before the thunder. The way he said it made your heart stutter in your chest. It was both a question and an accusation or a challenge.

But there was something else in his voice. Something you couldn’t quite place. His eyes were intense, too intense, and they searched yours like he was looking for the answer. The truth.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he continued, his words clipped, as though they were difficult for him to say. “But I couldn’t....couldn’t make sense of it. Of you.”

It was the first time that he seemed genuinely vulnerable, and it left you breathless and confused. You had always wondered if there was more beneath his cold exterior. You had always told yourself that he cared. But you had never dared to confront him.

His hand was close enough now to reach out, his fingers barely brushing the edge of your wrist. The air between you was still thick with everything unsaid, everything unhealed. And yet, despite the words that had been thrown between you, there was something undeniably magnetic in the tension. The ache in your chest, the rawness, the feelings of betrayal—they didn’t wash away just because you said them out loud.

God, you hated him for this.

But part of you yearned for him. That part that still felt tethered to him, despite the distance.

Sylus’s fingers hovered over your wrist, his touch like fire against your skin. For a moment, the storm between you calmed, leaving only the faintest echo of it behind. The weight of his gaze, the force of his presence—it seemed to drown out the rest of the world.

He said nothing for a moment, his lips parting as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. His eyes darkened further, not with anger now, but with something you couldn’t quite define.

You took a breath, your body suddenly feeling too small beneath his gaze. The storm was still inside. You had to move away. Your heart pounded as if it were trying to escape your chest, desperate to flee from whatever was stirring inside you. You couldn't—no, you wouldn’t—let yourself get caught up in whatever this feeling was. You were not some fool, ready to throw everything away for the temporary pull of his presence. You knew better than that. You had to.

Every instinct screamed at you to retreat, to put some distance between you and the mess of emotions bubbling under your skin. His sharp gaze was enough to make your knees tremble, and it took everything in you not to look back, not to let him see the quiet devastation that flickered inside you.

“You need to leave… Sylus.” You whispered. You staggered back a few steps, your breathing shallow, desperate. Your feet felt like lead, yet you forced yourself to walk away. You turned your back to him, willing your legs to move, hoping to escape before you got sucked into whatever dark vortex of feelings he was drawing you into.

He didn’t move. Instead, you heard the familiar click of his boots against the floor as he took a single, deliberate step forward. “Why?” His voice, low and curious, sent a shiver down your spine. It was almost too intimate, as if he were searching for a piece of you, trying to understand what you couldn’t explain.

You didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to see the quiet confusion on his face—the faint flicker of disappointment that stung like salt in an open wound. You couldn’t let him see your weakness, couldn’t let him know how badly it hurt to be around him, how badly it hurt not to be around him.

“Is it so you can run back to your precious ‘friend’?” The words dripped with something unspoken, something that made your stomach twist.

You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not when his voice—that voice, the one that threaded through the air like silk—was digging into your mind like this. The word echoed in your ears, almost mocking you, and you felt something fragile snap inside you. The weight of the years you’d spent keeping distance, of guarding your heart against him, against whatever he made you feel, started to unravel. But you couldn’t let it.

You took another step away from him. One more step, you told yourself. Just one more. You didn’t need this.

Dark tendrils wrapped around you as you move, pulling you back. He was using his evol to pull you back. You didn’t need him pulling you in again. But then it came. That touch. He pulled you to him, forceful yet intimate, and your breath caught in your throat. You were too close. Too close to the edge of losing yourself, of falling into his presence.

His hands...no, his fingers—snaked around your waist before you even knew what was happening. You gasped, body going stiff in surprise, but his grip tightened, pulling you back into him. You tried to keep moving, tried to pull away, but it was useless. His hold was ironclad, his presence consuming. His grip tightened slightly, but there was an almost comforting pressure there, a subtle reminder that despite the dispute between you, there was something undeniable between the two of you.

“Why are you running?” His voice was a whisper against your ear, the words smooth like silk, but there was something jagged beneath them—something urgent, raw.

You struggled to hold yourself together, but the more you fought it, the more it pulled—this unbearable need to lean into him, to give in to the chaos that his proximity stirred in you. You knew you shouldn’t, but everything in you wanted to. You felt the ache of wanting something you couldn't have, the sting of the distance you had put between you and the thing that was somehow both poison and relief.

His hands tightened slightly, his thumb brushing over your ribs in a movement that sent a jolt through your entire system. The words you wanted to say, the reasons you needed to get away from him, all felt so small and pointless now. How could you possibly explain this? This tension, this pull? How could you say that being near him felt like the most excruciating thing in the world, but also the only thing that made you feel alive?

“You’re not just an informant to me,” he breathed, his words slipping under your skin, curling into the tight spaces of your chest. “I didn’t realize I was hurting you this much. That you’d want to distance yourself from me...” His tone softened at the end, but it only made everything worse. The tenderness in his voice—his tenderness—was like a dagger in your side, making the blood in your veins freeze. You wanted to say something, anything, but all you could hear was the deafening rush of your own heartbeat. You tried to stay composed, but the words were caught in your throat, and your body was still pressed so tightly against his, your breath shallow, your pulse thudding painfully against your ribs.

Why was this so hard? Why couldn’t you just say it—say that you couldn’t let him get close again? That you couldn’t survive another wound, another aching, empty feeling in your chest because of him? But the way his hands tightened, the warmth of his body against yours, made everything you were feeling a little too real.

You could feel his heartbeat against your back, the rhythm in sync with your own, and the pull of him was growing stronger. You could feel your anxiety bubbling up, the gnawing fear at the pit of your stomach. Was this just him toying with you? Was he trying to pull you into his world of darkness and manipulation? Or did he really care?

Your head was spinning. The emotions warred within you—anger, confusion, guilt, and something else. Something that made your heart race faster and your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

“Let me go,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the storm that raged around you.

But you didn’t pull away. You didn’t push him off.

Sylus' grip on you tightened, his arm like a steel band around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His chest rises and falls against your back as his breath brushes against your ear, warm and heavy. It’s as if he’s afraid, like if he lets go for even a second, he’ll lose you forever. You can feel the tension radiating from him, but also something softer, something desperate.

“No, Darling,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with emotion, his tone possessive, as though the very idea of you slipping away shatters him. “You’re not going anywhere and neither am I.”

"You’re going to stay," He pulls you even closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he speaks again, quieter this time, but laced with something raw and vulnerable. "...and you’re going to listen to me. I won’t let you walk away from this."

You can hear the flicker of something beneath his words—regret. And then, his lips ghost over the sensitive skin of your neck, lingering just a little longer than necessary. He slowly spins you around, to face him. His voice softens, almost apologetic. “I know I was a dick. I know I didn’t respond to you, and I’m sorry for that. I didn’t know how to handle it… handle us. It confused me, and instead of facing it, I pushed you away.” His breath catches slightly, and you feel his chest tighten against your back.

His hand moves to cup your cheek, tilting your face slightly toward him, his thumb brushing over your skin as though it’s a promise, an apology. The weight of his gaze is intense, but there’s also something tender there, something that wants to pull you back in, closer. “I know you’re still hurting, darling. I see it. And I... I’ll spend a lifetime making up for it, because that’s what I want. A lifetime. With you. Not as some informant or some... thing, but as my beloved. You. By my side. Always.”

He pauses, letting his words hang in the air between you. His voice drops, the quiet sorrow of his confession sending a twinge of guilt through you. "I don’t have the right to ask this of you, I know," Sylus continues, his voice thick with emotion. "But seeing you push me away… It’s harder than I ever thought it would be. Harder than I want to admit." He presses his forehead lightly against your temple, his breath shaky. "I’ve never needed someone the way I need you, and I didn’t know how to tell you that. But I do. I need you."

You can feel him tense slightly, the shift in his demeanor telling you that his thoughts have turned darker. His voice lowers, the jealousy evident in the way he speaks, though it’s wrapped in a softness that almost makes it harder to bear.

"And Dr. Zayne... I can’t stand the thought of him being so close to you," Sylus adds, his voice low and thick with a possessiveness that unsettles you in its intensity. "It kills me, you know? Watching him with you, hearing you laugh like that with him, as if I don’t even exist." His arm tightens again, almost painfully, as if he needs to remind you, remind both of you, where you truly belong. "I know I have no claim on you... but... I can't help but feel like there’s a part of you that wants him in a way that... I can't compete with." His voice hardens, jealousy dripping from every word. "It eats at me, knowing he has a part of you that I’m fighting for."

"Sylus..." Your voice cracked slightly as you repeated his name, your breath hitching, caught in the tension between you. His name felt heavy on your tongue, like it was both a question and an answer. You had never said it so quietly, so vulnerably. The memories of earlier came rushing back—him with her, that delicate smile he gave her, the way she leaned into him just a little too comfortably. It had burned in your chest, the jealousy creeping in with a venomous ache.

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, too fast to gather, too painful to hide. "I felt the same... when I saw you with her," you confessed, swallowing thickly. "I felt so... so useless, Sylus. When I saw you with her, it felt like... like she was everything you needed. Better than me. And that... it broke me, Sylus. I felt like I wasn’t enough, like I wasn’t... worth it.”

The words stung, bitter and unrelenting, but the weight of them was finally lifted as you let them spill out. You felt exposed, naked in your insecurity, but somehow, it was all you could do to stand there and wait for him to respond. You could feel the weight of it, of how small you’d felt in that moment, how unworthy you had become in your own eyes. The self-doubt gnawed at your insides, each thought of her with him twisting like a knife in your gut.

Sylus’s expression softened, his features melting into a tender sadness, as though he were seeing you for the first time, truly seeing you. His hand reached out slowly, almost hesitantly, as if afraid to shatter the fragile space between you. His touch was a gentle comfort, his fingers brushing against your cheek, his voice a low whisper, "Darling, you're none of that... none of it, I swear."

You shook your head, feeling the tears threatening, but you couldn’t let them fall, not yet. His words were kind, but the ache in your chest was still there, an unhealed wound.

He continued, his voice steady but thick with something deeper. "I didn’t know you felt that way... about her, in the same way I feel about Zayne." His gaze met yours, and for the first time tonight, it wasn’t uncertain. It was so gentle, so soft, tender. "But you need to know, you're it for me, Darling…" he murmured, his fingers curling around yours, grounding you in the quiet storm of your emotions. "Yes, I want help from her, but..." He paused, as if weighing his words carefully, "...I need you more." His words were a balm to the wounds that had festered within you, but the tenderness in his eyes was what finally reached you. His hand slid down to your shoulder, his thumb grazing the skin there. His warmth surrounded you, and you let yourself sink into the comfort of his words. The jealousy, the insecurity that had burned so fiercely in you when you saw him with her, melted in the face of the tenderness he was offering now.

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself as your heart raced, the intensity of the moment almost overwhelming. “Zayne… Zayne’s just a friend,” you said, your voice fragile but firm, “someone who helped me... helped me see past the stuff in my head. After everything, I just... needed someone to remind me that I’m not broken.”

Sylus's eyes softened even more, the depth of his gaze sending shivers down your spine. He nodded slowly, his expression filled with understanding. The tension between you didn’t disappear entirely, but it was now laced with something more tender. More real.

“You’re not broken, Darling.” he repeated, and there was a quiet strength in his voice, something that made you believe him more than you ever had before. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed... and more.”

"I... I’m sorry," you whispered, a lump in your throat as you looked up at him. "I never wanted to make you feel like I didn’t care. I just... I was afraid you’d choose her over me."

Sylus’s fingers brushed against the nape of your neck, pulling you closer, his forehead pressing gently against yours. "You never have to apologize for that, Darling." he murmured, his voice warm, his breath mingling with yours. “It was my fault and I accept that.”

The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of your breathing, as Sylus stood before you, his face drawn with intensity. The flickering light from the lamp cast soft shadows across his features, but his gaze... his gaze was sharp, focused entirely on you.

"I love you, Darling" he said, his words lingering in the air as though they were the first time he had allowed himself to say them out loud. "I’m in love with you," he confessed, his voice steady despite the raw emotion that tinged it. "I’ve been in love with you for a while now, and I’ve tried to deny it. Tried to hide it from you and myself, but I can’t anymore. I won’t. I love you, and I need you to know that."

The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding caught in your throat. Everything in you froze, then splintered. The confession, so pure, so vulnerable, hit you with a force you hadn’t been prepared for. You stood there, unable to move, a mix of surprise and relief flooding your chest.

He loves you. Sylus. The one you had longed for, yearned, and hoped for in silence. Your heart stuttered in your chest, the world around you growing impossibly still.

"I…" you whispered, voice trembling, and you had to stop, had to steady yourself before the words could spill from your lips. "I’ve love you too," you said, your voice barely more than a breath, but it carried all the weight of everything you had kept inside. "I’ve loved you, and I never told you because I was afraid. Afraid that I was asking too much. Afraid of the rejection. Afraid that I wasn’t enough."

Sylus’s expression softened, his lips curling into a frown as he stepped forward, closing the space between you. His hands reached for you, but not in the way you had feared or expected. They were gentle, his touch a plea for understanding. "Oh, darling," he whispered, shaking his head slowly. "I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you ever felt like you needed to hide it from me."

He reached up, brushing his thumb along your cheek, and you flinched slightly, your emotions suddenly overwhelming you, raw and untamed. "We’re both idiots," he continued, his voice almost tender with the weight of the admission. "We’ve been skirting around each other, afraid of saying the one thing we both needed to say."

Your laugh came out soft, almost fragile, the tension in your chest breaking for the first time since Sylus had walked into your home. It was a quiet sound, but it was the first time you’d laughed all night, the first time you’d allowed yourself to feel something other than fear or uncertainty in the past few weeks with him involved. But that laugh didn’t last long. As soon as it came, the tears followed, the ones you had been holding back for so long, finally slipping free. The dam you had built up crumbled, and before you could stop them, hot tears streamed down your face. before you could even reach up to brush them away, his hand was there, steady and warm against your cheek.

"Don’t," you whispered, your voice thick with the ache you could no longer hide. "Please, don’t look at me like this. I’m—"

"Stop," Sylus interrupted softly, his hand holding yours gently, his gaze unwavering. "Don’t hide from me. I want to see all of you… everything you’ve been hiding. I know you think I don’t see it, but I do." His eyes locked onto yours with such intensity that you couldn’t look away. "I see it when you think I’m not watching. I see the way you pull back, the way you hide the parts of you that you think I can’t handle. But I am looking. I’ve always been looking. And I don’t want you to hide anymore. Not from me. And I’m here and I want all of you."

His words were a medicine to the parts of you that had been bruised, the parts that had feared being exposed, vulnerable. But in his eyes, there was only love. No judgment. No pity. Just... love. And it was enough. It was more than enough.

The tears that had slipped down your face slowed, but they didn’t stop. You didn’t try to wipe them away this time, allowing yourself to be seen for the first time in ages. The sobs that followed were soft but trembled with relief, with something finally breaking open inside of you.

Sylus’s arms were around you in an instant, pulling you close, holding you in the kind of embrace that made you feel as though you could finally breathe, as though the weight of everything you had been carrying could finally be set down.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, almost broken. "I’ve been so scared, Sylus. Scared of this, of being cast away... of losing you."

"You’ll never lose me, Darling." he murmured, his voice firm and unwavering as he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

You tilted your head back slightly, your face still damp with the remnants of the tears that had fallen, and through your wet lashes, you searched his face. Sylus held you close, his arms wrapped around you in a way that made you feel safe, even as the doubts lingered in your heart. You wanted to believe him, but the fear, the uncertainty, was still there, buried deep beneath the surface.

He must have seen it in your eyes, the way you still hesitated, the uncertainty you couldn't quite shake. Sylus made a half-frustrated sound in the back of his throat, his hands tightening around you for a split second, before they slid up to cradle your face. His thumb brushed against your cheek again, a tender, pleading touch, before he leaned in, his lips finding yours in a sudden, urgent kiss.

The kiss was unlike any other. It wasn’t slow, it wasn’t soft. It was intense, filled with desperation, as though he needed you to understand just how deeply he felt for you, just how much you meant to him. His hands cupped your face, holding you as if you were the only thing that mattered in that moment, as if the world had stopped turning just for you. His lips pressed against yours with a kind of fire, but it wasn’t angry, no. It was passionate, desperate in its own way, like he wanted you to feel how important you were to him, how much you had been wanted, loved.

Your hands trembled as they reached up, gripping the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, wanting to bridge the distance between you, as though the kiss itself could erase every lingering doubt in your heart. Your breath hitched when you felt his pulse quicken under your touch, his heartbeat matching the frantic pace of your own. Each breath you took seemed to echo in the stillness of the room, mingling with the heat of his kiss, our lips moving together with a quiet urgency, the world beyond the two of you fading into a distant blur. You felt everything—every brush of his fingers, every subtle shift of his body against yours, the way his chest rose and fell beneath your palms, how his breath felt against your lips as if he couldn’t get close enough to you.

Your chests rose and fell together, the world spinning around you. You could feel the heat of him, the urgency that still lingered in his touch, the way he kept you close, almost as if he were afraid to let go.

Breathing became an afterthought, both of you gasping for air when the kiss broke, but neither of you pulled far enough away to lose the connection. Sylus’s forehead rested against yours, his breath hot against your lips as he whispered, voice still heavy with emotion. “Every day, from henceforth, I will work to make sure you never feel the need to doubt yourself. Not in my life. Not with me." His words, slow and deliberate, sank deep into your heart like a promise he would keep.

The intensity of the moment hung between you both, the room still, save for the soft sound of your breathing as you both slowly came back to reality. But in his eyes, you saw nothing but certainty—certainty that you were enough. That you always had been.

His hand found yours again, fingers weaving with yours, and he gave it a gentle squeeze, as if the simple touch was a quiet reassurance.

"You are everything to me," he murmured, his voice steady now, grounding you as much as his embrace. "And I’ll make sure you never forget that.”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, absorbing his words, his warmth, his certainty. In his arms, you could feel the truth of his promise, somewhere deep inside, the doubts began to fade.

For the first time in a long time, you believed him. And when he kissed you again, this time softer, it was like the beginning of something new.

[ A disclaimer note - Please be respectful of the request ]

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

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shouyuus · 8 months ago

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─── ハイキュー!! INSATIABLE

kenma, tsukki, kageyama, hinata; 2,472 words; smut and fluff, porn w/out plot, oral (fem!receiving), oral (male!recieving), throatfucking, multiple orgasms, tipsy!sex, fingerfucking, cumming inside, cowgirl, morning sex, almost cockwarming, needy!kenma, meanie!tsukki, wine drunk!tobio, and truly insatiable!hinata

bllk ver.

summary: they always want more, more, more.

a/n: rmbr when i used to write mostly fluff and plot? yeah. me too. this, sadly, is not one of those instances. i guess in the spirit of kinktober... hooray?

─── 研磨 KENMA

it is never enough — even though at first glance, you wouldn’t think of kenma as the kind of person to be so needy. but something about you sets him off — something about the way you fist your fingers in his hair, or the way your voice always hitches over the syllables of his name —

“ken — ma — ah - hah…”

“mm? wh-what is it?”

he licks his lips, reveling in the tang of your juices currently coating his tongue, his darkened eyes flickering over the length of your body; there’s sweat beading at his temples, but years of being in sports has desensitized him ever so slightly to the sticky discomfort. and plus, this is exactly the kind of strenuous activity he doesn’t mind participating in once in a while.

you squeeze your eyes shut, the strain in the backs of your thighs burning as he casually presses you knees back and back and back, dipping down to lick at your sopping cunt.

"ken - ma — ngh!” you ruck up against his mouth, only for him to grin and pull back, wiping a hand along his lips to gather the slick.

“think you can come again for me?”

you whine, peering up at him through damp lashes, your body still buzzing with the remnants of the last two (or was it three?) orgasms he’d pulled out of you just with his fingers and mouth. your mind fizzles white at the edges, your thoughts disjointed and static.

“wanna — want your cock kenma —”

“mm,” he hums, pressing a soft, placating kiss to your knee as he runs an absent thumb over your clit just to watch your hips jump, “i know but… i like watching you cum like this. so…” he drops another kiss at on your inner thigh before dipping back down to lap softly at your puffy folds, “gimme one more and i’ll give you whatever you want, yeah?”

─── 月島 TSUKKI

so everyone knows he’s just a bit childish, just a bit petty, just a bit vindictive. so everyone knows he likes getting his way, and is a bit too stubborn.

so, when you swallow over the length of his cock as he bullies it down your throat, a hand fisted in your hair, his gaze almost cool as he watches you struggle to keep him in your mouth, you can’t say you didn’t kind of ask for it — mouthing off the way you did, pushing all his buttons from the second he’d gotten home till he’d dragged you out of the kitchen and into the bedroom and told you to get on your goddamn knees.

you’d dropped like a good little girl, a thrill tingling up your spine, because isn’t this what you’d wanted? missing him all day, a delicious, delirious heat curling at the base of your tummy, itching for the way he’d fuck you till your vision blurs.

“c’mon, i know you can open wider than that,” tsukishima runs an appraising thumb along the curve of your cheek, thrusting his hips forward even as you struggle to catch a breath. he thumbs at a tear, a smirk twisting the edge of his lips, a sadistic glint flashing behind his bespectacled eyes.

“there we go — that’s it — nngh — shit —”

you revel in the way his hips stutter, in the sting of pain that comes from his fingers fisting your hair too tight. you brace yourself and lave your tongue along the underside of his twitching cock, feeling the veins pulse angrily beneath your touch. he hisses above you, color pluming in his cheeks as he resorts to taking you by the back of the head and fucking your throat proper.

you hum around him as he jerks into your mouth, your own cunt clenching around nothing, the material of your panties sticking uncomfortably to your skin as you shift your thighs. above you, tsukishima narrows his eyes and tuts.

“quit that.”

you whine, going still even as he continues to fuck your throat, his breath going shallow, the faintest fog tinting up his glasses before he shoves you down on his cock and you feel him pulse over your tongue for a second before he yanks back and lets the white ropes of cum splatter across your face. you squawk slightly, licking at your lips before pouting up at him.

“you got cum in my hair!”

tsukishima only scoffs, wiping a bit from your cheek to press a finger into your mouth. you shoot him a half-hearted glare before sucking the digit clean, your nipples now straining against the materials of your shirt, feeling rubbed raw with sensitivity. there’s a damp patch on your panties and you tug at his hips eagerly before he swats you away.

“oh now you wanna be nice?” he asks, squinting down at you as he jerks your chin between two fingers.

you purse your lips, “i just missed you, okay?”

tsukishima scoffs, but he doesn’t deny you as you push him back onto the mattress and straddle his thighs.

“fine then, show me how much. and i might let you cum tonight.”

you pause halfway through kicking off your panties. he chuckles, laying back, propping both hands behind his head, his long, lanky form stretched out like a five course meal over the material of your sheets.

“you’re being mean,” you say, finally ridding yourself of your panties to crawl over his body, settling yourself over his hardening cock one more.

“you started it,” he hisses, even as his palms land on your hips, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass to shift you along his length, your lips falling open at the friction.

“s-so if i ask nicely enough…” you say, circling your hips if only to hear him gasp, “will you finish it?”

─── 飛雄 TOBIO

you should’ve known, you should’ve known what you were getting yourself into when you’d decided to send him a cute little mirror-selfie, dressed in nothing but one of his huge t-shirts, the hem hiked up just enough to let him see that you’re wearing nothing underneath, your nipples tenting the fabric in the wane light, your face half-covered by the phone — you should’ve known.

“m-mm—fuck —!” your heels kick uselessly against the bedsheets as tobio holds you to his mouth, his eyes sharp and dark and focused, his fingers holding your thighs open, his grip pressing divots into your skin as he sinks his tongue into your greedy cunt, sucking on your clit with a loud, gratuitous moan. there’s a flush working up his cheeks, and a glassy, glazed-out look to his eyes, amplified by the half-finished bottle of chianti sitting on the bedside table.

“one more —” he pants out, his breath hot against your twitching clit, your thighs straining against his hold as you whine, glancing down to find him running his tongue over his lips, his chin glazed with your sweet slick, bangs stuck to his forehead as he presses his cheek to your leg and smiles up at you.

“jus’ gimme one more, i know you can do it —” he drags his mouth along your skin before lowering his mouth back to your puffy lips, sinking his tongue into you far enough to make you scream. pleasure frissons up your body, making your toes and fingertips tingle — you can’t help but whine at the fact that he hasn’t even put his cock into you yet tonight but you can’t find it in yourself to complain. he’s made you cum more times than you can count, and still he’s relentless.

once, you’d asked him, jokingly, if he kept a sex journal — like his volleyball journal — where he meticulously tracks his progress, successful sets vs. unsuccessful ones, wins and losses, game strategies and various attack and defense formations. he’d cocked his head, his mouth half-full of a flatbread, that yes — he does. and did you want to see?

“i — i thought i’d just… keep track because…” he swallows his mouthful of food and looks anywhere but at you, “i want to make sure ‘m always making you feel good.”

and right here, right now, you can’t find it in yourself to do anything but fist your fingers in his hair and moan his name into the humid summer air as he works you towards yet another climax with nothing but his mouth and tongue.

“t-tobio — fuck-fuck — fuck — !”

he moans against you, grazing his teeth along your swollen clit just hard enough to push you over the edge, and when you cum around his tongue again, he pulls back with a savage, blissed-out grin, licking his lips even as he cages your body below his, trailing delicate fingers along your sides till he’s cupping your cheek.

“so pretty…” he mumbles, more to himself than anyone else, his gaze flickering over your face, down the length of your now sweat-slicked body, your knees falling open for him, your stomach rising and falling with the weight of your uneven breaths.

“tobio — tobio — n-no more teasing — please —”

he grunts, puffing out a laugh against your lips as he leans down to kiss you, sucking your tongue into his mouth as he nudges your legs apart with his knees.

“look so good like this… gonna fuck you now, yeah?” he asks, reaching down between your bodies to tease at your entrance with his cock, groaning as you whimper and ruck up against him, sensitive from the overstimulation. you make an abortive noise as he pushes into you, your knees jumping slightly as your abused hole flutters around the intrusion, his cock stretching you out the way his fingers and tongue hadn’t before.

“s-slow — tobio —” you tug weakly at his arms, your mind a hazy mess of pleasure and pain and the feeling of tobio’s lips trailing along your neck.

“nnph… sure… we’ll go slow… but we’re not done till i say we are.”

─── 翔陽 SHOUYOU

too much — it’s like he doesn’t know the meaning of the word. or, maybe he’s nothing’s ever too much when it comes to you, because like this, with you trembling above him, your thighs shaking on either sides of his hips, your hands braced against his chest, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough, let alone too much.

“mm — so — so good —” he soothes, panting slightly as he digs his heels into the mattress and fucks up into you, bouncing you over his lap, licking his lips at the way your mouth falls open, “so cute — fuck — s-so wet —”

he bites back another groan as you clench down around him, head falling forward as he shifts beneath you, reaching up to tug you down, catching you in his chest as he chuckles by your ear.

“a-ah… tired?” he asks, his pace never once faltering even as he strokes your hair, his thumb kneading at the nape of your neck as he presses a soft kiss into your shoulder. he feels your thighs clench as he adjusts his angle and your whole body tenses.

“sh-shou — mmngh —”

“f-fuck — so tight —” he grunts slightly as he twists his whole body to swap your positions, lying you gently on your back so he can hoist your knees up and fuck into you proper, letting out a pitched whine, when he feels you fluttering around him, the unmistakable signs of yet another orgasm coursing through you. he fucks you through it, leaning down to mouth at your tits, the nipples hard and raw from his fingers just minutes before.

he’d woken up with a prickling want twisting his gut and he knew nothing but an entire morning in bed with you would sate it. outside, the brilliant brazilian sun is already slating into the hotel room from the wide, drop-floor windows, and he considers — briefly — that later, the pair of you might go for a dip in the ocean, just to cool off. he grins at the thought, pushing your legs up till he’s got you folded in half.

“c’mon — c-cum for me again —” he coaxes, rucking down into you till your eyes roll back, fucking into you so deep you can nearly feel it in the back of your throat, the white, pin-prick flashes of pleasure popping behind your eyes as he hooks your knees over his arms to hoist your entire lower half off the mattress.

“c-can’t — can’t shouyou — ‘s t-too much —!” you’re almost babbling, tears caught in your lashes as you try to look up at him, but you can’t help squeezing your eyes shut every time he teases his cock against your g-spot, pulls back slow just to fuck back in fast, make you feel each ridge and bump and vein as he rocks down into you.

“mm… i know, i know…” he coos, biting his own lips with a rough pant, “but… you look so good cumming on my cock — i just — wanna — wanna see it again — hm?” he leans down to press a sloppy kiss to your mouth, sounding at once somehow whiney and demanding both, “just — just one more —” he says, nosing along your jaw to suck a hickey into the junction of your throat.

you arch up into him, fingers scrabbling at his back as he starts to pick up the pace, whimpering as another orgasm rockets through you, leaving you squirming beneath him as he chases after his own orgasm, groaning as he watches you fall apart for him, his cock twitching inside you before he’s dropping his head into your shoulder with a hard shudder.

“mm… good morning, yeah?” he asks, even as he pulls back and you pout up at him, swatting weakly at his arm.

“d-don’t move so fast — m’still sensitive…” you make to cover your eyes with your arm but he tugs it away, leaning down to kiss you.

“i like you sensitive,” he murmurs, shifting to keep his cock pressed inside you, chasing shivers through your limbs at the friction.

“don’t be mean…” you say, letting yourself be pulled into his chest even as he laughs softly.

“sorry waking you up so early in the morning — will breakfast in bed make up for it? i think the room service at this hotel’s pretty good!”

you peer up at him with a tiny grin, “yeah?”

shouyou smirks, cocking his head, “mhm! i mean… you’ll need more energy for our second round later, right?”

taglist: @yaoduriaa @ominouslywritinginmyhead @naomihatake @cheesypuffkins87 @crispynutella @stunies @phroggii @fennecnco @yogurtkags -- join the taglist

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ughbrie · 2 months ago

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ravaged depths | rafayel

⤜ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ - You remembered the first Ebb day—how he’d clung to you, delirious, burning up from the inside out. Lemurians didn’t just get fevers. When they went into heat, it was instinct and memory twisted into something raw and feral. He’d held onto you like you were the only tether keeping him grounded. Because you were. You always had been.

So when Thomas told you he’d vanished, that chill ran up your spine.

You knew what this was.

He was probably hiding it. Probably painting himself into madness with those blood-soaked corals he kept sealed in glass like trophies. Maybe he was hurting again. Maybe he didn’t want you to see him like that—vulnerable, a god stripped bare.

⤜ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ - rafayel x female reader

⤜ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ - smut

⤜ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ - 4.2k

⤜ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ (or tags) - nsfw, mdni, no use of y/n, use of pet names (cutie), dom!rafayel, depictions of heat or mating cycles, references to rafayel's bond story (ebb and flow), possessive behavior, oral sex (f! receiving), clit play, fingering, overstimulation, handjob, cum marking, multiple orgasms, penetration (p in v), dirty talk, unprotected sex, mating press, breeding kink, creampie, and mentions of ownership.

⤜ ɴᴏᴛᴇ- Well, this was just something that had been bothering me and I had to get it out of my system, lol. There's no plot here, just plain smut. Enjoy reading!

You got the call on a Tuesday.

Thomas’s voice came through sharp and tight over the line, like he was trying not to panic but already halfway there. “I haven’t heard from him in three days. He’s not answering his phone. Studio’s locked, not even a brushstroke done for the exhibit.”

You rubbed your temples. Of course it would happen now.

The thing with Rafayel was—he disappeared sometimes. Not in the ghosting kind of way. No, he always told you where he was going. Always made you promise to text when you were working late, made you promise to tell him if you weren’t coming over. Just so he knew. Just so he didn’t wait by the window like some fool, eyes flicking toward every passing headlight.

“You don’t have to tuck me in, cutie,” he’d joke, head resting in your lap like he belonged there. “Just tell me when to stop waiting.”

He played it off like he was teasing, like he wasn’t dead serious. That was the thing about Rafayel—two faces, same man. Around you, he was soft, dramatic, a little clingy, a little spoiled. He pouted, he flirted, he draped himself on your couch like he paid rent. But when he was with others? Cold as ice. Calculated. He had that detached artist thing down to an art form, and it wasn’t an act. You’d seen the real switch happen more than once—the light in his eyes shutting off like a storm rolling in.

You remembered the first Ebb day—how he’d clung to you, delirious, burning up from the inside out. Lemurians didn’t just get fevers. When they went into heat, it was instinct and memory twisted into something raw and feral. He’d held onto you like you were the only tether keeping him grounded. Because you were. You always had been.

So when Thomas told you he’d vanished, that chill ran up your spine.

You knew what this was.

You didn’t wait. You grabbed your gear, told Thomas you’d handle it, and headed straight to his studio.

It was no surprise to find yourself pinned pinned beneath his muscular frame on the couch in his studio, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he feasted on your dripping sex like a man starved. The room was filled with the obscene sounds of his lips smacking and sucking, his tongue delving deep into your folds again and again. You could feel his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you in place as he devoured you with wild abandon.

“Rafayel—!” you gasped.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging at the silky strands as the pleasure built to a fever pitch inside you. Rafayel’shands slid up to grip your thighs, pushing them further apart as he buried his face between your legs, his nose pressed against your clit as he tongue-fucked your entrance with deep, powerful strokes.

Fuck.

You could feel your juices coating his chin, dripping down onto the couch beneath you as he ate you out with single-minded focus. Your hips bucked and writhed against his mouth, trying to grind your aching sex against his face as the pressure inside you reached a breaking point. You were so close, teetering on the edge of ecstasy as Rafayel’s tongue circled your clit with devastating precision.

Your fingers clenched in his hair, holding him tight against you as you felt your orgasm building, the coil of tension in your core winding tighter and tighter. You were panting and moaning, your chest heaving with each ragged breath as Rafayel brought you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel your walls fluttering, clenching around his invading tongue as he pushed you ruthlessly towards your peak.

Just as you were about to come undone, Rafayel pulled back, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal. He looked up at you with dark, lust-filled eyes, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“Not yet, cutie. Don’t come, okay?” he purred, his voice rough and low. “I’m not done with you yet.” And with that, he dove back in, sealing his mouth over your sex once more and continuing his relentless assault on your senses, determined to make you crazy.

He was succeeding, because you were in fact going crazy.

Your hands remained fisted in his hair, holding him tight as he ate you out with wild, unbridled hunger, your body trembling and shaking with the force of your impending release. The room filled with the filthy sounds of your coupling, the wet squelches and slurps of Rafayel’s mouth on your sex echoing off the walls as he brought you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion.

You whined, “I can’t—I can’t…. I need to—ah!”

You felt two of his long—thick fingers push deep inside your dripping core. Your back arched off the couch, a sharp cry of pleasure tearing from your throat as he began to finger fuck you with deep, powerful strokes. His fingers curled and twisted inside you, stroking along your inner walls and brushing against that sensitive spot that made your toes curl.

Rafayel’s fingers pumped in and out of your tight heat, matching the rhythm of his licks and sucks on your clit. The dual stimulation was almost too much to bear, and you could feel your walls clenching and fluttering around his invading digits—trying to draw them deeper inside you.

Suddenly, Rafayel added a third finger, stretching you wider, filling you fuller and the new sensation pushed you over the precipice.

You can’t hold it anymore.

You can’t.

You came with a scream, “Rafayel-!”

Your body convulsed and shook as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over you. Your sex clenched and spasmedaround his fingers, gushing and dripping with your release as Rafayel worked you through your orgasm, his fingers pumping and curling inside you, drawing out your pleasure.

You hiccuped, “S-Stop-! I can’t—"

Rafayel never let up his assault on your clit—licking and sucking the sensitive nub as you rode out the aftershocks of your intense orgasm. Your fingers remained fisted in his hair, holding him tight against you as you gasped and shuddered, your body still tingling with the lingering effects of your mind-blowing release.

Rafayel’s fingers slowly stilled inside you, but he kept them buried deep, plugging you up, as he licked your sex clean of your juices, savoring the taste of your pleasure on his tongue.

You sighed and peered through your half-closed eyelids, Rafayel hovered above you like the tide itself—inevitable, consuming.

His eyes glowed with reddish pink melting into violet, a storm of color that shimmered like sunset trapped beneath the waves. They pulsed with something older, wilder, the kind of magic that belonged to deep-sea gods and forgotten lullabies. Looking into them felt like falling. They held you still, like gravity didn’t belong to the earth anymore, only to him.

Specks of violet and blue shimmered across his cheeks and down the line of his throat—scales, iridescent and fine as dust, catching the light like stars scattered over his skin. They pulsed faintly with his breath, shifting as if alive, as if tasting the air around you.

You wanted to touch them. Trace them. Memorize the way they glowed like stars scattered across a sea that only he belonged to. But your hands stayed still, curled into the couch cushions, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and the part of you that ached for him.

His skin was damp, slick with heat—his own and yours—and glistened where it met the light, his chest heaving, breath labored but steady. Not desperate. Controlled.

A god at the edge of surrender.

Sweat trickled down his temple, sliding over the curve of his jaw like it belonged there. His lips—parted, glossy, wet—obviously bitten raw and red from his assaults on your sex. You could smell salt on his skin. Not the kind from the sea. The kind born of fever.

Of need. Of heat.

And still, the way he looked at you—fuck—it was reverent.

As if your body beneath him was sacred. As if you were the anchor keeping him from drifting into madness. His hand was firm on your hip, fingers splayed, possessive, keeping you pinned in place—not to dominate, but to keep himself from floating away. Like the warmth of you was the only thing tethering him to his shape.

“Rafayel,” you whispered, or maybe you just thought it. But his eyes flickered, focused sharper, like the sound of his name from your lips was enough to bring him back from wherever he was drifting.

He leaned in close enough that the scent of salt and skin filled your senses.

His weight pressed down gently, never fully—like he was afraid of breaking you. Or maybe afraid of breaking himself if he let go. There was heat rolling off him in waves, dampening your skin where it met his, slick with sweat, pulse jumping in time with yours. You could feel the tremor in his muscles, the restraint, the feral edge buried just beneath the surface.

You weren’t even sure when you stopped breathing. Maybe it was the moment his hands slid up your trembling thighs, his fingers leaving trails of fire in their wake. Maybe it was when his lips hovered a breath above your breasts, his lips latching onto your t-shirt covered nipples.

He sucked and nibbled at the hardened peaks through the thin fabric, the rough texture of the cotton rubbing deliciously against your sensitive skin. You could feel your nipples straining against the shirt, aching for the direct touch of his mouth, but he teased you mercilessly, refusing to give you the satisfaction of skin on skin contact.

“Please, Rafayel…”

He smiled, and finally his hands slid up your quivering stomach, his fingers splaying across your skin as he pushed your shirt up inch by torturous inch. You lifted your arms, allowing him to peel the garment off your body and toss it carelessly to the side. The cool air hit your newly exposed skin, your nipples pebbling instantly from the change in temperature and the intensity of your arousal.

But that coolness was short-lived as Rafayel’s hot mouth descended upon your breasts, his lips wrapping around one aching, bare nipple and suckling—greedily. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, your head falling back against the couch as pleasure sparked through your nerve endings like electricity. Rafayel’s tongue swirled around the sensitive peak, flicking and teasing, before he drew it into his mouth and suckled harder, sending jolts of white-hot bliss straight to your core.

His other hand came up to knead and squeeze the soft flesh of your breast, his fingers sinking into your skin as he massaged the supple mound. He rolled and plucked at your other nipple, pinching and tugging the hardened bud between his thumb and forefinger, giving it the same attention his mouth lavished on its twin. You could feel the heat building between your legs, your sex clenching and fluttering around nothing, still sensitive from your previous release.

Rafayel’s lips moved to your other breast, his mouth covering your nipple and suckling just as greedily as before. He nipped and bit at the tender flesh, his teeth grazing your skin before he soothed the sting with his tongue. You could feel the wetness of his saliva coating your nipple, the sensation of his mouth on your bare skin is a different sensation entirely.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close as he worshipped your breasts with lips and tongue and teeth. You arched your back, pressing your chest further into his touch, silently begging for more. Rafayel obliged, his hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck, holding you in place as he feasted on your flesh like a starving man at a banquet.

Rafayel looked up at you, eyes glassy and wide, his pupils blown so wide they swallowed the pink and violet whole—like he couldn’t see anything but you.

He gasped, voice muffled against your nipple, his lips wet, “Cutie…”

You felt his hips nestle between your thighs, his thick, heavy cock resting against your sensitive sex, still dripping with the evidence of your release. You trembled, thighs shifting and parting slightly, and you felt Rafayel’s cock twitch against your sex, growing harder, more insistent.

He groaned, “I need…”

Understanding him, you reached down between your bodies, your fingers brushing against the hard, velvety tip of his erection. You could feel the moisture from your combined arousal coating his length, making it slick and smooth beneath your touch. You wrapped your fingers around his thick shaft, feeling it pulse and throb in your grip as you slowly stroked up and down, exploring the shape and size of him.

Rafayel let out a low, guttural groan, his hips rocking forward slightly as you touched him.

“Fuck, cutie… l-let me help you….” he purred.

His hand slid down to cover yours, his fingers curling around your own as he guided your movements, showing you how he liked to be touched, how to stroke and caress his aching flesh. You could feel the heat building between your thighs, the desire coiling tighter in your core as you felt Rafayel’s cock grow harder, more urgent against your touch.

Rafayel groaned, low and ragged, “More, please…”

His head dropped against your collarbone—his breath hot and uneven.

Your fingers danced over the tip, teasing the sensitive flesh, smearing the bead of moisture that leaked from the slit. Rafayel’s breath grew ragged, his chest heaving against your own as you continued to explore his length, marveling at the way it twitched and jumped beneath your touch. You could feel the power and the strength in his body, the raw, primal masculinity that both thrilled and terrified you. And as you stroked and caressed his cock, you knew that you were playing with fire—but you were more than ready to be consumed by the flames.

His flames.

As your fingers continued to tease and stroke Rafayel’s throbbing cock, you could feel the tension in his body building to a fever pitch. His hips began to rock and thrust against your hand, seeking more of that delicious friction, more of your touch. You could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he chased his own release.

Suddenly, Rafayel’s body went rigid, his muscles tensing and flexing beneath his skin. A guttural, animalistic groan tore from his throat as his cock jerked and throbbed in your grip, pulsing with a life of its own. You felt the first hot, thick spurt of his seed erupt from the tip, coating your fingers and dripping down onto your sex.

His hips bucked and shuddered, his body trembling, “Oh gods…”

You continued to stroke his cock, working him through the aftershocks of his release as he collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the couch. You could feel his heart racing, his skin flushed and damp with a sheen of sweat as he struggled to catch his breath. Your fingers remained wrapped around his softening length, gently caressing and soothing him as he came down from the high of his climax.

Rafayel’s hand slid up your body, cupping your cheek, tilting your face towards his own. He captured your lips in a searing kiss, pouring all of his desire and his gratitude into the heated embrace. You could taste the desperation on his tongue, the raw, primal hunger that only you seemed to bring out in him. And as you kissed him back just as fiercely, just as desperately, you knew that you would never be able to get enough of this man—of his touch, his passion, his all-consuming love.

You were his, just as he was yours, two souls entwined in a dance as old as time itself.

His breath ghosted hot against your cheek, shaky and humid, like the tide pulling too close to shore.

“Tell me I can,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, lips brushing your skin. “Tell me I can have you…”

He pressed an open-mouthed kiss on your cheek, “Please… I need to feel more of you. All of you.”

“You don’t have to ask. I’m yours.” you whispered, as you reached up to caress his cheek.

He groaned, “You don’t know what you do to me—I’m holding back so much.”

“Then don’t hold back. I want all of it—all of you.” you reassured, “I trust you. Even like this, I’ll always trust you.”

His lips skimmed along your jaw, slick and trembling, like he was drinking you in one slow breath at a time.

“You’ll ruin me,” he whispered, voice hoarse with need. “But gods, I want you to.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, glowing eyes flickering.

“I’ll give you everything. Just—don’t look away when I do.”

His gaze were intense and filled with a hunger that made your heart race. Slowly, inch by inch, he began to push forward, the thick head of his erection parting your swollen lips and sinking into your tight, wet heat.

You gasped as you felt him enter you, your walls stretching and yielding to his size. “Rafayel—“

You felt him shudder when you whispered his name, like a wave breaking at last against the shore. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, a low groan escaping his lips as your silken walls enveloped him, gripping his shaft like a velvet vice. He began to push deeper, inch by excruciating inch, allowing you to feel every throb and pulse of his hard cock as it disappeared inside you.

He hissed, “You’re so tight. F-Fuck, c-cutie—” his voice cracked—soft, desperate—as if the need was clawing its way out of his chest.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your nails raking down his back as you struggled to adjust to his size. Rafayel’s hand slid down to your hip, gripping it tightly as he continued his slow, steady push forward, not stopping until he was buried to the hilt inside you. You could feel the heat of him, the weight of him, filling and stretching you in a way that was almost too much to bear.

For a long moment, Rafayel remained still, allowing you to feel the throb and twitch of his cock deep inside your core. His forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with your own as he savored the feeling of being one with you, joined in the most intimate way possible. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the strength and power in his body as he held himself above you, pinning you down with his weight and his presence.

Slowly, Rafayel began to move, withdrawing his hips until just the tip of his cock remained inside you. Then, with a deep, guttural groan, he thrust forward again, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, powerful stroke. He set a steady rhythm, his hips rocking and rolling against your own as he began to make love to you with deep, purposeful thrusts that hit that secret spot inside you with every drive of his hips.

Your body responded instinctively, your hips lifting to meet his, taking him deeper, urging him on. The room filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, of your mingled moans and cries of pleasure as Rafayel took you with a passion and a hunger that left you breathless and aching for more. You could feel the pleasure building inside you, the coil of tension in your core winding tighter and tighter with every thrust, every stroke of his hard, thick cock inside your dripping sex.

He moved like he was drowning in want, and beneath the glitter of scales and heat-slick skin, he was unraveling, and you were the only thing holding him together, like you were the only air left.

Rafayel suddenly hooked his arms under your knees, pulling your legs up and back as he pushed your knees towards your chest. He maneuvered your body with ease, his strength allowing him to bend and position you as he desired. As he did this, he pushed your thighs further apart, opening you wider to him. Your legs were now bent at an angle, your knees pressed against your chest, completely exposing your sex to his hungry gaze.

With this new position, Rafayel could drive his cock even deeper into your core. He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your ass as he began to piston in and out of you with long, powerful strokes. The new angle allowed him to reach even deeper inside you, his cock kissing your cervix with every thrust. You could feel every ridge and vein of his thick shaft dragging along your sensitive walls, igniting sparks of pleasure that raced up your spine.

“T-That’s it, cutie. Take it, yeah? Take it.” he moaned.

Rafayel’s hips slammed against yours, the force of his thrusts making your body jolt and shake. He was fucking you with wild abandon, his eyes dark and intense as he watched your face, watching the pleasure play out across your features. You could feel the heat building between your thighs, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core as Rafayel’s cock pounded into you, driving you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.

Your fingers clawed at his back, your nails digging into his skin as you clung to him, anchoring yourself against the force of his thrusts. You could feel the sweat dripping down your body, your skin slick and flushed with the exertion of your lovemaking. Rafayel’s chest heaved above you, his muscles flexing and rippling with every movement, showcasing his raw, primal strength.

“Fuck, cutie,” Rafayel growled, his voice rough and low. “You feel so fucking good. So tight, so perfect.” He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, grinding his hips against yours, stirring his cock deep inside you. “I can feel you squeezing me, cutie. You want to come on my cock, don’t you? Want to take every last drop of me?” His words were filthy, obscene, but they only served to turn you on more, to make you burn hotter for him.

You nod, frantically, eagerly. You gasped, “Yes, yes, yes—please, Rafayel!”

“Fuck, I want to breed this pussy—want to make you mine!” He growled, his voice cracking.

Rafayel’s fingers found your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, fast circles. The added stimulation was almost too much to bear, and you could feel your walls starting to flutter and clench around his pistoning cock. Your moans grew louder, more desperate, as Rafayel continued to pound into you with wild abandon, his hips slapping against yours, the obscene sound of skin on skin filling the room.

“Come on, cutie,” Rafayel growled, his fingers moving faster, pressing harder against your clit. “Come all over my cock. I want to feel you come apart for me.” His words were rough, demanding, pushing you closer to the edge of oblivion.

Your body tensed, your back arching off the couch as you felt your orgasm building to a crescendo. Rafayel’s cock was hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, sending jolts of electricity through your veins. You could feel the pressure in your core winding tighter and tighter, your walls clenching and squeezing around Rafayel’s shaft, trying to pull him deeper, to keep him inside you.

With a scream of Rafayel’s name, you came undone, your body convulsing and shaking as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over you. Your sex clenched and spasmed around Rafayel’s cock, gushing and dripping with your release as he fucked you through your climax, drawing out your pleasure.

Feeling your walls clamp down around him, Rafayel let out a guttural roar, his body going rigid as he found his own release. His cock jerked and throbbed inside you, pulsing as he spilled his hot release deep into your core. You could feel the warmth of it, the thickness of it, painting your insides.

He was draped over you in an instant like a weighted blanket, limbs tangled, cheek pressed to your chest, his breath ragged. His skin was damp, faintly glowing, but his body had softened, all the tension melted into your touch.

“Mmh…” he mumbled, voice low and lazy, lips brushing your collarbone. “That felt so good, cutie.”

You laughed, well, tried to. “Are you feeling better now?”

He shook his head, “Still burning. But I’m choosing not to die about it right now.”

You huffed a laugh, fingers carding gently through his sweat-damp hair. “Choosing?”

“Mmhm,” he hummed. “Choosing rest. Choosing you. Very brave of me.”

He tilted his head up just enough to look at you, eyes heavy-lidded but still glowing faintly, pupils still too wide. “Don’t move, cutie,” he said, dramatically nuzzling back into your skin. “If you leave, I’ll literally melt. You’ll come back to nothing but glitter and salt.”

You didn’t move. Of course you didn’t.

“Good,” he whispered, already half-asleep. “Knew you had a soft spot for me.”

likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3

if you want to check out more of my writings, head on to here — masterlist.

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aquaholicsanonymousworld · 2 months ago

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Ok ok now flip the wrong husband idea. Intimidating/grumpy resident who’s close to and clearly Jack abbotts fav resident, the med students think they might be secretly together only for her to actually be Robby’s gf/wife 👀

Wrong Attending

Pairing: Dr Michael "Robby" Robinivich x Attending!Reader

She was terrifying. That’s what the med students whispered behind clipboards and in the corners of the nurse’s station.

Dr. (Y/N), third-year resident. Surgical precision in her tone, her incisions, and her sarcasm. Always serious, always focused, always somehow two steps ahead of the attending she was assisting. If she barked an order, you followed it. If she gave you a look, you apologized before even figuring out what you’d done.

Jack Abbott adored her.

He never said it, but it was obvious. She was his golden resident. She scrubbed in with him more than anyone else. He taught her the most complex techniques with the kind of softness he didn’t extend to anyone else. He even brought her coffee when she had a long case ahead — Jack Abbott bringing someone else coffee. It was enough to start rumors.

“She’s totally his girlfriend,” one of the med students said as they wheeled a post-op patient back to recovery.

“Girlfriend?” another scoffed. “Try wife. You think anyone else could get away with back-talking him like that and not get reamed for it?”

She passed by just then, sleeves rolled up, surgical cap still on. She gave them all a pointed look as she walked through.

The students fell silent. Guilty. Terrified.

Later that day, the ER flooded.

A pile-up on the interstate. They needed hands. All hands. She was already pulling on gloves before anyone called her name.

She was hunched over a trauma bay, blood on her scrubs, one hand in a chest cavity when—

“Hey,” a voice said behind her. Lighter. Familiar. “Jesus. You didn’t answer my texts. You okay?”

She glanced up, annoyed. “I’m working, Robby.”

Dr. Robby. The senior attending. Golden boy of the ER. Charismatic. Bright-eyed. Sunshine in scrubs. Or maybe that's just how she saw him.

He blinked. “You’re elbow-deep in a thoracotomy and I’m the one getting attitude?”

She didn’t answer. Just turned back to the trauma.

The med students, standing nearby and wide-eyed, watched in confusion.

Dr. Robby stayed there, leaning against the glass, watching her with something oddly fond in his expression.

She finally stepped back after the patient stabilized, ripping her gloves off and walking to the sink.

Robby handed her a towel.

“Can I help you?” she asked flatly, drying off.

“Just wanted to see if you were alive. I made you dinner.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me.”

“You’re lucky I do.”

One of the students behind them dropped their chart.

Robby turned, startled, and blinked at the frozen group of baby doctors staring at them.

“…What?”

One of them finally managed: “Wait. You’re dating Dr. Robby?”

She raised a brow. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

Robby looked smug. “Jealous?”

“No,” one of them muttered. “Just… we all thought it was Abbott.”

Robby paused, then laughed so hard he doubled over.

She sighed, shoved him with the towel, and muttered, “I need a nap.”

“Or,” Robby grinned, falling into step beside her, “you could come home, shower, and let your very loving, very charming boyfriend feed you tortellini.”

“…What kind of tortellini?”

He smirked. “The homemade kind. You’ve been on my mind all day.”

The students watched them go, stunned into silence.

One turned to the others. “That’s gotta be the biggest plot twist in this hospital.”

The others nodded slowly.

Jack Abbott walked by a moment later, glancing toward the hallway they disappeared into, then at the med students. “What’s with the faces?”

One said weakly, “Sir, did you know she’s dating Dr. Robby?”

Abbott blinked. Then snorted. “Of course I know.”

“…You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“We thought she was yours.”

Jack gave them a look so dry it could sand furniture. “I have a wife, you morons.”

Then he walked off, chuckling to himself.

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thalwri · 3 months ago

Text

CRISP AND CHARRED!

synopsis: why bake when you can get your back blown by your favourite prince from philos?

warnings: porn no plot, masturbation, teasing, feral!xavier, feral!reader, backshots behind a couch

wc: 998

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

xavier had learned something new today. don’t bake when you’re with someone you’ve missed. you’ll burn the food. and in his defence you probably would have too. in an attempt to try out with creme brulée, you had gotten a bit too distracted.

with what?

you had dropped a spoon on the floor and reached down to get it, not expecting much from that. what you hadn’t taken into account was that the lining of your panties pressed against your shorts that tightly wrapped around your plump ass and hips, emphasising the curve and pulsating puffiness of your pussy lips.

if it wasn’t for that spoon always slipping from your grip until it was under his couch, making you eventually drop to your knees to reach for it. the curves of your back arched, those swollen folds rubbed against the moving fabric of your clothing as you wiggled in search for the spoon. just one more swift shake of that ass of yours and he would have seen your pussy exposed.

the thought of it sent jolts down to his swelling cock. there was already an imprint of his length hardening on his pants. but he didn’t bother hiding it. not while he had a magnificent sight to witness.

his hands had itched to squeeze and fondle those soft mounds of fat and lay kisses and bites all over it. his hand traveled down to his now fully erect cock and gently rubbed it in its clothed state. a shaky silent sigh left his lips as your back further arched, pushing that ass higher up.

his rock hard cock throbbed, leaking globs of clear fluid onto his clothing. but that only egged him on to stroke himself more, to succumb to his body’s needs. a soft moan resonated from the couch, by where you were. another moan slipped out, a result of you stretching yourself to find the spoon.

“xavier,” your voice was like honey, pulling him into your abyss like a tempest dragging him to an endless whirlpool. “hold me.”

“why?” his voice was strained, hoarse and dry as if all the moisture in his mouth went straight down his body.

“what if i get– ah– stuck?” your pretty ass wiggled again. there was no way you weren’t doing that on purpose. “i need you to hold me.”

reluctantly– that’s a lie, he was overjoyed– xavier knelt down behind you and slowly curled his fingers over your waist, holding you still. he ached to move just a bit closer, to press his length right on your cunny lips. they were just calling out to him. so needy for him. he was so needy for you.

he would have maintained his restraint. really, he would have. at least before you jerked back, pressing yourself right on the print of his cock.

whether or not it wasn’t intentional was a question left for the wind to answer. because now, xavier was balls deep inside your pussy, pounding you into oblivion.

it felt like one of those washing machine porn videos, whether the woman would get stuck in the washing machine and would need help getting out, only to be fucked instead. or maybe it’s like a plumber kind of situation, where some part of her body is stuck or tangled in the bathtub and she gets fucked for a free repair service.

but neither of those stood a chance to the way xavier expertly found your sweet spot deep within your pussy, hitting it over and over again despite slipping his leaky cock into you just moments ago.

“you were doing it on purpose, weren’t you?” his naked torso curved over your nude form, one hand tightly gripping the head of the couch and the other fondling your nipples, twisting and squeezing them like his toys and holding your bouncing tiddies in place.

the only response you were capable of making was a string of incoherent moans. it was true, you had deliberately dropped the spoon and further used your charms to tease xavier. you didn’t really anticipate that he’d be just as aroused and hungry for you like you were for him.

“xa-xavier– i–“ his tongue swiped a wet line up your neck bringing you to a shudder. your head rested on the cushion he had grabbed for you to keep you comfy while he ploughed your dripping hole.

“concentrate on finding that spoon,” he cooed, enunciating each syllable with a sharp, deep, thrust, making sure you felt every vein massage your soaked gummy walls.

he already came inside you twice, and you three times just in that position alone. you just had missed each other so much, especially after all the missions you had done separately in the last few weeks. it only felt natural to devour each other at some point, even if it was under the guise of a wholesome baking day.

“s-s-so– mmhfuck– so mean!” you cried, stretching your arms around until your finger grazed the cold metallic edge of the spoon you dropped. your gasp of victory turned into the sluttiest moan you’d made in months. even xavier was shocked to hear it.

“oh?” his hands massaged your waist to soothe you. he was shaking, both overstimulated, leaking endless amounts of cum into you and pounding all of the previous round’s back into you while the rest leaked onto the floor. “you’re so mmmuch louder today. ‘s it because you missed me?”

“i think– xavier!” he had already spent so much time edging you, and himself, you were about to explode at this point. and what about the food? “the crème brûlée– it’s burning–“

“let it burn,” you could just hear him grin. “i was probably going to anyway. besides,”

he pushed his hips as deep as your tight cunny could allow him to go. “i still need to take care of you.”

you two were definitely going to order food by the time you were done.

just a little drabble for xavier

#✧.* thalwri #✧.* thalwri works #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace smut #lnds smut #lads xavier #xavier love and deepspace #xavier x reader #xavier x mc #xavier smut #lnds x mc #lnds xavier

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babeyun · 6 months ago

Text

falling alone ✩ l.hs [m]

⇢ part of the modus operandi series! synopsis: cold cases were heeseung’s specialty, and he cracked every single one. cold hearts were your specialty, and you have yet to make a single chip in your husband’s. genre: established relationship au ; strained lovers. angst, fluff, smut pairing: lieutenant!lee heeseung x therapist!housewife!reader (i love plot twists) word count: 39.5k rating: 18+. minors please do not interact. warnings: for realism purposes, everyone is aged up (22-29 ; not my favorite but it is what it is.) strained marriage/relationship dynamics, workaholic dynamics, toxic relationship dynamics that are not meant to be romanticized. talks of therapy, food mentions, birth control mention, talks of having a family. detailed descriptions of disappearances, missing persons, etc. y/n feels neglected (girl STAND UP). sex as a temporary fix, swearing, alcohol, smoking. unrequited love, lots of pining on both ends. smut warnings: multiple scenes (two and a half...just read it), heeseung has a thing for y/n in business attire, petnames (baby, babe, princess, etc.,) unexplored daddy kink, heavy petting, frottage, slight body worship (m&f.rec.) nipple play, light spanking, oral (m&f. rec), squirting, lots of pillowtalk, marking, dom/sub dynamics, hair pulling, slight degrading/praise, handholding during sex (because i'm soft so what), switch!hee x switch!yn, unprotected sex (don't do this), doggy, missionary (not a babeyun fic if it's not missionary and body worship, i fear) creampie (i hate this word so bad.) i think that's it! what to listen to: falling - harry styles ; tu falta de querer - mon laferte ; seasons - dawn, gemini ; stardust - ben webster ; my foolish heart - bill evans trio ; no song without you - honne ; take me - miso ; say - keshi ; may i have this dance - francis & the lights ; unchained melody - the righteous brothers ; can't take my eyes off you - frankie valli ; can this morning never end - davin kingston ; too good - christian kuria ; u send me swingin' - mint condition ; you and me - lifehouse. author's note: it's finally fucking here, SEVEN MONTHS later. i cannot believe my life took such a turn that my original timeline of getting these all out back out to back turned into me ghosting the internet. this being said, i really hope you guys enjoy the push and pull that are heeseung and y/n in this. they're insane but they're in love and that's all that matters. special thanks to my dearest @enhaven for all her encouragement and kind words. star dividers by @/saradika here on tumblr!

Friday, 9:23PM.

"Late night?" Your voice has always been a comfort to him. The way you cooked dinner every night, the way you washed his hair for him, the way you laid in bed with him – it was all comforting. Your soft eyes, eyes that hadn't seen an inch of a crime scene. Your gentle hands, hands that would never cock a gun and aim to kill.

You were home to him, and he hated that he couldn't leave his work at the precinct. He always brought it with him, anywhere he went…anywhere you were.

"Not really. Caught a session with Dr. Bahng, I'm sorry about dinner." He loosens his tie, trying to ignore the way your eyes follow his fingers. He takes his wedding ring off for work – insisting it snags on the gloves when gathering evidence, that he never wants to sully it with such grime. "How was your night?" Your sigh may be inward, but his eyes catch everything. Every frustrated twitch of your brows, the way your nose crinkles at the half-assed apology. Your eyes linger on the linoleum floor, and he fights the urge to pull you into his arms. He fights the urge to show any weakness to your feelings, he can't let go of work. He has to be strong, he has to be coarse, he has to be cold.

"It was…fine." You wave him off, moving to take the full plates off the table. Only then does Heeseung notice that you're still in your jeans, your white top neatly tucked into them. Your feet are clad in fresh socks, almost as if you were about to go out when he arrived. His eyes scan you as you move around, pulling his tie completely off and bunching it into his pocket. "Are you going out with your friends?" You don't reply as you scrape the cold food into the trash can, and he focuses on the sound of your bracelet lightly clinking with the handle of the fork. Your shoulders sag, soft curls of your hair sweeping over your face as you move to place the dishes in the sink. He sighs, before his legs move him behind you. "Why are you upset, honey?" "I'm not, I'm not upset." You scoff, turning the tap to hot when you feel Heeseung's hands ghost over your waist. You knew better than to attempt to hide anything from him, especially with the way his brain was literally trained to analyze your every movement. His lips press softly to your cheek as his fingers untuck your top, "I know you better than that." You're silent as his fingertips trace the soft skin of your stomach, his chin resting on your shoulder. He's going to wait until you decide you want to talk, despite knowing it will be the same argument you have every single week.

The same argument that always ends up unresolved as you kiss in your bed, sheets tangled between your bodies. It's enough to hold off on actually talking about it, it's enough to semi-satisfy the lack of attention you got from him during the week. It wasn't enough to feed his unvoiced, almost insatiable hunger for you, and how he wished he could just douse you in his love and affection until the sun rose. It wasn't nearly enough, because he'd still have to pry himself from the comfort of your warm embrace to step foot in the precinct and inhale the stench of evil in the world.

He felt awful, really. That he could never truly show you how much he loved you, how emotionally constipated his job made him…how his sessions with Dr. Bahng were no longer of much help. "Leave work at work, Lieutenant. You have the love of your life waiting for you at home." He had it memorized at this point.

"It's always the same thing, don't worry about it." You turn the tap off, feeling the guilt about wasting water seeping into your stomach. You weren't going to wash the dishes, you knew you weren't. You just wanted to lay down in bed with your husband, basking in the few minutes of attention he'd be able to give you before falling asleep.

"Baby." You wince at the pet name, one so foreign on his lips. One you so rarely heard, long lost in your college memories. You grimace as you turn in his hold, his hands now resting on your hips. "Don't baby me, Heeseung." "Don't Heeseung me, Y/N. I know something is bothering you, and whether it's tonight, tomorrow, or next week – I'm not letting you go to bed like this." He looks at you through tousled locks, his eyes speaking for him. Just talk to me.

You shake your head in subtle disbelief, attempting to push past him when he pins you against the counter gently. "Let me go, Heeseung." "Not until you tell me what's going on." His voice is harsh, one he also rarely uses with you. Heeseung was always gentle, soft-spoken. "I've been at work all day, dealing with shit I can barely stomach. I just want to come home and spend time with you, what's wrong?" He's starting to whine, and it does nothing but make your eyes sting with tears.

"I just want to spend time with you, without having to beg you for it." You breathe out, squeezing your eyes shut to avoid his gaze. "You remember everything, Hee. I know you had to remember that tonight is date night." Sighing, you peel your eyes open to a guilty husband watching you with his own tired ones.

"I'm sorry, honey. It really did slip my mind. Let me…let me just take a shower and we can go have a night on the town, okay?" He starts to walk away, fingers pulling at the buttons of his shirt when you clear your throat. "It's fine, Heeseung. Let's just go to bed."

"No, let me fix this. We haven't had dinner, and we haven't spent time together in weeks." He slips his dress shirt off as he leaves your line of vision, and you just slump against the counter. He was right, and you hated that you knew he was. Heeseung was always this way, though, shouldn't you be used to it by now?

Yes, he was gentle and soft-spoken, with a touch of dirty humor and thoughtfulness that always made your heart race a little faster. Your relationship was built on a lot of comfort and deep talks, ones that usually involved you unraveling yourself entirely just to get a taste of his own secrets. The two of you had met in college, about three days after the disappearance of his childhood best friend, Cha Soyoung.

Heeseung was even more cold and stoic, and wasn't interested in so much as even befriending you. He didn't really speak, which according to his friends, was unnatural. They wound up being close friends of yours as well, thanks to Park Sunghoon, and the seven of them all also ended up working at the same precinct. "Heeseung talks…a lot. Not as much as Jay, but he's just going through a hard time right now." Sunghoon said as he sipped his drink, carefully chewing the tapioca pearls as the two of you walked. "It's not everyday your best friend of twenty years goes missing, you know?"You had shrugged, not really understanding what it was like. Your parents had moved you around a lot as a kid, and it was hard to make friends until they finally settled when you got into your last year of high school. You had met Sunghoon there, but only met the rest of your friends through him that following summer – except Heeseung. He'd gone home with Soyoung for the summer, returning to Seoul for the fall semester at Decelis University with her and your other friends. You still never spoke, until now.

You and Sunghoon were swinging by his dorm to help pass out flyers.

"Hey, Hoon. Y/N." Heeseung spoke quietly as he opened the door, his eyes nearly swollen shut from crying for the past three days. Your jaw dropped as you looked at his face, not at all recognizing the boy in front of you. Sure, you'd only ever seen pictures of Heeseung but you knew enough to know that this…wasn't him. Neither you nor Sunghoon spoke as Heeseung moved for the two of you to follow him, shutting the door behind you.

"How are you feeling?" Sunghoon asked as he trashed his drink, your own now sweating on a coaster on Heeseung's coffee table as the man gathered things around his dorm. You stood awkwardly as you swung your backpack onto the couch, opening it for Heeseung to slide the flyers in when you saw him shake his head.

"I don't feel much, actually."

Sunghoon glanced at you, but your legs moved before you could think. You rounded the table to Heeseung, who looked at your extended arms and empathetic eyes with cold ones. He'd set down the papers in his hands, fingers splayed across them momentarily before turning back to you and awkwardly entering your embrace. Your fingers easily found the nape of his neck, and his rigid form quickly softened as he breathed shakily into your shoulder. "M'Sorry." He mumbled as you felt a few tears soak through your shirt, and you just shook your head.

Sunghoon also wound up wrapping his arms around the two of you. Something about the way that Heeseung's fingers clawed at your sides, and the way he sobbed into your shirt made you wonder how long he'd needed someone. Someone to ease the knot in his stomach, someone to help him see that this was something that would be solved and everything would be okay again. Someone to help him hop along until Soyoung was found, and someone to leave when she inevitably took her place again.

That was nine years ago. You and Heeseung began dating a year after that happened, a couple of months after the anniversary of Soyoung's disappearance. The police stopped looking, ruling her case as a runaway. You and Heeseung never stopped searching – you frequently asked cafe owners if you could pin missing posters on their corkboards, and even went door to door every few evenings asking if anyone had seen Soyoung.

Heeseung had made it to the side of the law, and frequently reviewed the case to see if he had missed anything. He never had – you had all hit a dead end. Everyone's hope began to dwindle, but Heeseung never let that sway him. He even asked the forensics department to make age-progression posters, and they did. You'd pinned those up, too.

He was strong willed, he was diligent, he was determined. You love Heeseung, you love the person he is…

…But you hate that he can't leave his work at work. You hate that you get a crumb of his affection every few nights, whether it's his lips pressed against your cheek after dinner or his teeth nipping at your clavicle while hovering above you in bed. You hate that you find yourself longing for him even more than you did in college, despite now having him in the deepest way – as your husband, the person who loves you.

The man who shed a singular tear as he watched you walk down the aisle, the man who supported you when your career wasn't what you expected. The man who endlessly told you he loved you in ways that weren't so evident to the naked eye – like leaving the warm water for you and showering in the ice cold, leaving the last slice of cake for you, rubbing your feet while watching Law and Order with you on days he didn't work (read: on days you pried him out of the home office.)

Heeseung loves you, you know that. You just can't shake the feeling that it won't be for much longer.

"Tuck in your shirt."

His voice snaps you out of your trance, and you look up to see your husband now unrolling a pair of clean socks, speaking around a wide toothed comb between his teeth. He drapes the socks over the back of a chair, eyes glued to his reflection in the hallway mirror as he combs through his hair quickly.

Rolling your eyes, you tuck in your shirt haphazardly as he parts his hair down the middle. "You can't go out with your hair wet, you'll get sick." You call as you make your way down to the bathroom, pulling open one of the cabinets to fish out your hair dryer. "I don't have time to dry my hair. In sickness and health, anyway." Heeseung yells down the hall, and you bite back your chuckle.

"But why make yourself sick? Sit, I'll dry it while you put on your socks." You untangle the cord, plugging it into the wall as Heeseung pouts. "The sound makes me sleepy! If I'm sleepy, we can't go out." He shakes his head, and you put a hand on your hip as you give him a pointed look. He sighs, tugging a chair towards you and plopping down.

"You're throwing a tantrum like a child. Mom, I don't want to wear my coat! Mom, I don't want my peas touching my mashed potato!" You mock his behavior, making him sulk further into the chair and creasing his shirt. "Sit up!"

He does, and watches you through the mirror as you carefully comb your fingers through his hair. He wonders why you forgive him so easily, why you do these things for him when he doesn't feel like he deserves it. The wasted dinner, the way you roll his socks after doing his laundry (that he insists he can do himself.) He wonders what he's done to make you love him so dearly.

"Where d'you wanna go? Olive You More? Thyme for Love?" His voice leaves the sulky attitude behind, as your fingers card through his damp hair, and you grimace. "Why are all our favorite restaurants so cheesy? It's disgusting." "Well, we could try that new one down by the river. Pasta La Vista, I think it's called." He taps his lips with his fingers, and you catch the glint of his gold wedding band snuggled around his left ring finger. You ignore the way your heart flutters, as you lightly smack his shoulder. "No more pun restaurants! We're not in college anymore." "Ah, but I love going to those places with you. I.." The words get caught in Heeseung's throat, as they always do. He always feels like he's saying it for the very first time, just like he did all those years ago in the middle of the woods. You got stuck in a blackberry bush, and it just slipped out.

"You..?" You ask, looking at him through the mirror. Your eyes are full of concern, a look he never stops seeing. It bothers him. "I love you." He mumbles shyly, looking away to pick at his cuticles. He doesn't see the gentle smile on your glossed lips, and feels your soft hair brush his neck as you lean to kiss his cheek.

"Mmh, I would hope so." "Yah, say it back." He pouts as he turns to face you, and you can only smile wider before you place a chaste kiss on his lips. "I don't need to, you know who my heart calls home. Now, get up. We've got a delicious pasta dinner to inhale, and breadsticks to steal." He doesn't ask you to say it back again, only watching as you walk away with a skip in your step. He knows, he does. He knows you love him, he knows your heart calls him home. He knows you love him.

He's just worried it won't be for much longer.

Saturday, 10:32am.

"Good morning." Your voice is raspy with sleep, eyes still slightly shut as you whisper into his skin. It's a God-given miracle that he's still in bed next to you, instead of slipping out early like a college hookup.

Unfortunately, that happened more often than not. "Have we always had such shitty curtains? I can't sleep with so much light." He groans, tugging your arm over his head as he moves to snuggle into your chest. His breathing softens as you pull him slightly closer, wrapping your arms fully around his head and shoulders. "Mmh, if you were still in bed by the time I woke up for the day, you'd know." "You know I can't be." He sighs, and you feel the ticklish sensation of his lips feathering over your clavicle. His teeth tug lightly at your necklace, one he gave you for your second anniversary, months after the wedding. He loves that you never take it off.

"It's not a matter of if you can, it's a matter of if you want to." "Don't pull that, you know I do." He kisses your skin before burying his face into your neck. "I'd never leave this bed if it were up to me." His teeth are once more doing their oh-so routine nipping at the exposed skin of your shoulder, before you shift out of his reach. "We should get breakfast."

You turn onto your back, stretching your arms above your head with a soft yawn. Though blurred with fatigue, your eyes see Heeseung perfectly, his head resting lightly on your stomach. His fingers toy with the waistband of your underwear, thumb slightly slipping beneath to rub at the skin of your hip. Your tattoo peeks through, one Heeseung never lets you forget you have. His faded initials mock the both of you. "Or, counter offer: you can be my breakfast."

You snort, propping yourself up your elbows to get a good look at the man now in your lap. He's pressing soft kisses around your navel, eyelashes fluttering slowly as his lips pepper around your warm skin. "Hee, you barely ate dinner."

"I've barely eaten you. I'm a man deprived, please?" His eyes finally peer up at you, and you scoff out a laugh, running a hand through your mussed curls. You shake your head as you tongue your cheek, allowing him to pull at the hem of your panties once more. "I'm not above begging, if that's what it takes. You know I'll do it." "Just take them off, you big baby. You're cheesy as shit, too." You roll your eyes as he grins, a playful bite to your outer thigh as he begins to move you around as he pleases.

"Open." He kneels on the bed, knuckles rapping on your knees to part them. You can't help but roll your eyes again, but comply as he tugs down your underwear. It flies somewhere across the room, forgotten in a corner to gather dust, Heeseung completely unaware as he lies on his stomach.

"I've missed this." He sighs, before placing a chaste kiss on your inner thigh. "I miss you, most of all. I promise I'll be home earlier this week, baby." He doesn't give you a chance to respond as his tongue quickly finds home between your legs, softly licking at every inch he can reach. Your lip is tucked beneath your teeth, fingers grabbing at anything you can…

When his phone starts ringing. He groans into your skin, the vibrations making you shiver as disappointment takes over. He ignores the sound, choosing to pull you closer onto his face when you push his shoulder with your foot. "Just answer it, Hee." "I don't want to." His voice is muffled as his tongue collects your forming arousal, a soft moan from his throat as you squirm in his hold. "H-Hee, what if it's important?" "What if it's not? What could possibly be more important than you and I at this very moment?" His eyes are filled with a mix of annoyance and desire as he rests his cheek against your thigh. You hate the pitiful groan that escapes your lips as you reach for his phone, answering it for him. "Work."

Sighing, he moves off the bed as he takes the call, motioning for you to stay as he speaks. "Go for Lee."

Complying, you simply become a jellyfish of a human, sprawled across your bed. You wonder why you answered the phone for him, why you pushed him to take the call. It bothers you that even now, you have begun prioritizing his work over your relationship, when you both promised each other that your love, affections and time for each other would never dwindle.

You can't say it has, though, at least for you. You love Heeseung, one could even say that distance has made your heart grow fonder. Not seeing him often has made you a bit more independent, and every time you find yourself eating dinner at the table alone, you're reminded of your mother.

How she berated you for marrying for love and not stability, how she shamed you for abandoning the career that drained you of everything you had. You dislike how easy it was for her to get into your head, so much so that you'd spent all of yesterday applying for new jobs in your field, while waiting for Heeseung to get home – and hopefully have your regular date night.

Not that he was even around to have said date. Sure, he made it up to you…but at what cost?

As you begin to sink into your spiraling thoughts, Heeseung reappears in the doorway of your bedroom. He doesn't speak loud enough for you to hear as he beelines for the closet – a mumble of frustrations spilling from his lips as he rips a shirt off its hanger. Turning on your side, you cover your lower half with the blanket that's no longer warm before speaking to him. "Duty calls, huh?" "Yes."

In silence, you watch as he buttons his shirt, the muted teal making his skin glow softly. He doesn't look you in the eyes as he revisits the closet, tugging on his favorite pair of brown slacks. A pair you made for him a few years ago, right after leaving your job – and you remember the way his eyes lit up as you presented them. You remember the way he kissed each of your fingertips that night, covered with bandaids from pin pricks. You remember returning home the next day from a girls' day with Chaewon, to find a packet of colorful silicone thimbles, and a few more pieces of glittery, cream-colored fabric laid out on your bed.

Fabric he'd used to make you a dress, with flutter sleeves and a deep v-neckline. Fabric he'd used to sit and carefully hand-stitch the flowy sarong skirt. When did he find the time? He hadn't given you much of a chance to ask questions, before he insisted you put it on and let him take you out for a nice dinner.

It was the last time the two of you truly connected on something deeper than his work or your convenient unemployment. It was the last time that the two of you genuinely laughed together and did things from your younger years, like dancing in the twilight to no music and kissing in every corner possible on the walk home. The last time you wore his favorite perfume, because after that, months passed without a second thought about you.

The silence between you has grown neutral – not entirely comfortable, because who wants to spend their days without hearing the love of their life speak to them? Laugh with them, maybe even get into a bit of a spat with them that shows your relationship is becoming more than just the bare minimum? Certainly not you, and by the way Heeseung robotically loops his tie while staring you down in the mirror, a look of longing in his eyes before turning to you.

"I won't be long, I promise."

He notes the way your head tilts, the way an understanding smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes takes over your face. "Don't worry, take your time." The way your hair is effortlessly splayed around your head, life's odd attempt at recreating the halo to represent the absolute angel you are. One Heeseung doesn't deserve.

You get up, swinging your bare legs over the side of the bed before grabbing for your bath towel. "I'll get ready for my day, and maybe…" You trail off as your toes touch his shoes – he wore them in the house sometimes, a habit of his you despised.

"And maybe we can catch lunch together?" He finishes, a shy smile crossing his lips as you place a gentle kiss on his cheek. His arm snakes across your naked waist, fingers lightly pinching your hip as you smile into his skin.

"Maybe. Drive safe."

Heeseung knows that Dr. Bahng told him to leave work at work. However, Dr. Bahng said nothing about bringing home to work. He said nothing about thinking about you at work, or missing you, or daydreaming about you instead of analyzing the reports that a pair of rookies messed up. He also said nothing about reading articles by some sketchy romance columnist on how to keep your relationship alive, which is exactly what Heeseung was scrolling through right now.

There are things in a relationship that must always be shared in order to avoid, or resolve conflict. How the other person is making you feel, how you are making them feel, and how to tackle both negative checklists properly. It is key to always remember that it must be you and your partner against the problem, not you and your partner against each other.

You make Heeseung feel…alive. You make him feel loved, cherished, and even at some bizarre times, worshiped. You make him appreciate waking up at the ass crack of dawn, your sleeping face relaxed as he peppers kisses across your warm skin – something he's thankful never manages to wake you up, but it adds to all the adoration he holds in his heart for you.

How does he make you feel? Dejected, neglected, rejected. Pushed aside for the true love of his life – work. You never bring it up unless he asks. You never brought it up until last July, when he was slumped in his office chair after drinking half a bottle of sherry whiskey, listening to music and thinking about yet another dead end that deterred him from finding Soyoung. You had approached him with a gentle gaze, a soft touch to his shoulder and asking about taking a shower together. You never questioned him, you never pressured him, you never tried to make him something you assumed he just wasn't – an attentive, doting husband.

And he remembers how he asked you, too. He remembers spinning around in his chair, stoically asking you if he was everything you'd ever wanted. Asking you if he was living up to your expectations, as a husband, as a life partner, as a friend, even.

And he remembers the way you sighed carefully before perching on his desk. "You're everything I've ever wanted, and I'm sure you'll continue to grow and be even more deserving of the love I hold for you." You had smiled, your hand coming to rest on his cheek. "Nothing we can't work through, you know? If I was given a choice in another life, another world – I'd still choose you."

He will never forget it, and he can still feel the warmth of your lips against his as you led him to the bathroom. He can still feel the ache of your love on his skin from the way you held him under the running water, quietly basking in his presence as the mint of your shampoo filled his nose. Nothing is as special to him as you are.

There are things that should routinely be shared in order to maintain a homeostasis of the calendar. Asking how their day was, if you have any ideas for dinner tonight, or if you'd like to do something this weekend to celebrate the mundane. It shouldn't be difficult to establish a routine with your partner, if you are in tune with them. A kiss goodbye in the morning, a warm embrace in the evenings. A shared meal, a shared bath, a shared bed.

Heeseung can't remember the last time he fully checked in with you – you always have something to do. You always attempt new creative projects, and his fingers toy with the fabric of his slacks as he remembers that you hand stitched them. He thinks about how you waited for him all night yesterday, and the disappointment you must have felt when he arrived late. He thinks about how he just doesn't make time to tackle the problem that you two are constantly glossing over by being intimate – he knows you don't feel loved.

He didn't ask you about your day yesterday, or the day before, or last week. He didn't ask you if you were sewing anything new, learning any new pieces on the piano collecting dust in the living room. He hasn't asked about your mother, but at least he knows you don't like to talk about her.

Heeseung hasn't asked you a single thing about yourself, or your life in a while – and he doesn't know how long it's been. Even last night, your eyes were focused entirely on him – the way his lips twitched when you said you liked the wine he chose, the way he pulled your leg over his in the booth you were sharing. You asked him about work, and he just shook his head as he pointed out the new menu items.

You love him so selflessly.

Something that works for my partner and I is parallel play. We aren't necessarily doing something together, but we are present in the same room and doing our own thing. Knowing that he is there, and that if I need him, I can reach for him, adds a comfort to our relationship. Aside from this, we also come together every two weeks and address any issues we may be experiencing – both in our relationship and our individual lives. We resolve the issues about us together, and advise the other on our personal issues. Balance!

You do this a lot. If Heeseung is home, you'll wander to wherever he is and sit down where you can, and quietly go about your business. Sometimes it's a new cross-stitch, sometimes it's just putting a headphone in and listening to music. Sometimes you're giving yourself a pedicure, sometimes you're just sitting there staring at his corkboard of paraphernalia while matching your breathing to his. It was subtle, something you thought he'd never notice.

He sighs, exiting out of the tab before grabbing his coat off the back of his chair. Tugging it on, he uses one hand to log out of his computer when he hears three knocks on the door. A lightness of the rapping knuckles similar to yours…and your smiling face appears as you crack open the door. "Surprise?" He hates that he can't bite back his smile, a few of his fellow officers wide-eyed at his expression. He nods silently, and you extend your hand for him when you hear his coworkers whispering about you. With a dejected look, you tuck your hand back into the pocket of your jeans, "Guess we don't want them gossiping, right?" "Right." He mumbles, his own hand twitching around the doorknob as he pulls it shut behind him. He wants to reach for you, embrace the warmth you bring, show you off to the people he often calls his friends. Sunghoon catches his eye, a quizzical look on his face before shaking his head.

Heeseung reaches for you, but you've already made your way towards the door. Your smile has lessened as you open the door, holding it for him. "How was work?" You ask as he joins you in the cool air, and he wastes no time wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you in close, his nose buried in your hair. You hesitate to wrap your arms around him, instead leaning back to try and meet his eyes. "Hee?" "Don't ask me about work." He mutters, before pressing his lips to yours softly. You let out a noise of surprise, but you can't melt into his touch before he pulls away. "I hate talking about work, let's talk about you. Over lunch." He takes your hand in his, gently pulling you to his side as he makes his way to the car. He doesn't see yours in the parking lot, so he only assumes you got a rideshare before you clear your throat.

"Are you okay?" The words are slightly jumbled as he leads you to the passenger side, opening the door for you, helping you step in. "Hm? Why do you ask?" "Well…you're actually out of the office. And you want to go to lunch…and you don't want to talk about work?" Your voice is meek, and it makes his chest ache as he reaches to buckle your seatbelt in for you. "I just want to spend time with you. Shall we?" His smile is a little forced, until he sees the soft gloss of embarrassment over your eyes. "Okay."

Tuesday, 6:23pm.

You don't really know what snapped inside of Heeseung over the weekend. He even took Monday off, turning off his phone after calling in sick and snuggling back into your embrace. He spent all of Sunday asking you random questions throughout the day, wandering around the house as you tried to pick up to start the week off fresh. He would hold the laundry basket so you could separate the clothing, he would hold the step stool so you could dust the corners of the living room – he even re-caulked the window in your bedroom because you were sitting at your vanity doing your makeup. He seemed restless to get all of these answers out of you, and while you didn't mind, you knew this attention was only temporary.

Duty called, after all.

However…he was home earlier than usual. He typically had his session with Dr. Bahng right after dinner time, but it seems your habit of making two portions is deemed fruitful tonight. He's sitting in front of you, having arrived home thirty minutes prior – showered and ready to share a meal with you. Just like he did this weekend, just like he did when your relationship first started out.

You remember sharing meals with him in your dorm room. Your roommate was almost never there, always spending time with her girlfriend – so you had free range of the entire place. Heeseung slept over almost every night, and the two of you would stay up at all hours of the night – whether it was discussing 80s cold cases or your major.

Your major…it wasn't necessarily hard. It was one of those things that was only difficult if you didn't really like it, if you didn't have a passion for it. It was one of those things that took someone strong, both mind and body. You wanted to help better the world, see how things could change at your fingertips. You wanted to eat the world in one bite, and it simply wasn't possible – no matter your hard-earned master's degree or your passion for helping people. It was a time of realization – and it was funny, that you had the same qualifications as Dr. Bahng, but your career would never bear fruit like his.

You never really made a difference, like Dr. Bahng did. You didn't even get through to your husband like he did.

So when you came home one night a few years ago and saw Heeseung sitting at the table, waiting for you, you wondered if any of the people you helped that day would ever get to live content. You quit the very next day, your mind tortured over people you didn't know and things you couldn't control. It took a while before you got out of your head again – and even longer before you finally left your bed. It was this time when your relationship with Heeseung really tried to prove itself worthy of your time and effort – because though he wasn't home with you, to soothe your swirling anxieties and racing mind throughout the day, he was there.

He was there, with plates of fruit and warm tea. He was there, with a hairbrush gently forking through your matted hair. He was there, letting you cry yourself to sleep in his embrace and leaving early the next morning, with bags under his eyes. He understood, somehow, that you needed him more than ever before in those moments, and it seemed like that version of Heeseung was starting to reemerge – this time, without need.

"Are you hiding something from me?" You blurt, and Heeseung nearly chokes on his bite of food. Coughing, he reaches for his glass of water as you pat his back, offering him a napkin to wipe his lip. Taking a sip of water, he looks at you. "We haven't spoken all day and that's how you start a conversation?" He seems amused, a look you don't see on him often anymore. You can feel the heat of embarrassment crawling up your throat, and he pushes his plate forward, choosing to fold his hands on the table before he clears his throat. "I realize…I haven't been the best husband." You can feel your eyes begin to roll, when he taps the table. "I have never been very good to you, and yet, you've stood by me. Through ups, downs…you helped me out of a very dark place when Soyoung went missing." He clears his throat again, and your eyes catch the way he blinks back a few tears. "And I've given you near nothing in return." "Marriage is not transactional." You say gently, and he shakes his head. "Isn't it, though? In the eight years we've been together, you've given me so much. You take care of me, of our home. You…You can just do it all, and I admire it. I really, really do." He runs a hand through his hair, before reaching for your hand. You allow him to take it, and you hate to admit that a bit of skepticism is beginning to settle in your stomach.

"Why are you saying all of this? It's never mattered before, you know." Heeseung can sense something in your tone that you don't seem to catch. A hint of…frustration, anger, maybe even resentment. He knows you probably have more to say, and that whatever it was would most likely hurt his feelings.

He kind of wants you to, though, and you do – letting go of his hand. He folds them, his plate abandoned in order to take you in fully.

"Do you not want to talk about this? I can drop it, but it'll just come back up, honey." He asks gently, his head tilted to the side as he scans your face. You suck on your teeth, your fork pushing your food around before you sigh. "Maybe you're right." "About?" He straightens, his hands still folded on the table. You give him a guilty look, though he doesn't know what you could possibly have to feel guilty about.

"You're right, you haven't been the best husband. Hell, I don't think you've ever even really been a good husband, if we're being honest about it."

Heeseung doesn't react, and doesn't allow his face to move as you speak. He's finally broken the dam, because now you're rambling and you can't seem to stop.

"Was it ever going to be me, I mean, really? They say that being good to the people you love really takes no effort, that it's not hard to be doting and attentive to the person you love. You have such a hard time being here for me, you have the worst time detaching yourself from work and the cases you see everyday. You come home at whatever time is convenient for you, while I wait for you like an idiot." You blurt, and Heeseung breathes in carefully, so as to not startle you. He nods, closing his eyes.

He can sense the impending lump in your throat. He's never really seen you get angry – frustrated, irritated, even annoyed have all been emotions he's both seen and enticed. You've never been angry, you've never exploded on anybody.

"Do you ever think what your life would be like if Soyoung were still around?"

His eyes snap open at this, brow furrowing slightly but either you don't notice or don't seem to care, because you keep going.

"Do you think you'd even care about me if she was here? I get it, she's your best friend, maybe even the love of your life. I wouldn't blame you at all if I was just a placeholder until she was found."

He's watching your face as you speak, the way your lower lip trembles slightly and your chest rises and falls in shallow breathing. Your hands shake as you reach for the plate in front of him, shoving it under your own before standing up.

His chest aches at the idea of you thinking that anyone but you could ever be the love of his life, but can't bring himself to open his mouth and tell you.

"As shitty as it sounds, the more the years pass, the more I hope she's found. Maybe then you will truly have someone to love, someone who will fulfill your needs just as you like. Maybe then I won't have to pretend that I don't know I'm second to someone who isn't around." You murmur, and Heeseung feels his stomach churn a bit as you stand, taking the plates to the kitchen. You place them in the sink, holding the cool metal of the basin before turning back to him.

"I love you, Heeseung. I loved you then, I love you now, and I may love you for the rest of my life." You speak softly, stepping back to the table. You lean on the back of a chair, the necklace hanging around your neck mocking him in the dim light. "But me loving you, will never make you truly happy. I don't need you to tell me, you know? Knowing I can keep you company, knowing that you won't be alone, is fine with me. You don't need to love me."

You smile gently, the gloss on your lips sparkling. It's one of his favorites, it tastes like vanilla.

"You don't need to love me the way I love you, for me to know you care. So, don't worry about it. You don't need to check in with me, you don't need to…reciprocate." You shrug, taking the cups off the table, and turning back to the kitchen. You stop, looking over your shoulder. "And, Heeseung?" He can't bring himself to speak. He tries to clear his throat, but you proceed anyway. "Don't forget date night this Friday."

Thursday, 12:46pm.

You'd dropped by the precinct randomly, seeing Heeseung hunched over his computer from the entrance. The new receptionist asked you who you were here to see, and you gave his name, holding up the bag of food you brought with you.

"Lieutenant Lee doesn't take visitors." The receptionist rolls her eyes, and you hear Sunghoon before you see him. "Minseo, this is the Lieutenant's wife."

You whirl around to see your long-time friend, who smiles down at you. "Good to see you again. Dr. Lee." He speaks politely, making Minseo blush furiously as she prints a pass for you. She apologizes profusely, but you just shake your head and give her a warm smile, adjusting your purse on your shoulder.

"How're you, Hoon?" You ask as you paste the sticker onto your jacket, and he shrugs as he drapes his arm over your shoulders. "Could be better, could be worse. However, I did hear from a little bird that you and Heeseung got into a fight." Rolling your eyes, you know that Sunghoon is just stirring the pot. He seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to your relationship with Heeseung – seeing as he was the one who got the two of you together in the first place.

"We didn't…ugh, we didn't fight. We just…had a conversation. I'll tell you about it, when are you off? We can get dinner." You say as the two of you reach Heeseung's office. He shakes his head.

"Don't put me in the middle. I'll text you though, we do need to catch up." He says, knocking on Heeseung's door for you. You hear your husband's tired voice, and Sunghoon opens the door. "You've got a special visitor."

You don't miss the way Heeseung's exhausted eyes look up at you, lighting up the moment they land on your face. You almost crack a smile at this, before Sunghoon shoves you in lightly. "Enjoy your lunch, Lieutenant." Heeseung doesn't say anything. The two of you hadn't really spoken since Tuesday night, and he certainly didn't expect you to come by today. Or any day, really…he remembered the first time you ever dropped by the precinct. He'd welcomed you with a tight smile, before asking you to let him know beforehand next time. You didn't do it again, for years.

"Mind if I close these?" You ask, gesturing to the blinds, and he shrugs. He doesn't close out any of his tabs as you set the food down, kneeling on the couch lining the wall to close his blinds. He takes this moment to take you in. You were wearing his favorite dress on you, the pink one with the white-lined circle seams. You're shrugging off your jacket now that the blinds are closed, draping it over the chair in front of his desk. "I brought you lunch, I hope that's okay. I probably should have called ahead." You gesture to the bag on the table, but his eyes just peer over the monitor, his brow twitching up as you sit gingerly on the edge of the couch. He hadn't cleared up or refuted any of your points on Tuesday, but the guilt he felt that night was enough to make him sleep in the guest room. He didn't know that didn't make you feel any better, in your mind it just cemented your opinions as you let your pillow soak up a few stray tears.

"You look gorgeous." He murmurs as you unpack quietly, uncapping containers and sniffing them to figure out what is what. You stop, holding a bowl of broth to your face when you register what he said. "What?" "I said, you look gorgeous." He repeats himself, quickly typing up a rather unprofessional email to the rest of the precinct and letting them know he'd be leaving after lunch. He shoots it off, exiting the tab before standing up and stretching. His shirt is messily untucked, and he can feel your eyes on him as he twists to relax his back muscles. "Thank you…I think." He shrugs, ignoring the pang in his chest at your uncertainty before glancing over the array of food you'd brought with you. You seem a bit unsure about it all, but they're all his favorite dishes. He doesn't see any of yours – no soft tofu stew, no cold noodles, not even the tea you like. He keeps scanning your face as you prepare everything silently.

"Have you eaten already? I know you don't like any of these dishes." He asks, squatting next to you. You smile down at him, shrugging. "I'll eat at home. You left breakfast on the table this morning, so I figured you'd be hungry."

He had left breakfast on the table, but not for the reason you think. His morning routine consisted of showering, brushing his teeth and washing his face, putting his clothes on and, as creepy as it sounds, staring at you as you slept. He didn't kiss you this morning, like he usually did, but he desperately wanted to. So much so that he lost track of time just watching you sleep so peacefully, and had to run out of the house without it.

"I'm sorry, baby. I was in a rush." He pouts, and you just shake your head. "Don't worry about it. What's one day?"

It's everything. He thinks he feels your cold demeanor seep into his bones a bit, but your eyes are still warm as ever. Your smile doesn't reach your eyes, but your hand ruffles his hair lightly. He lifts slightly to sit next to you, and you press your lips to his cheek, your lipstick stamping on his skin. "You smell nice." He doesn't respond, his cheeks and ears tinging pink as you hand him utensils. Leaning back, you rest your head against the window sill, not noticing he's made no effort to even touch the food you've brought. Still, better now than never.

"I have something to tell you." You murmur, and he hums in response.

"I figured about as much." He leans back with you, holding a rice cake between his teeth before shoving into his mouth. "Do tell, Dr. Lee." You stare at your manicured nails, the french tip suddenly bothersome to your eyes. "I had an interview this morning, at the fifth precinct. In the next town over. "

He sits up, turning to face you completely. "Okay. How'd it go? I did hear that Dr. Park was retiring." Not a hint of malice in his voice, just pure curiosity. Encouragement, support.

"They said I can start next week. Three patients a day for two weeks, and then I will take over Dr. Park's patients as well. Well, those who want to transfer over." You don't know why you're nervous telling him this. His eyes scan your face, and you groan. "Why are you staring at me?" "You don't seem very happy about it." He says, tilting his head to the side as he bites into another rice cake. "I am happy about it. I just…it's a little far and I won't be home before you are on nights you're not set to see Dr. Bahng. I won't get to make dinner and I'll be out of the house before you are most days."

You stop yourself from rambling, watching as Heeseung looks at you intently. He glances at the food spread out on the table, before shoving the other half of the rice cake he bit into his cheek. "C'mon."

He gets up, yanking his coat off the hanger by the door, before opening it. "Where are we going? Heeseung, the food-" "Sunghoon, lunch on me." He calls out the door, before grabbing your jacket off the chair and your purse. Looking at you, he watches as you sit still, confusion on your face before he walks over, draping your jacket over your shoulders. "C'mon, we've got to celebrate. We can go to that French place you love."

Amused, you shove your arms through the sleeves of your jacket before standing. "Heeseung, you hate that place." Rolling your eyes, you reach for your purse, only for him to grab your hand and pull you in. His lips are on yours, a chaste kiss shared before he leans his forehead against yours.

"But I love you, and I'm proud of you. So let me show you, yeah?"

You blink up at him, before hearing Sunghoon's grunt of feigned disgust. "C'mon, guys, not in the office!"

"Shut up, man." Heeseung rolls his eyes, lacing his fingers in yours, and you hear the soft clink of metal. Ignoring the bickering between the two men, you look down, you see his engraved wedding band gleaming up at you, having knocked with an old silver ring of his that you'd taken after it stopped fitting him. "You're wearing your ring." "Hm?" He glances down at you, before smiling. "Oh, yeah. I figured…I don't know. I like seeing it, it was silly of me to think the way I did about it."

Sunghoon scoffs at the sudden mushiness, and you look up to see half the precinct staring you down. Heeseung has your lipstick stamped on his cheek, and you feel embarrassed as the two of you get walked out by Sunghoon. Jungwon passes by, doing a double take when he sees the lipstick on your husband's face.

He smiles at you, a knowing look in his eyes as the two of you skirt past. Heeseung stops at the receptionist's desk, her smile disappearing the moment she sees your lipstick on his cheek. He asks her to cancel all his appointments for the day, and to let Captain Choi know that he would be taking the weekend off. She just nods, and Heeseung bids everyone goodbye with a whistle.

"She hates me, you know." You mumble, and he gives your hand a squeeze. “She can hate you all she wants, doesn’t change anything. Waste of her own energy.”

You don’t know what to make of this. In a way, you think you’ve forgotten your husband’s demeanor. Heeseung squeezes your hand again, "Where's your car? Did you take a rideshare?"

His brow is furrowed as he scours the parking lot for your sedan, and you shake your head. "Saving gas, I have quite the commute." He scrunches his nose, before shrugging as the two of you make your way to his car.

He opens the door for you quietly, helping you up and going as far as taking your purse to hang behind his headrest. You always complained about the feeling of the straps against your neck when you leaned your head back.

"So." He starts, his fingers carefully turning the volume dial down as the soft jazz station he plays on his commute bleeds through the speakers. "So…what?" "Why didn't you tell me you were thinking of going back to work? I thought we told each other everything." He says pointedly, as he makes a turn into the street. The light at the end is still green, if he speeds up a bit, he should make it. He sees you shrug out of the corner of his eye.

"Didn't think it'd be important. If I'm honest, I didn't think you'd notice." He doesn't like the twinge of sadness in your voice, but you clear your throat before he can mention it. "Should we take a walk later, as well? The weather feels great." "Yeah, honey. Whatever you want." He nods, his turn signal flicked by his ring finger, and he doesn't miss your eyes on his hands as he makes the turn. "Hee?" "Yes?" "I'm sorry." You murmur, making him glance at you quickly before you turn your head back to look out the window. Before you know it, he's pulling into an empty parking lot behind an apartment complex, ignoring the onlooking eyes of a woman taking her trash out. He parks carefully, turning the car off before turning in his seat to look at you.

"Sorry?" He echoes, and you peer over your shoulder at him. Your eyes are glossed over, and he huffs out a humorless laugh. "Oh, my baby. Come here." His arms wrap around you carefully, your hands coming to cover your face as he tucks you into his shoulder. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Y/N." "I do. I do, Heeseung. I was such a jerk on Tuesday–" Your muffled words stop as he pulls away, his warm fingers circling your shoulders and giving a soft squeeze. "No. You weren't a jerk, you were trying to communicate with me." "Still, I–" "No, Y/N. If anything, I've been a jerk." He huffs, letting go of your shoulders as his back hits the window lightly. "I've never been a good partner to you, and it's so incredibly unfair of me to think that you will just wait and wait until I just feel like being better to you." You blink at him owlishly, adjusting to tuck your legs under you. Your heels now sit on the car floor.

"I have never been good to you. No matter what it is, no matter where I am, I push you aside time and time again. It's like…" He stops, picking at his cuticles before sighing. "I love you so much. It's so hard for me to say and I still feel like some stupid teenager trying to figure out his feelings, but I know. I know I love you and I know you deserve to be loved far more than I can express." You rest your temple against the headrest, "Not everyone goes through what you did, though. I'd be foolish to think loving you would be an ordinary path." "And then you go and do that. God, you're so understanding and it kills me inside." He smiles pitifully, running a hand through his hair. "I want to deserve it. I want to come home and deserve the warm meals you make, I want to lay in bed with you and deserve your touch and your warmth and I want to deserve you."

His eyes sting with tears, and he hears a soft sigh from your lips. Lips he yearns for every second of the day, lips he loves to feel trail along his neck after a long day at work. Lips he pulls whines and moans out of, lips he kisses shimmery vanilla lip gloss off of.

You don't say anything, your fingers reaching for him in his lap. You interlock your hands, bringing his up to your lips and placing a soft kiss on his knuckles.

"I've thought about divorce, you know." You say quietly, his head snapping up to look at you. "What?" "Yeah." You breathe out, your fingers tightening around him. "I thought about leaving, I thought about taking one of the offers I've received in the last seven years for a job in the middle of a new city. I thought about packing up all my clothes, and phoning my mother for help. I figured, if she's my attorney, I can leave everything to you in lieu of me." Heeseung can feel his chest ache as you turn to look at him, your pearl drop earrings swinging with your hair as you do so. He feels like he's in a movie.

"But, I thought about being nineteen with you." "Nineteen?" "Nineteen." You laugh softly, your thumb now rubbing small circles into his skin. You place your other hand atop the pair, enveloping him in your warmth. "I thought about nineteen-year-old me, who saw nineteen-year-old you and felt the world come to a slow, slow stop."

You're staring up into the sky now, the odd sighting of the moon high in the sky at this hour was a good distraction. "I thought, what can I do to deserve him? What can I do to ease his pain, and help him hop through life until his answers are found, until he no longer needs me?"

"I'll always need you." He blurts, and you nod. "You're selfish like that." He silently nods in agreement, and you speak again. "You're a selfish lover." "I know." He mumbles, not able to look you in the eyes as you sigh. "But, I like it."

"I like that you're selfish." You repeat, and he gives you a quick look. "I like that even when I don't feel loved by you, you wouldn't survive without me. In lieu of me, who?" Your voice is sweet, but he knows your words hold a bit of bitterness. You like the idea of him being nothing without you, and he can't blame you for that. If you'd treated him the way he did you, he'd wish ill upon you until he no longer could. He'd hate you.

"Shall we go?" You ask gingerly, and he nods as he turns in his seat, letting go of your hand. You allow it, buckling in your seatbelt as he readies himself, turning the key in the slot before you clear your throat. "Heeseung?" "Yes?" He hates the eagerness in his voice. He hates how he's like a dog the moment you offer a crumb of your attention, but it's what he deserves. He wants to be a lovesick fool for you, he wants your every word to burn and weigh on him like the heat of a thousand fires.

Your gentle smile kills him as you look into his eyes, a shrug to your shoulders as you let the words slip.

"I love you."

Saturday, 6:43pm.

Thursday afternoon and all of Friday had been rather odd in your house.

Heeseung spent the days trailing behind you, even offering to take you out to shop for outfits for your new job in lieu of date night. You weren't surprised, though – he was always a fan of the way you styled yourself for work. Classy dresses, skirts that fell just below the knee. Long sleeved blouses with jeweled buttons, he felt like a Victorian man going nuts over the sight of your pantyhose-covered ankles.

Tonight, he'd made it a point to get slightly tipsy. You'd gone to a luncheon with your new boss earlier, so you'd arrived just as he was finishing up vacuuming the living room with a half-empty glass of bourbon and Stardust by Ben Webster played throughout the house. He wanted a bit of liquid courage for the conversation he knew the two of you had to have – that is, if he wanted things to start changing for the better.

"Hee?" You called from the foyer, watching as he spun to look at you, face slightly flushed from the alcohol. You let out a laugh, shrugging your coat off as he trekked the living room to greet you. "Babe! How was lunch? I figured I'd clean up here a bit, I know you hate when it gets messy…" Heeseung rambled on about the housework as you gingerly stepped out of your heels, nodding along to his tipsy conversation. You left your shoes in the tiled foyer, walking towards the kitchen for a drink of your own. Heeseung had bought you your favorite sherry whiskey as a congratulatory gift on your new job.

"Wait, let me pour. You must be tired." He stops you from grabbing the bottle off the bar in the kitchen, choosing to skirt around you and open the fridge for a nice cube of ice. You liked two, he remembers. "How was the lunch? Did you eat?" You shrug, "I nibbled. It wasn't very good, it was at that Italian place we don't like." You scrunch your nose as Heeseung hands you your drink, making his lips curve slightly. "Funny, I was going to say we should give it another try." "No way, they fucked up my tiramisu. Remind me to never recommend that place to Sunghoon." You scoff, missing the way your husband's eyes trail your relaxed form as you lean against the counter. "And one of the other doctors was asking me so many questions about myself, it was so annoying. Like, we're not going to be best friends, man." "Like what?" He asks, listening to My Foolish Heart by Bill Evans Trio echo through the house. It was one of the songs played at your wedding, one of the first songs you and Heeseung ever danced to in college. "Oh, Dr. Lee, are you married? Oh, Dr. Lee, do you have kids? Oh, Dr. Lee, what does your husband do? Like shut up! Why does it matter, you're my husband, not his." You roll your eyes, not noticing the way Heeseung's cheeks flush at your words. Downing your drink in one go, you wince slightly, likely from the ice clinking against your teeth but you shake it off. "So, what do we want for dinner?" You poke at his side, and his arm reaches for you. You willingly bring yourself into his embrace, his arms looping around you gently as your fingers hold his t-shirt. "You look so pretty in your little outfit." "Dinner, Heeseung. Use your noggin." You roll your eyes, and he just peers down at you with an odd look in his eyes. Full of…admiration? "You're so beautiful." You feel your cheeks warm as you try to play off his effect on you, clicking your tongue. "I need you to focus here, Lieutenant. Me, your wife, would like dinner." "I heard you, baby." He nods, pulling you closer. You huff, but allow yourself to rest your head against his chest. The two of you had not been…close in this manner in a very long time – you couldn't possibly date the last time he held you like this, it was that long ago. You hate how easily you're melting into him, the warmth of his body, the gentle caressing of his hands to the rhythm of the jazz song playing in the living room.

"Should we get take out? We can watch that movie you like, the one with Al Pacino." He murmurs, carefully tugging the elastic out of your hair, releasing the curls from the ponytail you'd tied back earlier. You nod against him quickly, "And Keanu Reeves?" The two of you look at each other, and he can feel a laugh bubble in his throat at how excited you look as he nods. "Yeah." "Okay! Okay, I'm…gonna go change, and then we can get settled and stuff. Okay?" You blink up at him, your fingers already making quick work of the buttons on your shirt. His lip is tucked between his teeth as his eyes rake your skin, and you scoff, tugging your shirt to cover your chest. "Heeseung! Pay attention!" "I am, baby! I am paying attention!" He laughs, throwing his hands up in defense. "God forbid I want to look at you!" "You're such a man, ugh!" You stick your tongue out at him, turning on your heel when you hear him call after you. "Yeah, well, I'm your man. Deal with it!" You hate how his words make you feel like a teenager as you scamper to your bedroom, quickly discarding your work clothes into the hamper by the door. You can hear Heeseung speaking on the phone in the kitchen, soft thank yous from his lips as you unclasp your bra, sighing in relief as you dig through your husband's drawer when you hear him start walking down the hall.

"Jesus, warn a guy." He gasps dramatically from the doorway, and you roll your eyes as you tug one of his old band tees over your head. "Heeseung, you've literally eaten my ass." "You said you liked it!" He protests, and you snort. "It was okay. You act like you're so amazed by my boobs, you've seen them hundreds of times." You flip your hair out of the shirt, opening your own drawer to fish out a pair of bottoms.

"Doesn't make me love them any less." He shrugs, checking his watch. "We have twenty minutes until the food gets here." You look up at him, your fingers rooting through the drawer as you take in his avoidant look. He's nibbling on his lower lip as he stares up at the ceiling fan, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. You scoff, "Honey, we've been together for eight years. If you want to have sex, you can say that." "You make me nervous!" He groans, and you laugh out loud. "What has gotten into you, Lee Heeseung? One week you're begging to eat me out and the next you can't even look at me in my underwear! Are you alright?" You snort as you pull out a pair of his old basketball shorts, and he sighs. "Uhm…Okay, fine. I want to talk about our…sex life? The…uhm, the way we kind of just skirt around all our issues with it." You blink, and you want to tell your heart not to get its hopes up at his words. This will all change in a week, your relationship is beyond fixing.

Right? "Okay. What about it? You don't like that we have sex when we can't communicate?" You nod, pulling the shorts over your legs and letting the waistband snap around your hips. He nods, fiddling with his watch when you put your hand on his wrist. "I need you to talk to me, Heeseung. You wanted to talk about this." "It's…" He breathes, running a hand through his hair as you pull him to the bed, sitting down as he slots himself between your knees. His fingers toy with the hem of the shorts you're wearing, clearing his throat. "I don't want you to think I don't…enjoy it. I love…being with you, in any way you'll have me." "Uh huh?" You interlace your fingers with his, his eyes avoiding yours. "I…want to stop doing that. I know that it's a big part of how we stay connected, uhm, intimately. I know I haven't been making much time for you outside of the bedroom and that's something I want to work on." You can feel your heart pick up a bit.

"So…you want to stop having sex altogether? Or you'd like to…fight and make up?" You tilt your head, feeling a wave of nervousness begin to seep into your stomach. He shakes his head quickly, "I don't think I could ever…I'd like to fight. A lot. As much as we need to." He blinks rapidly, eyes still avoiding yours when you nod slowly. "And…you want to have sex spontaneously? Do you want to schedule it? Do you want to–" "I'm good with whenever. You can have me anytime you want, even if you don't want to have sex for the next year. I'm all yours, whenever." He interrupts, his cheeks burning pink as he clears his throat. You narrow your eyes, "Oookay. You know that goes both ways, right?" "I don't think you understand the willpower it takes not to be all over you every single second of my waking hours." His eyes are now squeezed shut, and you can feel your own cheeks warm as you feel his fingers flex around yours. You let out a soft ha, before nodding. "O-Okay, sure." "So…we're okay? Can we start taking things a little slower?" He asks with a wince, and you nod. "Absolutely." He nods, "Cool, cool. Uhm…I'll wait in the living room for you, okay? I'll set up the movie." He pulls away with a gentle squeeze to your hands, a soft smile playing on his lips as he ducks out of the bedroom. You feel your stomach sink a bit, but out of relief. You feel…lighter.

You didn't mind the once-a-week sessions with Heeseung. He'd come home, the two of you would be particularly agitated – you because you felt pushed aside, Heeseung because of work, because he didn't have enough time for you, because he just wanted to feel some sort of peace. You'd try and start a conversation, only for him to push you back on the couch or the bed, or even the carpet in your living room and kiss you breathless. His tongue would slip into your mouth with practiced precision, his hand pinning your wrists above your head as he begged you to just let him take care of you.

You didn't mind because every touch from him was just right. His lips dragging against your jaw, his fingers shoved down your pants while he whispered sweet nothings. You don't know if Heeseung remembers any of the things he says during sex – how much he loves you, something he can't openly say when he's fully in his five senses. Despite feeling the way you did about your relationship with Heeseung, sex was never something you had to feel worried about – he would get just as drunk off you as he did his favorite bourbon. Sex with Heeseung was like a rollercoaster, even the very first time. He knew every button to push, every spot to caress, to kiss, to bite. He made you feel like you were swimming in a pool of lust and love and you couldn't help but cry during the middle of it all sometimes, only to feel his tongue carefully collecting your tears. "You're so pretty."

Shivering, you fan at yourself before sliding off your bed, making a beeline to your bathroom. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him softly swaying to yet another jazz song as he drapes one of your favorite blankets across the couch. You can't help but smile inwardly, shutting the door behind you as you look at yourself in the mirror. Sighing, you grab for your face wash, not able to stop thinking.

Heeseung does love you. He does, even if he's not good at saying it. He does, even if it means he bruises the stupid tattoo you got of his initials with how tight he holds your hips. He does, because he lets you claw at his tattoo of your initials on his shoulder. You still remember being drunk out of your mind when you stumbled into the studio to get them done.

And you remember that being the first sign that being with Heeseung was not temporary. You hadn't even had sex at that point in your relationship – choosing to cement your relationship with a permanent reminder. One that you knew was under his shirt even when his ring wasn't on his finger, one he knew was just under your panties even when you were mad at him for not spending time with you.

"Baby! Food's here!" You hear Heeseung call as you reach for your moisturizer.

Baby. A silly pet name you'd missed dearly, a silly pet name he'd used three times just today. "Coming!" You call, quickly wiping the sink of water and opening the bathroom door, scurrying out. He's sprawled across the couch, the containers of takeout spread out on the coffee table in front of him. His hand is messing with the remote, typing The Devil's Advocate into your Amazon Prime account.

"Hey." He murmurs, feeling you press a kiss to the crown of his head. He doesn't know why he's so nervous – he's literally seen you naked. You ruffle his hair, before rounding the couch and sitting gingerly on the floor. You didn't like to eat on the couch, Heeseung knew that. You slid in front of him, your shoulders pushing his knees apart as you rested your head on the left one. He says nothing, only leaning back as he presses play on the film.

The silence between you is comfortable. You're chewing carefully, soft gasps from your lips as if you hadn't watched this movie hundreds of times. He can't help but think if this was what he was missing out on while he was at work. You, dressed down in his clothing, holding your mouth open around a particularly overstuffed pork bun as Al Pacino dips his fingers into Holy Water.

"You're cute." He murmurs to himself, and you lean your head back slightly, a bit of hoisin sauce on the corner of your lip as you chew. "Hm?" "You're cute, babe." He shakes his head, wiping the corner of your mouth with his thumb. You blink at him, before twisting to look at him properly. Your brows furrow as you swallow, and you click your tongue. You give him a suspicious glance before turning back to the television, shrugging your shoulders as you lean back again.

He likes this. He could get used to it.

Heeseung cleaned up after you finished eating. He even ran the water for your shower, opting to go in after you. You'd pouted, asking him to go in with you – but he insisted he still had things to finish up before he could even think about winding down.

However, when you arrive in the bedroom with your hair wrapped in a towel and a baggy shirt over your shoulders, he can't help but take a peek. He sees the lavender trim of your underwear from his stance in the closet as you bend slightly to fish out a pair of sweatpants, his fingers tightening around the hanger in his hand. It breaks, the crack making you suddenly look up.

"What was that?" Your eyes are wide, scanning him as you pull out a random pair of shorts. He sheepishly hides his hand behind his back, shaking his head quickly. "Nothing, honey. Oh, I saw that you were running out of your serum…thing. The one for your hair, it's in the drawer." He pressed his lips together as he nodded, and you squint at him before opening the top drawer. Sure enough, the Biosilk bottle sits pretty, wrapped in the bag you knew was from the beauty supply store. You take it out, but see Heeseung grimace in the mirror. You peer at him, before seeing the broken hanger in his hand. Rolling your eyes,

"Maybe if you weren't so busy trying to get a peek at my underwear, you wouldn't have broken that." "Shut up." He scoffs, cheeks heating as he skirts out of the closet, throwing the hanger away in the trashcan by the door. You just shake your head, unwrapping the bottle as he appears next to you. "It's that one, right?" "Yeah, Hee. Thank you." You nod, placing it closer to the mirror. You look up at him through the mirror, noting the way he's gazing at you lovingly. "You're staring." "So?" He shrugs, and you scoff. "Get in the shower, Heeseung. I'm sleepy." "Don't fall asleep without me!" He presses his lips to your temple suddenly, and you don't get a chance to react before he's gone. You hear the door shut behind him, and you quickly grab your phone from its spot on the nightstand, abandoning the shorts you had in your hand on the dresser.

Msg To: Park Sunghoon [9:32pm] please please tell me you won't call hee in to work tmrw

You nibble on your lips, watching as Sunghoon reads the message. His chat bubble pops up, then goes back down.

Msg From: Park Sunghoon [9:33pm] i'll run it by the guys here in a bit, and i'll let you know. cool?

You don't reply, only giving him a thumbs up reaction. Setting your phone down, you move around for your night routine. Moisturizer, curl cream…before the large bed behind you calls your name as a siren does to shipwrecked pirates.

Flopping face down, you sigh into the pillow. You weren't ready to start working on Monday – you weren't ready to leave the comfort of your home, to talk to people all day about their problems again. You weren't ready for your mother to find out through her connections that you're practicing again.

You weren't ready to stop making two portions of dinner for your husband who wouldn't get home on time, you weren't ready to not be kissed all over in the morning even though he thought you were asleep. You'd never sleep through something so tender.

"Babe, I said don't fall asleep!" You hear Heeseung whine, and you groan into your pillow before flipping onto your back with your eyes closed. "I'm not sleeping! I'm just…resting my eyes." "That's sleeping." He's closer now, and you feel his lips press on your forehead. "It's fine, we have all day tomorrow." "If they don't call you into work." You grumble, and he pinches your cheek, before you feel your husband's lips brush the shell of your ear. "You should never trust Sunghoon to relay a message." "Fuck off!" You whine, shoving him away as you open your eyes. His hair has been dried, his bottom half tucked into a pair of flannel pajama pants. He's holding an old tshirt in his hand as he rounds the bed, "You're not planning on sleeping on top of the duvet, are you?" "Some of us get hot at night." You scowl, but a yelp gets caught in your throat as you feel him yank you to the edge of the bed by your ankle. You narrow your eyes as you look up at him, seeing your husband smiling down at you with a tilt to his head.

"Why the attitude, princess? Something wrong?"

He's talking down to you, something that makes your cheeks heat. You furrow your brows, scoffing as you prop yourself up on your elbows. His hand leaves your ankle, splaying on the skin of your thigh. "Why would anything be wrong?" He shrugs, his smile still digging into your very bones. "I figured I'd ask, since you begged Sunghoon not to call me this weekend." "Sunghoon is a rat, you know this. Remember when you pushed Jay's head into his birthday cake and Sunghoon immediately dogged you? Why would you believe him?" You try to rationalize your way out of answering his questions, but Heeseung nods as if he's understanding. "You're right, baby. I shouldn't believe him, someone who snitches everyone out because he believes there aren't enough honest people in this world." You scoff at his pointed look, knowing that Heeseung likes the little game you play. He likes cornering you, he likes giving you no way out. He likes the way your skin gets a little warmer under his touch.

"Okay, fine. I admit it!" You groan, falling back onto the bed. "God forbid I want to spend some time with my husband before I'm sent away." You drape your arm dramatically over your eyes, hearing Heeseung laugh above you. You hadn't had a night like this in so long, you can nearly feel the stupid butterflies from your college days floating back around you.

"You're going to work, you're not being shipped off to another country." He removes your arm from over your face, revealing your scrunched nose. He kisses the tip of it, seeing your cheeks bloom pink. "Yeah…" You sigh, before gently placing your hands on Heeseung's cheeks. He smiles down at you, "Yeah?" "I'll miss you." You admit, and his eyes soften as he captures your lips softly. His hands move to your hips, squeezing softly as he pulls back. "I'll miss you too, baby. It'll just take some getting used to." "Will you drive me on Monday?" You blurt, seeing his eyes widen as he nods quickly. "Absolutely. How early? Six? Seven?" You did not expect him to agree so fast. "Uhm, I have to be out of here by six-thirty to get there before the clinic opens." Your husband nods, and you watch the way his eyes move around as he does calculations in his head. "So…we'd be up by five?" He nods to himself, and you shrug. "You don't have to, I'm sorry I brought it up." "Kindly shut the hell up." He rolls his eyes, and you mimic his actions, pulling him back down to your lips. You don't say anything, only kissing him gently as his fingers toy with the hem of your underwear. You can tell he's holding back, not wanting to have this moment go like your usual nights together. He can't stop kissing you back though, and you can feel him slightly rutting against your leg.

"You're humping my leg." You whisper into his lips, and he shrugs, his fingers tugging down your underwear in one swift motion. "Don't care. Lie down." He pushes you back, quickly pushing your shirt up your chest until you get the hint and slip it off.

"What happened to taking it slow?" You tease as he kisses down your stomach, hissing as he nips just above your belly button. "This is slow, but if you want me to stop, I will." He looks up at you, eyes dark. You shake your head, earning another nip from his teeth.

"Words, princess." You flush deeper, nibbling on your lip as you speak. "Keep going." He raises an eyebrow, and you roll your eyes. "Please." "You're such a brat." He rolls his eyes, before sinking to his knees on the carpet. He pulls you closer to the edge of the bed by your knees, one of your legs over his shoulder as he kisses down your thighs. You're squirming, earning a quick slap to your leg. "Stop." "S-Sorry." You mumble, feeling him nose at your pussy. He inhales deeply, a groan from his lips as he places a soft kiss on your clit, a sharp breath caving your stomach in. "Pretty, always so pretty for me."

You don't get a chance to respond to his muttering, feeling his tongue drag purposefully through your folds. You sigh shakily, your fingers finding his hand that rested on your stomach. He laces your fingers together as he licks at you with an agonizingly slow place.

"F-faster." You whine, feeling him smile into your wet heat. "I said I'd take it slow, princess. You can wait, right? Be a good girl f'me." You suck in yet another sharp breath as his pouty lips wrap around your clit, his hand squeezing yours gently as you whimper. Your hips grind carefully against his tongue, taking all your willpower to not beg him to touch you more. "Missed you. Missed this." He murmurs, letting go of your hand to pull you impossibly closer, his arms wrapping around your thighs as he fucks his tongue into your aching center.

"M-Missed you." You whine, your hand finding home in his hair. "Pull it." He mutters into your pussy, and you tug harshly as he groans into you. The vibrations are torture, your whimpers filling the room. He takes his time, and you can feel your thighs threatening to close around his head.

"Want m-more. P-Please?" You gasp out, and you almost feel angry at the way your husband chuckles. "What happened to taking it slow? You're that needy? Can't cum like this?" You huff, yanking on his hair – earning a low moan. He obliges anyway, slipping his pants down as he stands. He towers over you, your eyes wide at his glistening lips as his hand snakes down between your legs. You shake your head, pulling it away as he laughs breathily. "Baby, I can't–" "I can take it. Please? I can, I promise." You beg, bringing his fingers to your mouth. He watches as you lick them clean, your tongue snaking around his wedding band. You're really and truly his for the taking, loving, fucking.

He shudders, leaning to kiss you softly. Your lips only taste of sin, your tongue sliding into his mouth with practiced ease. He groans quietly, his hard cock sliding against your soaked cunt as you whimper into his mouth. “Please, please—”

“I know baby, I know.” He murmurs, sinking into you slowly with a choked moan. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders, feeling your shaky breathing against his neck. He gives an experimental roll of his hips, relishing in the burn of your nails dragging down his back with a groan. Pushing your hands off him, he pins them above your head, interlocking your fingers.

"I love you." His lips are pressed to yours before you can respond, hips snapping at a menacing pace. Your breath gets caught in your throat, pressing your bare chest to his as he trails his mouth down your jaw. "Can never get enough of you." His soft whispers receive nothing but your whines, your hand squeezing his as he mouthed at whatever skin he could reach. "Could never ask for a better woman." He whispers into your ear, his teeth nipping tirelessly in efforts to burn himself into you forever.

"Can never get you off my mind. Think about you all day, baby." He lets go of your hands, circling his fingers around your thighs and spreading them further. You clench around him, your hands covering your face as a whine slips from his throat, fucking into you harder.

"W-Wanna live in this pussy, fuck." He groans, feeling your gummy walls tighten around him, his hand snaking down to play with your clit. Your moan is sharp, thighs threatening to close around his hips but he forces them apart as your eyes gloss over. "Need you to cum f'me, pretty. N-Need you to cream all over this dick." You open your mouth to speak, only to have it covered by his lips as he leans down to kiss you. He sucks on your tongue messily, feeling your fingers rake through his hair as you pull him back, mouthing at his neck. "W-Want you to cum inside m-me." You mumble, feeling his hips stutter against the swell of your ass, but he quickly falls back into rhythm.

"Y-Yeah? Fuck, want me to fill you up? I'll give you everything, baby. Anything you want, shit–" He whines into your neck, spurred on by your soft whimpers of yeah, yeah – your nails dragging across his back once more, your fingers digging into his tattoo of your initials almost angrily. Your release rips through you with a loud whine, coating his thighs and soaking into the sheets, clenching like a vice around him as he straightens himself.

"Shit, honey–" His eyes are low as he tucks his lip between his teeth, pushing your knees to your chest as he pounds into you, pulling sobs from your throat as he fucks you through your orgasm. His head falls forward as he cums inside you, his fingers finding yours and squeezing like his life depends on it.

"Fuck." He mutters, pressing his forehead to your chest, the room filling with sounds of your panting and his lips trailing wetly along your shoulders and neck. "When did you…have you ever done that before?" "I don't think so." You breathe out, and his skin feels sticky but he doesn't care. "What…" He straightens, bearing his weight on his elbows as he peers down at you. You're glowing softly, your eyes slightly lower than when you'd started, lips swollen from his teeth pulling at them. "What changed? How can I be better?" Your cheeks flush deeper, shaking your head gently. "I don't–" "C'mon. What was it? You've never had complaints before." He says pointedly, and you smile. "Nothing to complain about, you always do well." "But?" He probes, his eyes locked on yours, and you sigh, pushing his hair off his sweaty forehead. "I don't know, Hee. I guess…I just like when you talk to me." Communication.

His eyes narrow as he thinks, thinking back to all the times you've had sex. He's sure he's spoken to you then, likely incoherent, pussydrunk babbles–

"When you said…" Your voice fades, closing your eyes as you shake your head. "Nevermind." "I could never ask for a better woman."

It dawns on him, looking back down at you. Your eyes avoid his as you gently thumb at a red line down his shoulder, cause of your fingernails, but he tilts your face with his hand. His fingers squish the fat of your cheeks, a tear slipping from your eyes as he presses a soft kiss to your lips. "I could never ask for a better woman, my love." Your eyes flutter closed as he peppers kisses across your face, tears continuing to fall as he kisses your cheeks. "I love you, okay? I'm so fucking sorry for making you feel like you're not the most important thing to me in this world. I'd die for you, I'd kill for you, okay?" You nod silently, but your lip curls into a smile as he buries his face into your neck. "I'm not a thing, Hee." "Shut up." He whines, and you laugh. "I love you, too. I could never ask for a better man, ever." "God, don't. We won't leave this bed." He groans, and you nip at his earlobe, sucking it gently. "You promise?"

Monday, 5:32am.

He did promise.

You and Heeseung did not leave your bedroom once on Sunday. Well, he did – when he grabbed the food delivery you ordered, and to get you water on multiple occasions. You changed your sheets twice only to ruin them again, the sex messier and wetter the longer you and Heeseung went at it. He took everything you gave him in any position he could fold you into – but nothing beat seeing you laid out on your back, his fingers bruised into your hips and love bites blooming all over your body. He liked admiring you from above, sure – but he loved nothing more than his face shoved between your legs, suffocated by your warm, wet heat.

Your whimpers were burned into his mind, so much so he could hardly leave you alone when night approached. You practically had to beg him to get in the shower, his only request being that you join him.

By join him, he meant pressing you against the tiles and sinking his teeth into your neck and shoulders as he slid himself through your thighs over and over again. He bit down your back mercilessly, sinking to his knees behind you and lapping his tongue against your cum-coated cunt like a man starved.

Needless to say, the water ran cold and you had shampoo in your hair for an hour.

He didn't care, though. He kissed you deeply, wanting to feel every inch of you all over him before bidding you goodnight. He wanted to wake up early and make you breakfast, he wanted to pick out your pretty blouse and your heels. He wanted to be involved in your life.

"Rise and shine, baby." He whispered into your hair, holding a plate in his left hand as he pinched the fat of your cheek in the other. You groan, pushing his hand away as you roll onto your back. The duvet slips down, revealing your bitten skin. He caresses it gently, his eyes glued to your face as he goes lower. Your hand catches his wrist before he can cup your breast, peeling your eyes open reluctantly.

"I can't let you near me, you'll fuck me into the mattress." You mutter, making him smile. "Maybe don't beg me to cum inside you, and I'll leave you alone." He holds up the plate in his hand, his chest swelling at your blushing cheeks. "I made breakfast, can you get up now? I want to pick your clothes!" Your eyes widen slightly as you sit up, letting the duvet pool around your belly button as you wipe at your inner corners. "Really? You want to?" "I love seeing you dressed up for work, babe. Can I? I'll make it pretty, I promise." He draws an x over his chest, and he notices how you can't bite back a smile as you take the plate from him. He turns away as you reach for the bedside lamp, clicking it on as he practically skips into your shared closet.

"You're really chipper…" You trail off, shoveling a peach slice into your mouth. He shrugs, holding up two shirts before putting them back. "It's your first day, and I read something a few years ago about marital ambiance. If I'm in a crappy mood, it'll rub off on you. We can't have that, can we?" He smiles widely as he pulls out a black dress you hadn't worn in ages – the sleeves were long and slightly flared, and the flowy skirt ended just above your knee. The neck was high, so you wouldn't be exposing any of your weekend shenanigans. "This one? Haven't seen this in, what, two years?" "We can try that one, yeah." You speak around a mouthful of oatmeal, and he nods as he turns to your shoes. "Are you walking a lot? Or can we go for the Hot Chicks?" He holds up the black leather heels, and you just smile and shake your head. "I'll take my slippers anyway, so we can go with the Hot Chicks."

"I checked the temperature outside, it'll be a little chilly until lunch time. Do you want pantyhose? Stockings?" He drapes the dress over his arm as he worms out of the closet, placing your shoes on the dresser as he opens a drawer. You like the sight of your husband like this. Excited for you, eager to see you take a step forward after being (willingly) stagnant for so long. You were afraid that maybe he'd discourage it – you'd overheard him talking to Sunghoon once about how your last job nearly made you lose your mind, and how worried he'd been about you.

He wasn't wrong, either – the fact that your impact felt so minuscule just made you feel like you were at home away from home. It felt like your marriage at the time, it felt like you were sixteen again talking to your mother about your dreams and being shut down. It felt bad, ugly.

You finish your breakfast and get dressed as your husband gets ready, his suit jacket the exact same shade of black as your dress, his button-up that cherry red that makes you ache with want. His slacks are pressed, his hair carefully styled as he appears behind you moments later, holding a flat iron to your head.

"No curls today, babe?" He leans against the doorway, and you smile shyly. "No, I think I want something sleek. The curls are not looking too good this morning." "Yeah?" He's not listening, running his eyes down your backside. "Hee. Stop." "I'm just looking, baby." He smiles, and you ignore the way his eyes raking across you make you feel warm. "Well, stop looking. I can't be late, not today." "So, tomorrow?" He asks, and you scoff as you pull the iron down the last strand of hair, running over the ends twice before tossing it over your shoulder. You roll your eyes, unplugging the tool as your husband's hands run over your ass, giving it a gentle squeeze. Swatting his hands away, you leave the iron to cool as you turn around.

"Heeseung, I'm serious." You're nose to nose with your husband, who only smiles down at you. "One kiss." "In the car, after my lipstick, when you drop me off." You propose, and he shakes his head. "Right here, right now, before your lipstick and you let me go down on you." "You're insane!" You laugh, pushing him out of the way – but not before he lands a soft smack to the swell of your ass. "Stop! Let me get ready!" "Fine, fine! I'll make coffee." He scoffs, turning on his heel and going down the hallway.

You shake your head to yourself, wandering back into your bedroom and slipping your jewelry on. Small gold hoops, the same necklace you wore every single day. Your wedding rings, one silver ring with the letter H on your middle left, and one on your right pinky with Heeseung's and your birthstones. A watch that was a gift from your father on your graduation day, the leather band slightly worn and molded to your wrist.

You hear a soft whistle from the doorway, and look up to see your husband biting his lip. "Are you sure you can't be a little late?" "Dude." You roll your eyes, watching Heeseung set down your silver tumbler on the dresser. He slides behind you as you check your earrings carefully, pressing his hips into your ass. “Did you call me dude yesterday? Could’ve sworn it was another word that started with—”

“Heeseung, you’re on thin ice.” You glare at him through the mirror, feeling him grind against you. “It’s almost like I can still hear you.” He hums against your shoulder, pressing a quick kiss before moving your hair out of the way, trailing gently up your neck and nipping at your ear.

“Please, daddy. Want you so bad.” He mocks you, watching your expression change in the mirror. You huff, your cheeks burning as you look away. “Don’t be shy, it was cute. You’re cute, baby.”

“Stop.” You murmur, before feeling his hand gently tilt your face towards his. He kisses you deeply, moving his hand lower slowly. Squeezing your neck softly, you whimper into his mouth before he pulls away, biting your lower lip and watching it spring back. “We’ll run this back later, yeah?”

You nod, earning a smile and a chaste kiss. “C’mon. It’s almost six-fifteen.”

He pushes off of you, his hand lingering on your hip before he leaves the bedroom. You sigh shakily, your fingers fumbling for your lipstick as you hear him jingle his car keys. You shove it into your dress pocket, grabbing your shoes and coffee cup off the dresser and exiting the bedroom.

You shove your shoes on as you reach the foyer, watching Heeseung pull your coat out of the hall closet. “I prepped your bag before I made breakfast, can you check it?”

Everything is there. You let him slip your coat on, pressing a kiss to your cheek and carefully fixing your hair. “What time are you off?”

“I’ll call you?” You say, and he nods. “Ten minutes before?”

“You got it.”

Neither of you say much else as you take a deep breath, opening your front door and stepping out together. You hold Heeseung’s sleeve as he locks the door, your other hand gripping the tumbler he prepared for you.

He turns, interlocking your fingers with his and bringing your knuckles to his lips. “You ready?”

You smile nervously, “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Heeseung dropped you off a minute to seven, and even walked you to the doors of your clinic. He waited patiently as you applied your lipstick, puckering his lips cutely for his kiss goodbye. You pressed another to his cheek for good luck.

The day went smoothly. Your first two patients were two young men, both in their early twenties. One with dyed blond hair, the other with a dark brown perm. Both had tired eyes and chapped lips, bitten fingernails. The blond had a tattoo of a girl’s name on his forearm, the brunet two rings through his eyebrow.

Heeseung’s habit of jotting down small details has rubbed off on you.

Your last patient was set to arrive any minute, and you found yourself feeling uneasy. You kept changing the music you played, settling on Paradise by Sade. You smoothed the felt on the patient couch several times, even drawing a pattern in the fabric before hearing the soft knock on the door.

“Come in!”

A woman opens the door a crack, dark brown eyes peering in. Thickly lashed and lined with kohl, she presses her lips into a thin line before opening the door wider. You stand, smoothing your dress before offering your hand.

“I’m Dr. Lee. You must be—”

“I’m Jeon Chaeyoung. It’s on my file.” She mutters, bypassing your extended hand. She sits on the edge of the couch, and you brush it off. A lot of patients were standoffish at first — getting comfortable with someone you were going to share your problems with was always something difficult, you understood that.

“Yes, I know. I’m glad to meet you, I—”

“Can we just get into it? I don’t want all the formalities.” She cuts you off, and you try not to look discouraged as you settle into your chair. “Of course. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

She sighs, picking at her maroon polish. Something about her is off, something is oddly familiar, but you don’t know what. You notice her widow’s peak has been shaved off, and her teeth are a little too well shaped not to be veneers.

“Well, I’m twenty-eight. I dropped out of university when I was nineteen, and I left my hometown at the same time. Haven’t spoken to anyone since, and I moved to this town last year with my husband.”

You nod slowly, tapping your pen against your notepad. You glance at her file, seeing that she had a few name changes in the last three years. Twice — Jeon Chaeyoung, before that she was Cha Chaeyoung.

Before that, Cha Soyoung.

You choke on your saliva, coughing harshly into your fist. She looks startled, her hands out as you reach for the pitcher of water on the coffee table. You pour shakily, coughing off the side before picking the glass up and taking a sip.

“S-Sorry, sorry. Had a little something. You moved here last year?”

Her eyes are suspicious as you pour another glass for her, sliding it across the table. She takes it tentatively, taking a small sip before holding it in her hands.

“Yeah. I…ran away, I guess. I felt so much pressure from everyone around me. My mother wanted me to be a bigshot lawyer, my father wanted me to take over his company on top of that. My best friend…” She trails off, and you hope she can’t sense how nervous you are.

“He…ugh. He was so patient and understanding, and he tried so hard to understand me. He was there for me through every bad moment of my life — my mother pressing me to be successful, my father wanting me to take over his company. I couldn’t handle it.”

“So you left. You left everything behind and you started anew.” You say slowly, and she nods, her eyes teary. “I even changed my name. I knew he would look for me, I just disappeared without telling anyone. I think he gave up, but I still…”

She wipes at her nose, and you quickly offer tissues from the table. She takes a few, dabbing at her eyes before the kohl can run. She has the same look in her eyes as your first two patients — tired, scared. Even a bit…remorseful.

“I got surgeries to change the way I look, you know. I have a nose job, can you tell?” She turns to the side, and you can. You can tell, the way her nose no longer has the soft button look, but the straight bridge with pointed tip. But she doesn’t know you know that.

“Not that you’d know, sorry.” She laughs nervously, balling the tissues in her hands. You smile warmly at her. “I got my teeth done. And I even got half a syringe of filler in my lips.”

She puckers them, the clear gloss still shiny against the pink skin. You nod, “They look good, though. How do you feel about the changes? Do you feel more confident?”

She shakes her head, “No. I did it…to hide, I guess. I didn’t want my best friend to find me, I didn’t want anyone to find me. I went into hiding as long as I could, hoping my parents would just forget about me.”

“Mmh. I saw your file, and you said you’ve…changed your name. Why, exactly? Did you want to leave behind the person that was…Soyoung?” You tap the file, trying not to show the way her name makes your tongue taste sour, and she sighs. “They opened a Missing Persons case for me. It made everything a lot harder, you know? I just wanted to disappear and start a new life doing something menial. I know it sounds stupid—”

“Stupid?” You scoff, crossing your legs. “Nothing you feel is stupid, Chaeyoung. Everything and anything you’ve ever felt is valid. The need to run when things get too stressful, wanting to hide away from societal pressures. Everything, it’s valid.”

She lets out a shaky sob, covering her mouth as she breathes in. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry! You’re just a human being. No one can get upset at you for not knowing how to navigate everything, this is your first time on Earth.” You shrug, and she peers up at you through teary eyes. “Can you tell me about yourself? M-Maybe it’ll be easier to get comfortable.”

“Sure!” You smile, eager to give her an update on Heeseung, despite her not knowing. “I’ve been married for seven years. I met my husband when we were nineteen, and we started dating a little after that. I was a stay-at-home wife for the last few years, because my job…”

She stares at you intently, and you rub your neck. “I didn’t feel fulfilled. My mother, quite like yours, had a lot of pressure on me. I was her only daughter, and she wanted so much. She wanted me to marry for money, and she wanted me to pursue a law degree.”

You smile sadly, and she nods. “Did you marry for money?”

“Not at all. I made more than my husband did in my first year as a therapist.” You laugh, remembering how you and Heeseung cheered as the two of you finally had enough saved for a new mattress. It was a silly stepping stone but the two of you were ecstatic.

“What does your mom think of you now? Do you keep in contact with her?” She tilts her head at you, and you shrug. “I don’t care what she thinks, and she doesn’t speak to me. She works distantly with my husband, so he sees her more often than I do. She’s an attorney for the city we live in.”

Chaeyoung nods, slowly. She pulls her phone out, typing quickly and scrolling before turning her screen towards you. It’s a picture of her and Heeseung smiling as kids. They’re dressed as Team Rocket from Pokémon, posing with V-signs next to their winked eyes.

“This is him. He’s my best friend. I haven’t spoken to him since I left.” She sniffles, and you can’t hide the way your smile falters. You feel your stomach sink a bit, realizing that she would always know Heeseung far more than you ever would. She grew up with him, she matched Halloween costumes with him. She held his hand trick-or-treating, she dyed his hair for the first time in grade nine.

She kissed him when they were seventeen, for the first time ever.

“Are you okay?” She asks, pulling her phone away. You nod quickly, “Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I just had some memories. I was super into Pokémon as a kid, but I moved around a lot and could never make friends over it.”

It’s not a lie. You collected the cards, played the video games, and watched the Indigo League.

“Do you and your husband have kids? My husband wants to have kids soon.” She mentions, and you shake your head. “No, not yet. We talked about it yesterday, actually.”

You had, in depth. While you were eating the shitty takeout from the diner down the road, he’d asked you. You admitted that you were open to having kids, but wanted to fix your marriage first. He agreed, but mentioned that getting off your birth control would take time to get used to. You nodded in response, saying you’d make an appointment with your doctor and the two of you could go from there.

“But us, first. Okay?” He’d said, holding his pinky out to you. You’d smiled and linked your fingers, “Us first.”

“This is my husband. His name is Jungkook.” She pulls up a photo of a particularly tattooed man, pressing his lips to her temple. He has a lip ring, and several rings through his ears. “He’s cute! Do you feel loved? Fulfilled?”

“Funnily enough, I do. I don’t feel any of the stress or pressure to be…perfect. He…gets me. He engages me, he makes me laugh. We dance together a lot, he sings me to sleep.” She nods, smiling at the photo. “Can I see your husband? Or is that too far?”

You try not to show your hesitation, but the words tumble out before you can stop them.

"Maybe next time, yeah?" She nods quickly, a blush spreading across her cheeks. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable–" "Not at all! My husband is just particular, you know. His job stops him from really being a prolific person." You smile, shaking your head as you tap your notepad. It's true, you and Heeseung hardly posted things about yourselves or your relationship on social media. Your friends were all very private due to the nature of their jobs, and it'd do you well to follow that.

The rest of the session goes on without many more slip-ups. She focuses on telling you about her relationship with her husband, how he proposed. Their intimate elopement in his hometown, with just his friends and their girlfriends. You can't count how many times you heard her mention a couple named Jimin and Jeongyeon.

You can't focus on anything but the color of her eyes. How deep they are, how much of her story they hold. You're certain Heeseung would be able to figure her out in a split second, just by looking into them.

"You're very good at this, you know." She says as she tugs her jacket on, and you don't remember her ever taking it off. The hour she booked is almost up, and she looks a lot lighter than when she came in. You can feel the weight of her confessions, the weight of knowing she was alive and well after years of searching for her on your own shoulders.

You don't know if, or when, you should, or could – tell your husband.

"Good at what?" You tilt your head, and she gives you a quizzical look. "At creating a nice environment to share my struggles. I know I mostly talked about my husband, but…it felt nice. To tell someone about him and not have them tell me they already know that about him." You smile inwardly, knowing exactly what she means. "Yeah. My husband…his best friends are also mine. Can't really talk about all his weird little habits without them knowing exactly what I'm talking about." "Oh? You don't have friends of your own?" She tilts her head, and you laugh. "I mean, yeah. But I tend to spend most of my time with my husband. It's like…a really good amusement park. I wanna go on all the rides with him, you know?" She smiles, but you see a slight flash of judgment in her eyes. Feeling your cheeks burn, you clear your throat, closing her file and putting it on the table. "Should I expect to see you here next week, Chaeyoung?" "I'd like that, Dr. Lee. My husband said he'd wait for me, so I'm going to go ahead and relieve him." She nods, before standing. You do as well, walking her to the entrance. She turns on the steps, "Thank you for listening to me." "Any time, Chaeyoung." You bid her a goodbye, watching as she walks out of the clinic with her hands in her pockets to a black station wagon. Leaning on your doorframe with your arms crossed over your chest, you see her husband get out, seeing the way he towers over her. He smiles down at her, tucking her hair behind her ear before pressing a kiss to her forehead. You can make out his lips asking How was it?

And her own saying I'm coming back next week. I really like this one, honey.

You feel your chest ache as he opens her door, pressing another kiss to her cheek as she pulls her seatbelt on. He shuts the door, and circles back to the driver's side. He looks up, catching your eye. He tilts his head, before smiling and opening his door. He gives you a quick wave, and you put your fingers up as he reverses out of his parking spot.

It looked so easy for them.

She looked so easy to love, he looked so eager to love her. Did people look at you and Heeseung that way, too? Did they think that about you? Sighing, you turn into your office, stretching your arms over your head. You moved around, tidying up as the music you played switched to something that reminded you more of your husband – specifically, No Song Without You by HONNE.

He'd played this song almost every day when the two of you began dating. You remember this song playing in the restaurant you had your third date at. You remember this song playing in the car when he picked you up for your twentieth birthday. You remember this song playing when he asked you to be his girlfriend, and ending just moments before he kissed you for the first time. You remember this song playing when he took you out to the flower field he proposed in. You remember his teary eyes as he knelt down before you, one of the biggest displays of emotion you'd ever seen in him. Most of all, you remember him saying there is no him without you.

You don't realize you've been standing in the same spot for the last two minutes until you hear your phone ring on the desk. You rush to it, picking up the call before even looking at the caller ID.

"This is Dr. Lee." You say, fumbling with Chaeyoung's file and the cabinet. You open it before hearing your husband snort on the other end. "Hello, Dr. Lee. This is Lieutenant Lee, I'm calling on behalf of your taxi service." "Yah! You're not my taxi." You scoff, shoving the file into the J section. He laughs, "I'm outside, baby. You didn't call, so I got worried. I picked up something light, are you almost done?" "Shit, I'm sorry. D'you want to come inside? I still have things to wrap up." You screw your eyes shut, your fingers rubbing at your temples. "Yeah, sure. I'll be right there."

It doesn't take long for your husband to appear at your door, holding his badge in his hand as you type on your computer. You give him a quizzical look, before turning back to the screen. "Did the janitor give you a hard time?"

"You could say that." He shakes head, setting his keys and phone down on your coffee table. He's holding the bag of food in his hand, and you gesture to the room. "It's nice, isn't it?" He looks around, putting the bag on your desk before opening it. "It's a lot bigger than your old office. I like the green…is that Take Me by Miso?" His ears perk at the new song playing through the speakers, and you sigh, nodding your head as you slump in your chair. He nods along to the song before rounding the desk, and pressing a kiss to your hairline. "You don't look very happy, honey. Did something happen?" His hands find your shoulders as he stands behind you, and you move your mouse all over the screen. "Nothing, I'm just rebooking a patient. She…something about her. I don't know." You know your conscience won't let you hide this from Heeseung very long. Granted, you're protected by the law if you do tell him, and it's the right thing to do.

Something in your heart doesn't feel right.

"Jeon Chaeyoung." He reads, and you nod. "Jeon Chaeyoung." "What's her deal?" He asks, making you pout up at him. "If I tell you, I'm violating our patient-provider contract." He gives you a confused look, before leaning down, brushing a kiss to your cheek. "I'm sensing a but, here." You sigh, exiting the schedule and turning the monitor off. "Let me make a scenario for you, yeah?" You stand, kicking your heels off as you walk onto the carpet under the coffee table. He nods slowly, before moving to the patient couch, taking a seat as you pace.

"Let's say, you're looking at someone in a line-up, yes?" You turn to him, and he nods. "Okay. What am I looking for?" "Something familiar. You know the perpetrator and you've known them for ages. I mean, damn near your entire life."

Heeseung's eyes scan your face, before humming. He leans back, resting his elbows against the back of the couch. "We have a saying about eyes, I guess. That they never lie, you know. Eyes are the windows to the soul and what not."

"So if I show you a picture of me and a bunch of other people, and cover everything but our eyes, you'd know which one I am?" You feel like you're starting to sound a bit like a maniac, but your husband nods. "Of course I would. I love your eyes. I look at them all the time."

You nod quickly, before breathing out shakily. "When you were nine, what did you dress up as for Halloween?" "What?" He scoffs out a laugh, "What does that have anything to do with what we were just talking about?"

You kneel in front of him, and he sits up quickly, taking in your serious expression. "Babe, what is going on?" "Did you match with Soyoung?" You murmur, picking at his slacks. "Were you Jesse from Team Rocket?"

Heeseung's brow furrows as he takes your hands, the clink of your rings grabbing your attention. "Y/N?" "It's her. She changed her name and she changed her face but it's her, Hee. I know it is, I can tell by her eyes and she showed me the two of you dressed up for Halloween as kids. That picture your mom has framed in her office." You squeeze your eyes shut, sinking back from him. His fingers squeeze yours gently before he scoffs. "Y/N…Honey, I really, really need you to think about what you're telling me right now." "I am, Heeseung! This is just as important to me, you know that! Countless sleepless nights, thousands of posters put up every single weekend just for her to waltz into my office today and tell me about her life!" You rip your hands from his, standing and walking to the file cabinet. You fish her file out, opening it and thrusting it into his hands.

He takes it reluctantly, his eyes scanning the file with a frown on his lips.

Emergency Contact: Jeon Jungkook – Cell: 010-1997-090 Work: 010-2013-0613 Relationship to Patient: Spouse

"She's married." He mumbles, flipping to the next page to her insurance information. He sees her name changes, before and after her marriage. His tongue pokes his cheek gently as you sit next to him, your ankles crossed as you sigh.

"This is rather anticlimactic." You mumble, leaning your head against his shoulder. He hums in response, thumbing the print of her electronic signature. "She never used to write her C's like this." He flicks the file, before closing it. "What happens now?" Your voice is no higher than a whisper, and you feel him sigh before leaning his head on yours. "Nothing. Legally, she doesn't have to report her reappearance. She's an adult." You look up at your husband, who has a surprisingly underwhelmed look on his face. He's nibbling on his lip as he gently tosses the file onto the coffee table. You rest your chin on his shoulder, scanning his face before he looks down at you.

"You seem tired." You say softly, and he closes his eyes. "I am. I'm so tired, honey." "You don't feel any sort of way about this? I can refer her to another clinic. I can–" "I just want to go home, Y/N." He shakes his head, his arm coming to wrap around your shoulders and pulling you into his chest. You allow it, moving to sit in his lap and feeling his hands drop to your waist. "I don't have…I can't…" You look down at him, seeing the way he angrily blinks back tears as he tries to find the words he needs. Your hands gently cup his cheeks as he sighs frustratedly, burying his face in your chest. You can feel your stomach flip as he tries to breathe deeply, his shoulders tight as you wrap your arms around them. He sniffles, resting his forehead on your clavicle, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Is it wrong to be angry at her?" He mumbles shakily, and you quickly shake your head. "No. She left, and she told me it was willingly. She came back, just a thirty-minute drive from home and she didn't tell you. You're allowed to be upset." "Then why do I feel shitty about it?" His voice trembles as he looks up at you, teary eyes full of resentment and bitterness, but behind it all is a 19-year-old boy who lost his best friend from night to the morning. You coo softly, your thumb moving to swipe under his eye as he pouts.

"Because you wanted things to be different. Finding out she's okay through me…probably wasn't the way you imagined it'd happen. Maybe you had an idea of her showing up to the precinct, or to your parents' house looking for you. Maybe you saw that she's married to someone else and it hurts you, maybe you have some underlying feelings." You shrug, not noticing the way your husband's eyes narrow at your words.

"Y/N, are you hearing yourself right now?" He scoffs, gently pushing you away from him. His hands rest on your thighs, nibbling on the corner of his lip as you give him a confused look. "What?" "Did you just seriously try and equate my feelings about this entire situation to me having some sort of weird fantasy about being with her?"

You blink twice, only for Heeseung to huff out a humorless laugh before gently removing you off his lap. He stands, grabbing his keys and wallet off the table before tapping the file. "Let's go home." "Hee–" "Let's go." He sighs, fingers grabbing the bag of dinner that you're sure had gone cold by now. He waits by the door as you gather your things, holding your coat in his hand as you slide your heels back on. "Heeseung–" "Turn around. It's cold outside." His voice isn't harsh or mean, but you can tell he doesn't want to speak unless it's absolutely necessary. You reluctantly let him slide your coat on for you, feeling his lips pressed to your temple quickly. He opens the office door, carefully pushing you out first and turning the lights off behind him.

"Can I drive?" You hold your hand out for the keys, and he sighs before dropping them in your hand. You walk quickly towards the exit, not bothering to bid the janitor a good night as you nearly threw the door open. You could feel your stomach turn as you reached the car, Heeseung still trailing behind you when his voice cut through the air.

"Walking that quickly won't get you away from this conversation, babe." You tongue your cheek, waiting for your husband to appear next to you in front of the SUV you shared. His hand squeezed your hip gently, before pulling you close. "What are you running from, hm?" The conversation where you tell me that our marriage is over and you want out because your best friend is back in the picture, you think. You shrug, shaking your head as he pulls open the driver's side door. He sighs as you skirt around him, pulling yourself into the seat without his help. He doesn't let you close the door, wedging himself in to buckle in your seatbelt for you.

"You say some really fucked up shit sometimes, you know." He murmurs, and you feel your cheeks hot as you reach around him to stick the keys in the ignition. His hand on your cheek stops you, forcing you to look at him. "I thought we said we'd work on this. On us." "I don't want to do this here." You reply shortly, not recognizing your own tone of voice as your husband's eyes widen before he tongues his cheek. "Fine." The drive is silent, the radio turned off by your fingers the moment you managed to get the car started. Heeseung sits in the passenger side, staring out the window with a tick in his jaw you'd only ever really seen a few times, but you remember most during your first fight. It'd been two days before your first anniversary, and it'd been over the dumbest thing ever – his phone dying and you freaking out when he showed up late to your early celebration. He'd apologized profusely but you didn't want to talk about it then, just like you don't want to talk now.

Heeseung is out of the car before you even manage to park fully, careful not to slam the door as he rounds the car, opening your door and taking your bag. You reluctantly let him help you down, and he takes the keys to open the door without a word. Your home is still warm and inviting, but something about the cold demeanors floating around the two of you makes it feel like you're not even there.

"Are you hungry?" He asks quietly, and you shake your head. "No." "You had lunch at noon, why are you lying?" He scoffed, pulling his jacket off as you tongued your cheek, "I'm not. You're just assuming things." "What is the problem, Y/N? Suddenly Soyoung…Chaeyoung reappears and you want to act like this? Did we not just have several lengthy conversations about fixing our relationship?" He grabs your elbow gently as you move to walk away, and you can't help but look at him with a frown on your face. "That was then, and this is now." "Why are you being like this? Babe." Heeseung pulls you toward him, and you huff in frustration as you try to weasel from his gasp. "You're acting like I'm some insecure housewife who needs you to coddle her. I'm not insecure, and even if I was, there's nothing you can do about it. Who cares? Why do you even care?" Heeseung gapes at you, before his hands circle your wrists so you can't move away from him. "Hello? Because I love you? Do I need another reason to want to understand why the woman I've been with for almost a decade is suddenly acting like she hates me?"

"Me? Hate you? Be fucking serious." You scoff, and Heeseung's eyes narrow. "Then tell me what the hell is going on in your mind, because I'm not a mind reader. I cannot fix a problem if you don't tell me what it is." "Oh, but if I were Soyoung–" You start, but stop the moment his eyes meet yours. They're full of hurt and a hint of anger, a singular tear spilling from them before he drops your wrists with a click of his tongue. "Don't."

His voice is soft, and he pinches the bridge of his nose as he turns away from you, before shrugging his suit jacket off. He sighs shakily, and you feel your throat burn as you step out of your heels, placing them quietly on the shoe rack by the door. You purse your lips, taking a deep breath before turning on your heel, moving towards your bedroom before the tears spill from your eyes.

You didn't know what to do to stop the feeling of despair from clawing at you. And you felt stupid, thinking that you needed to even allow that feeling into your chest. You and Heeseung had spoken in depth on Sunday about your relationship – when you weren't pinned under him or vice versa. You talked about having kids, you talked about your parents, you talked about each other. He admitted to you that Dr. Bahng had told him to take some time off for the two of you before the year ended, and that he'd talk to his Captain about submitting the paperwork for a vacation sometime this week.

He admitted that he wholly believes marrying you was one of the best decisions he's ever made, and profusely apologized for his inability to cherish you the way you deserved. He held you closely as his promises to do better rained over you, and you promised the same.

He admitted to feeling his heart racing in his chest the day he met you, but was too consumed with guilt about Chaeyoung to ever bring it up, and his crush on you started developing soon after. He admitted that you made him overthink every step he took, every word he said – so much so that he figured it was just better to push you away than tell you about his feelings. The two of you recounted how Sunghoon made the two of you meet him at the campus cafe with the premise that he needed help on an assignment – only to ditch you with a frown, and figure your shit out falling from his lips as he left with Jake.

You brought up how he'd gaped at Sunghoon, and the way you awkwardly picked at your nails before confessing that you had a little crush on him. The way you rambled about knowing that his circumstances were really shitty, that you completely understood if he didn't feel the same, and that you were sorry Sunghoon put the two of you in this situation. Heeseung had only smiled as he nodded along to your words, before abruptly interrupting you to ask if you were free that following Friday. You had been, and he picked you up at seven for a date – an arcade, where the two of you jokingly did a Love Test-O-Meter and got the highest level. The two of you had scrunched your noses, but you both had deep blushes across your cheeks as the other patrons woo'd you. After, you went back to his dorm and ordered takeout, before promptly getting intoxicated on a bottle of gin stolen from Jay and watched horror films for hours before you passed out on his bed holding hands.

The rest? History.

You're struggling to pull your dress zipper down when Heeseung enters the room, his fingers gently tugging the zipper down your back without a word. You hear the gentle jazz music playing in your living room as he shuffles towards the closet, unbuttoning his shirt before hanging it back up. His hand reaches for one of the towels on the shelves, before taking another out and placing it on the bed.

A silent invitation to join him in the shower, if you so felt like it.

You hesitated, watching the way he gathered his pajamas and tucks them under his arm, the urge to follow after him far too strong as you stepped out of your dress, letting it pool on the floor. You kicked it away with a huff, before stripping entirely and grabbing the towel and your robe off the back of your bedroom door. You linger at the bathroom door, hearing the water start to pour and the sound of the shower curtain being pulled open. You walk in silently, setting your things down on the counter as Heeseung undid his belt, hanging it up on the hook by the door. You make a mental note to take it out when you leave, he'll forget it and not wear it for weeks until he sees it again. He tilts his head towards the shower as he peels off his undershirt, signaling for you to get in while he gets undressed.

The water is hot against your skin, and you close your eyes with an inward sigh. He steps in moments after, before tilting your head back just slightly so the water can cascade through your hair. Your hands instinctively move to touch him, but you retract back to your sides. He gently takes them, wrapping them around his waist like you usually do.

He doesn't say anything as he washes your hair gently, your eyes closed so as to not take in the image of your husband's slightly swollen eyes. His fingers card through your hair smoothly, before you feel his lips on your forehead.

"I love you. Don't say it back. Don't say anything." You don't, but you're sure he sees the tear that slips from your eye as you nod silently. It comes so easily to him now. So, so easily to let you know how he feels about you. It makes you weak in the knees.

The rest of your shower is like that, his lips brushing chaste kisses all over your face as he repeats himself over and over, I love you, I love you, I love you. Your tears are hot as they continue to spill, and you finally slip out of the shower when he asks you to take the extra pillows off the bed – his final kiss to your lips after carefully washing your face for you.

You do as he asks, taking your decorative pillows and piling them in the closet like you usually do. You silently get dressed for bed, not bothering with your skincare – you'll just cry it off. Your hair is still damp when you lie down in one of your husband's old shirts and a pair of Spiderman briefs you stole from him years ago. He quietly turns all the lights off but leaves the music playing in the living room, before walking into the bedroom as he pulls his shirt over his head.

Your vision is blurry as you look up at him, his face illuminated by the evening moonlight. He sighs as he sits on your side of the bed, his hand sliding under the duvet to rest on your thigh. "Come dance with me." You blink a few times, staring at him before closing your eyes, shoving the duvet to the side and swinging your legs over the side of the bed. He stands, taking your hand in his and making you follow him to the living room.

You hear the opening notes of Unchained Melody by The Righteous Brothers – yet another song from your wedding – as Heeseung pulls you into him, planting a soft kiss to your hairline as his hands find home on your lower back. You exhale into his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken as you slide your hands under his shirt, resting them high on his back.

"I love you, I'm sorry." You mumble as he sways the two of you gently, and he hums in response.

"I need you to know that I've never had feelings for Chaeyoung." He says clearly, and you close your eyes. "I've never had feelings for her, in any way that wasn't platonic. There are plenty of reasons she and I never got together after she kissed me when we were teenagers. Not that they matter, because all that matters is that I didn't feel the same, I never have and I never will." You don't respond, feeling your eyes sting with tears.

"It's only ever been you for me. I've never once thought back to when we started dating and thought that I'd would’ve been better off with anyone else. I've never wanted anyone that isn't you, and I think that is equally as beautiful as it is terrifying. In lieu of you, who? I'd have no first love without you, you’re the only love I want." "I'm sorry." You whisper as your tears soak into his shirt, and he pinches your hip lightly.

"I'd genuinely be nothing without you. You are the most patient, loving person I've ever met. No one makes me want to be a better man like you do. I feel sick every time I have to get out of bed and go to work, but I remind myself that you only deserve the best. This house, our things, what I hope I can provide for our future kids…it can only be the best. So, I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry for giving so much importance to the future, which isn't a bad thing in itself. But, I've ignored my present. You're a gift from life, I've ignored you and it pains me to know I've caused you so much distress. So much so that you resort to feeling like this, like I'd ever leave the love of my life, the love for my life, for someone else."

His hands find your face, cooing at the pout on your lips as he gently wipes your tears. "I meant everything I said this weekend, too. I could never ask for a better woman, not when I have you." You only let out a sob in response, your husband cuddling you into his chest as he turns the music off when the song changes. He rubs your back as he moves the two of you back to the bedroom. He only separates from you to slide under the covers, but pulls you flush to his chest and envelopes you tightly in his arms.

"I love you so, so endlessly. Please don't ever doubt that again." He sighs shakily, pressing his lips to your temple as you bury your face in his neck. "I love you, Hee."

Friday, 3:40pm.

It'd been three weeks since you told Heeseung about Chaeyoung's return, and she'd become a regular patient at your clinic. She told you more about her husband, her friends, and how she missed Heeseung. She asked you about your life, and you did everything to avoid mentioning names, even going as far as avoiding certain questions. You kept Heeseung updated with everything, and the more you told him…

…The more disinterested he became. It was odd to you, but you said nothing as he changed the subject, as he rolled his eyes, as he kissed you in the middle of your sentences.

Heeseung also made it a point to drop you off and pick you up from work every day, insisting he enjoyed it. He made your breakfast and picked your clothes, and it was like every morning was a challenge to see if he could convince you to take a trip to the bedroom in your work clothes. He'd succeeded twice, and you were late to work both times. He hadn't been successful since, earning soft swats of your hand and gentle shoves.

However, this morning – you did it all on your own. Heeseung had recently taken on a new case and it was cutting into his sleep. He came home not even an hour before you woke up, several apologetic calls and texts throughout the night before you fell asleep at midnight without him.

You tucked him in, planting kisses across his face as you shrugged your coat on. He didn't stir, and you packed his breakfast and lunch and left it on the table. You took the long way, playing the same soft jazz station he did every morning.

One of your patients had called to reschedule, so you'd have an early afternoon home. You got a text from Heeseung moments after arriving at the clinic, complaining about why you didn't wake him up to take you – only for him to call you at noon and say he'd barely gotten up for work. You'd laughed and teased him about thinking he'd be able to take you to work when he clearly needed the rest, only to hear Sunghoon tell your lovebird of a husband to get off the phone and focus.

It'd been nearly four hours since then, and you were about to wrap up with Chaeyoung.

"I found him on social media, you know. His mom posted a congratulatory post, he works in the same town. He's a lieutenant at the Seventh Precinct." She picked at her nails, a frown on her lips as you try not to show your shock at her words. "Who, your best friend?" "Yes. He's married now, too. I couldn't find anything about her, though. His parents didn't post anything about the wedding but a backshot of him and the bride." She sighs, and you think back. You'd both asked his parents to keep it private, and they both chose that photo to post across their social media to boast to their friends. You'd appreciated it so deeply that you bought them a rice cooker for Christmas that year.

"Do you plan on going to see him at some point?" You ask smoothly, refilling her glass of water as she shrugs. "I planned on going today, actually. I'm just…nervous. I had a friend drop me off today, and I'd be going alone. I feel like I'd need a support system." "I can go with you, if you'd like. I'm headed that way anyway." The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and her eyes widened with surprise before she smiled. "You'd do that?" "Of course. This is a big step for you, you know? I'd just have to make some calls, I know that precinct happens to be rather finicky with visitors." You shrug, feeling the pit in your stomach grow deeper as you wonder how you're going to tell Heeseung. She nods excitedly, and you excuse yourself, walking down the hall so nothing can be heard through the door.

The line rings three times before Heeseung picks up.

"Hey, baby. What's up?" "You can't be mad at me. Promise you won't get mad." You rush out, and he laughs. "I won't be mad. At least, I don't think I'll be. Are you okay?" "She wants to meet you. She said she's going over there today, and my stupid ass offered to drive her over because I'm going home early, anyway." You're wincing as the line goes silent, before your husband sighs. "Oh, babygirl." You can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose, the particular pet name only really slipping when he's stressed. "I'm sorry, honey." "No, no. It's fine, just..let me get some stuff settled, I'll let Minseo know to let you through without issues." He trails off, before another sigh is heard. "Does she know we're married?" "She found that back shot from our wedding. She doesn't know it's me." You sigh shakily, and your husband only echoes it back. "Alright, I'll let the guys know. Will you be in the room? I don't think I can do this alone." "Yes, of course. I won't be there as your wife, though, if that's…fine. Just think of it as that one time we roleplayed."

Your husband snorts, "Babe, that was the most awkward thing ever." "Because you can't hold character! But don't worry, we'll spin that one back someday." You hum affirmatively, earning a soft laugh. "I love you, baby. I'll see you in what, thirty?" "I'd run red lights for you if it wasn't illegal and dangerous." You shrug, despite him not being able to see you. He's probably rolling his eyes, a click of his tongue coming through the phone. "Be good, honey. I'll see you. Love you." "I will. Love you." You shoot a few texts off to the other detectives as the line hangs up, before sliding back into your office and seeing Chaeyoung sprawled across the couch with her arm over her eyes. "You alright in here?" Your soft chuckle startles her, and she straightens quickly, brushing her hair out of her face. "Sorry, I'm nervous." "Not to worry. They know me well, so don't be startled if anyone says anything." You smile as you grab your coat, before floating over to your computer and clicking around. "Ready to go? We can even stop and get a little drink for the drive." "You're such a girl, I love it." She giggles, and you feel your stomach sink as you shake your head with fake amusement. You feel awful lying to her – she'd been so open and honest, warming up to you incredibly fast. She eagerly bounces alongside you as you walk to your car after gathering your belongings and locking your office, slipping into your passenger seat as you quickly buckle yourself in.

The ride is full of nervous chatter from her and you drop your guard a bit, opting to talk to her about Heeseung through memories. You tell her about your first date, and she's amused, telling you about her first date with her husband – talking about how the two of them wound up getting lost in Busan because he'd forgotten his way around a smaller part of town. You only smiled throughout.

You arrived at the precinct with an iced coffee from a shop a block away, Chaeyoung holding an Americano as she nervously chewed her lip. You spoke to Minseo softly, your eyes pointed as she nodded – it seemed Heeseung had vetted everyone before your arrival. "Go ahead, Dr. Lee. Lieutenant Lee should be in his office, his schedule is clear for the afternoon." "Thank you, Minseo. Take a break soon, okay?" You give her a warm smile and this time, she returns it, before printing your visitor stickers and giving one to Chaeyoung. Her fingers tremble as she sticks it on her denim jacket, and you see Sunghoon staring intently in your direction before you give him a dirty look.

"Dr. Lee! Good to see you, it's been a while." He wanders over, draping his arm over your shoulders as you try not to groan in annoyance. "Detective Park, always a pleasure." "Sunghoon?" You hear Chaeyoung whisper, and he glances over at her with a mock look of surprise. "Yes? Do I know you?" She opens her mouth, but you quickly shake your head, reaching for her hand. "Later. I promise you'll have time."

"Sorry." She mumbles, but she looks over her shoulder at Sunghoon for a bit as you walk through the precinct. You note the way her eyes widen at the sight of Jake and Jay, their serious faces contorting to ones of confusion at her longing glances. They all pretend like their hearts aren't racing out of their chests as you knock on Heeseung's door, hearing an affirmative sound to come in.

"Lieutenant Lee." You poke your head in, squeezing Chaeyoung's hand in yours as your husband looks up. You fight the urge to say he looks handsome in his white button down and blue suit jacket, but he stands before you can say anything else.

"Dr. Lee, always a pleasure to see you. How can I help you?" He opens the door further, and you can almost hear the way he thanks his years of training for the stoicism on his face as he sees Chaeyoung. You pull her into the office as he steps out of the way, her eyes wide as you sit her down and quickly close the blinds, sticking your tongue out at Sunghoon for good measure.

You almost forget Heeseung has a few photos of you on his desk, and you look over your shoulder to see them all facing the wall behind his chair. You nearly sigh in relief, but clear your throat instead as you sit next to Chaeyoung. Heeseung smiles softly, checking his watch.

"How can I help you, ladies? Oh, I'm Lieutenant Lee Heeseung. At your service." He extends his hand, noting the way hers trembles as she takes it. He gives it a firm shake, before glancing at her again. "You look…kind of familiar. Have we met before?" "I can't." She whispers, her hand gripping onto the sleeve of your coat as you nod, before clearing your throat. "It's okay. You want me to talk?" She nods without a word, and you give Heeseung a pleading look. "So, we have a bit of a…predicament." "Right, as one would assume." He nods slowly, and you note the way he nervously chews his lip before taking a seat on the opposite side of the couch. "Are you in danger, or some sort of trouble?" He clicks a pen from his pocket, opening a drawer from the side table to take out a notepad.

"More like we have some answers to a case that went cold a few years back." You hear him hum, the pen not touching the paper as he looks up. "Alright, should I pull up some records?" "If you'd like, but it was a Missing Persons case you were involved with. Do you remember when we talked about it when we first met? The Cha Soyoung case?" "Ah…right. Right." He clears his throat, and you can see the tears beginning to well in his eyes as he blinks them back. "That case has long been dry, with lots of dead ends. Everyone in the precinct is familiar with it. Last update was, what, three years ago? Some sightings a few miles away." "Lieutenant, this is Jeon Chaeyoung." You introduce her properly, her eyes peering at him over your shoulder. He blinks, nodding slowly. "Formerly known as Cha Soyoung." He tilts his head at your words, as if he didn't already know. He stares blatantly, and you make her scoot up a bit so he can get a better look at her face. His eyes scan her repeatedly, before he stands up and moves to his desk, opening a drawer and taking out one of the many missing posters you used to put up every week. He looks at it for a moment, and sighs shakily. "You know, I appreciate you coming by–" "Hee, it's me." She blurts, a few tears rolling down her face as you see a pained look on your husband's face. He nibbles on his lip, his eyes full of stress as he looks at you. She stands up, and Heeseung tongues his cheek as he shakes his head. "Soyoung had a widow's peak, and a birthmark on her neck." "Heeseung, please. I know you're upset, and I…I'm sorry. I've missed you..." She trails off, and you note the way he's near tears, looking away from her, the paper crumpling in his hand as he clears his throat. "Dr. Lee, can I see you outside?"

Chaeyoung gives you a look of despair, and you just pat her shoulder with an apologetic look as you watch Heeseung storm out. "I'll talk to him, don't worry." She opens her mouth to speak, but she just sighs. Nodding, she takes a seat, and you tighten your coat around you as you follow your husband out. He's in the break room a few feet away, and he nearly shuts the door with a slam as you slip inside. His arm reaches for you, pulling him into you roughly and squeezing you so hard you can't breathe for a moment. "I can't do this. I'm not strong enough, Y/N." His voice is unsteady, but you snake your arms around his waist with a hum. "You know, I was worried. I was beginning to think you were going to let this all just…go. You are strong enough, and you can do this.. I know this is scary, it's so overwhelming. I know you, though. You're Lee Heeseung, you don't give up on anything. It's been almost a decade and you've worked so hard to get here. Don't you want to see the fruit of your hard work?" Your voice is soft but stern, and your husband only whimpers pitifully into your shoulder. You coo, running your hand down the nape of his neck as you sway the two of you gently. "I love you, baby. I believe you can get through this. You deserve a happy ending to it all. So many years of stress won't be good for your hairline." He actually snorts at your joke, but the tears continue nonetheless as he moves away, pouting as he sits in one of the chairs. You wipe your hands on his cheeks gently, offering him a tissue from your pocket as you squat in front of him. "It's gonna be okay. I promise." "I don't want to make amends. I don't think I can forgive her for this." He sniffles, and you nod in understanding. "That's okay, too. You don't need to be her friend again, even if that's what she wants. You owe her nothing, and vice versa." "I love you." He whines, covering his face with his hands as you laugh softly. "I know, I love you too, Hee."

"No, seriously, I'd ask you to marry me again if we weren't already married." He grabs your hands quickly, and you nearly lose your balance as he jerks you forward, enveloping you in a crushing embrace. "Submit your vacation paperwork and we can renew our vows instead." "I love you so much!" He cries into your coat. You can't help but laugh out loud, a bit of shock running through you as you take in his very big emotional outburst. "I know, I know! Now please, get it together. We've got to get back, and you need to talk to her. The poor girl is vibrating out of her skin."

"Kiss me." He pouts, looking up at you as you stand. You roll your eyes. "After. Promise." "I need it for encouragement. Be the wind beneath my wings, babe." He begs, making you sigh. "One kiss, and keep your tongue in your mouth." "Two kisses to make up for the lack of tongue." He counters, and you smack his arm before pressing your lips to his. His hands instinctively hold your waist, your own moving to hold his cheeks gently. It's slow and sweet, and you pull away as his teeth nip at your lower lip.

“Stop that." You brush two more chaste kisses on his lips, a pout appearing as you squeeze his hand. "Come on, we have to." "I love you." He repeats for the umpteenth time, and you know he's finding comfort in knowing that you both feel the same and are there for moral support. "I love you, Hee. Now, let's go." The other detectives pretend they don't notice the way you hold his hand tightly as you both exit the break room, Heeseung ducking his head to hide his teary eyes as you open the door to his office. You pop your head in, seeing a rather disheveled Chaeyoung on the couch.

"How're we feeling?" You call gently, squeezing Heeseung's hand behind you before you let go. She gives you a thumbs down as she wipes her eyes, and Heeseung clears his throat behind you as he carefully slips past. She shifts as he does so, and you shut the door behind you. He sits across from her carefully, her eyes shimmering with tears as she peers up at you.

Heeseung does the same, before glancing at your wedding rings. They're snug on your finger, and you carefully thumb at them as you gingerly take a seat on the couch next to Chaeyoung. You give him a pointed look, and he sighs, running his hand through his hair.

"I'm sorry, Hee." She whispers, and he nods. "I'm sure." "I really am. You would've talked me out of it, I know you."

Heeseung's hands flex on his knees, "You could've talked to me, at least. You could've said literally anything. You just up and left and expected no one would care." "You don't get it, Hee. I felt so much pressure from everyone around me, I was so tired of pretending like I wanted any of that for myself. I didn't want to take over the company, you knew that." She tries to reason, but you can tell he's fighting himself from saying anything out of line as he takes a deep breath.

"It's always what I knew and what you knew, but you clearly forgot the fact that you were my best friend. Since we were kids, and the most painful part of this all is confirming that you didn't trust me that entire time. There's no coming back from this."

She's silent as he picks at his nails, before she speaks softly. "Don't you at least want to know how I'm doing?" He scoffs quietly, folding his hands in his lap. "Sure. Tell me everything you've built for yourself while I've spent a decade agonizing about whether or not you're alive." His tone is harsh and you find yourself giving him a hard look, your jaw tight as she looks down. He doesn't apologize, and you find yourself speaking softly.

"A lot of big feelings here, hm? There's a lot of pain to get through, so…let's not take anything to heart right now." You nod, and Chaeyoung nods next to you as she clears her throat. Heeseung doesn't acknowledge it, opting to bounce his leg.

"I got married. I know you did too, right? During college?" She nods, and he clicks his tongue.

"Heeseung, be nice." You say his name out of habit, his eyes snapping to you as you wince at your mistake. "Didn't know we were on a first-name basis, Dr. Lee." "You know what I mean." You roll your eyes, and Heeseung sighs. "Yeah, I got married in college right after I turned twenty-one. Seven years ago."

"You're awfully young to be a Lieutenant." She says softly, and he struggles not to roll his eyes. "Doesn't take much to get promoted when you're constantly mulling over cases and neglecting other things for someone who didn't want to be found. You could've called, you know."

"Could I have? Because it seems like you hate me for doing what's best for me." Her eyes are narrowed now, and he scoffs. "I think I'm allowed to hate you for all its fucking worth at this point. You abandoned me nine years ago, you just up and left without a word! Do you know how many birthdays I had to spend answering questions about you instead of celebrating with my loved ones? You know how many date nights I shoved aside with my wife because I was here, hoping I'd get a crumb of knowing that you're at least alive? Do you understand how much of my life has gone into this?!" Heeseung is starting to lose his patience, but it seems Chaeyoung had been ready to blow her top for years.

"What about me, Heeseung?! You think I liked always being on the fucking sidelines, waiting for you to notice me? I had to fucking disappear for you to care about me? For you to look my way even once, I had to uproot my entire life? Is that what it had to fucking come to?!"

Your lips part at her words, Heeseung's eyes widening before they narrow. "Are you serious? That's what you want to attribute this to? I didn't reciprocate your feelings so now I'm the bad guy? You fucking left, instead of communicating with anyone. You made that decision, no one forced you to take that road." "I did what I had to, and the fact that you never wanted to be with me despite us literally being the perfect love story was just the cherry on top. It was my catalyst and I hope you know that I resent you for making me feel so undesirable." She huffs, and you clear your throat as Heeseung glowers.

"I think…we've lost our way a bit. This was more about reconnecting, I assumed it'd be a bit more peaceful. The blame game gets us nowhere." You sigh, running a hand through your hair. Chaeyoung takes a deep breath, struggling not to roll her eyes before pulling her phone out. "This is my husband. You'd like him, he plays bass and he produces music for an entertainment company. His name is Jungkook, we got married two years ago." Heeseung gives you a glance, your eyes nervous as you breathe out.

"Everything alright?" He asks gently, and you know it's his way of asking if he can talk about you. Your eyes are nervous, but you nod anyway, playing with the hem of your dress. Chaeyoung gives you a once over, patting your knee with a smile.

"I'm sorry, I know this must be stressful. I should've never taken your offer, Dr. Lee." "No, I think this was necessary, really. For the three of us." You shrug, attempting to appear nonchalant. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes as Heeseung clears his throat, standing up to grab the photo of you off his desk. It's you on your honeymoon – the two of you took it the summer after you graduated from college. You were wearing a white dress and it was one of the most picturesque candids in your collection. He gives you a waywards glance, but you only nod as he sits down.

"This is my wife. You'd like her, she plays piano and crochets and does cross-stitch. She's a therapist. Her name is Y/N, we got married seven years ago." He flips the picture, and you watch her eyes widen out of your peripheral vision. She takes it gently, her manicured thumb stroking your smiling face. She looks pale as she turns to you, her jaw tight.

"Chaeyoung, I'm sorry." You whisper, and she gives you a glare. "Are you? You knew this entire time and you let me open up to you about everything? Did you tell him, too? Did you tell everyone here?" Her voice only raises as she scoots away from you, and you feel your cheeks heat as you run a hand through your hair. "We spent years looking for you, Chaeyoung. There were so many sleepless nights, so many tears, so much stress over you. This is hard for me too, you know." "What, loving a man who is nothing but a shell of a person? Yeah, I'm sure you loved filling his fucking cup until it overflowed while he casted you aside." She sneers, and you feel your chest tighten. "I'm sure it felt great being stuck in your house, wondering when the fuck he'd be home because he was here. Looking at case files, talking to forensics, doing anything instead of being home with you." Your throat burns as you clear it, but Heeseung interrupts as he takes the photo of you back. "Chaeyoung, you're obviously angry. I can't blame you for that, but I also won't allow you to speak to Y/N like this. She's here to help both of us." "Yeah, well you can take your help and fucking shove it, Y/N." She huffs, gathering her coat from the couch cushion. You stand quickly, holding your hands out to deter her from leaving. "Chaeyoung, please let me explain–" "Explain what? How you're a lying bitch?" She spits, and Heeseung's eyes narrow as he opens his mouth to say something, only for you to wave him off. Your gaze is unreadable as she continues to berate you. "You want to explain why you let me agonize over Heeseung for three weeks, and how you listened to me tell you how I felt about him and said nothing? What kind of fucking therapist are you?" "A dumb one." You say softly, "I didn't tell you I was married to Heeseung because that's none of your business. Getting you involved in my personal life could be incredibly damaging to my career, but I did it because I've known about you since before I met Heeseung." Her eyes are aflame as she stares you down, but you don't budge.

"I don't fight over men. I never have, I never will. What I will do, though, is tell you that though I knew mixing my personal life and my career could be a disaster, I did it because I love Heeseung. You suffered, you left because of all the pressure you felt. I understand that pressure, too. I know what it's like for your family to expect something from you that you simply don't want to provide, or feel like you can't."

Her eyes well with tears as she looks away.

"Just as you suffered, though, we did, too." You gesture at the space between you and Heeseung, and he steps slightly closer. "I cannot tell you the nights we spent walking all over town and putting posters anywhere they'd allow us to. I cannot even begin to explain the stress everyone felt, all of your friends, all of your family members because you just disappeared. I wasn't your friend, and I didn't know you personally…but it affected me, too." A tear falls down her face, and you reach to wipe it with the sleeve of your coat.

"There were so many nights that I'd be in Heeseung's dorm just talking about you. He'd tell me so many stories, he's shown me so many photos of you together. He's told me every piece of your life that he knows, and you've sat in my office for three weeks and done the same for him. Things I already knew, and things I didn't." She silently sits back down, letting the tears drip down her face.

"I know it's painful, to want something or someone so bad and have it be just out of your reach. I know it sounds like I'm bragging, or maybe like I'm trying to rub it in your face but I promise I'm not. Loving Heeseung has not been easy, there were many times I wanted to give up. There were nights he'd be locked in the home office, overthinking himself into a bottle of bourbon." You laugh softly, taking Heeseung's seat across from her. He stands behind you, his hand running up and down your back.

"There were times I wanted to scream at him, I wanted to hurt his feelings because he made me feel neglected. He'd come home late, he'd miss dinner, he wouldn't be around to just hang out. You told me during our first session that you and Jungkook dance together all the time, that he sings you to sleep. I cannot tell you how envious I would have been, had I met you just a week earlier."

Her gaze meets yours, surprised. "What?"

"I mean what I say and I say what I mean." Heeseung speaks up, his voice a lot softer. "I was not a good husband. I'm still not, but it's not your fault. It's my fault, I wanted so badly to know that you were at least okay that I completely neglected Y/N. I wasn't present, emotionally or physically." "I knew it wouldn't be easy, loving someone like Heeseung." You interrupt him, "I knew loving someone who had gone through something so gut wrenching would be one of the most difficult things I'd ever have to do. I wanted it so bad, Chaeyoung. I wanted to love him, and be the glue that held him together. I wanted to be the person he woke up with in the mornings and the person he kissed goodnight. I wanted to be there, no matter what it took." "So you allowed all of it." She murmurs, and you sigh.

"I fought it. I didn't want to brave the storm that was Lee Heeseung in college. But like a moth to a flame, I stayed. I got hurt time and time again, but the good outweighed the bad so much. I saw so much potential, I saw so much kindness and I knew in my heart I could help it flourish. And now, we're here." "Don't you feel jealous?" She asks, making you smile sadly before nodding. "Of course I felt jealous. I knew there was a girl that knew my husband more than I ever would, and I envied that. I wanted to know everything there was to know, but I had to come to terms with the fact that it simply couldn't be. We're ever-evolving, and while you may have known each other for so many years…you've both changed so much." She closes her eyes, her chipped nails digging into the fabric of her peacoat. Heeseung's hand rubs circles into your back, before you feel him squeeze your shoulder. "I don't hate you." She says suddenly, her eyes on Heeseung. He clicks his tongue, "I don't expect you to. I haven't done anything to you to make myself worthy of hating."

"Why not me?" She mumbles, and Heeseung's eyes close as he pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Just tell me that." "I can't do that to you, Chaeyoung." He shakes his head, and you hear her scoff. "Just do it, it'll make getting over you a lot easier. I already know you're married, I'm not going to make a fucking move." "I wouldn't allow it, either." He says through gritted teeth, making you shift in your chair, clearing your throat. "Would you like for me to step out?" "No." They say in unison, and Heeseung holds onto your shoulders as he looks at Chaeyoung. "Don't you think your family wants to know you're okay? It's been nine years." "What, do you keep up with them? Do they care about anything else besides that stupid company now?" She rolls her eyes, her jaw tight as she stares at her boots. "Your father sold it." Heeseung speaks softly, "He sold it not even a week after you left. Your sister bought it from him and funded half of the search party that looked for you for a year." Her eyes stay narrowed as her lips purse. "Doesn't mean they care. It was always the company this, the company that. Just like you, Hee." She glares up at him, "Focus on school, Soya. Let's study, Soya. We got into college and you just stopped wanting to hang out like we used to." "I'm 'just like them' because I prioritized my studies? Because I was on scholarship while mommy and daddy paid your way? My fucking bad, Soya." He scoffs, making her scowl. "See? You're just like them." "You're ungrateful! You've always been so blind at how things were just handed to you, you were always so fucking out of touch with everything! Your father had an entire company, a collection of businesses that he sold because you just wanted to up and leave! I don't think you will ever understand how privileged your life has been, even in the years you've been gone." His laugh is humorless as he shakes his head, and you clear your throat.

"I think maybe this has been enough for one day." "You don't get to decide that, Y/N. I still want an answer. Why. Not. Me." She's standing now, her face tear-stained but her eyes…they're full of fury. Towards who, you're not entirely sure anymore.

You look up at Heeseung, his jaw clenched as he runs a hand through his hair. "You just don't have what I need. I won't be with someone who can't make me feel fulfilled in all aspects of life, or someone who doesn't share the same goals as me. You don't see the world the way I do, and you never have." "And she does?" She gestures at you, her voice thick as her eyes gloss over once more. "Yes. She does. She is everything I could ever ask for and so much more than I will ever deserve." He folds his hands in front of him, "There is always going to be something in this life you cannot have, whether it be an object, a person, even a stick of gum. You can't hold onto that resentment forever, it will make you miserable. You shouldn't live your life that way, not when you have a husband who loves you and a life people would kill for. Not when someone you said was your best friend over and over has someone who loves him." She glares at him, her chest rising with shallow breaths. She shakes her coat off, pulling it over her arms and walking towards the door. Her hand wraps around the doorknob as she looks at the two of you, the tick in her jaw growing tighter as she sees you stand.

"You don't have to act like this, Chaeyoung. You don't have to keep running away, you'll never solve anything this way." "You're married to the man I've been in love with since I was six years old. You lied to me, knowing I was in pain about this entire situation, and you stand here and try to act innocent. You're just as guilty as I am, so you don't get to tell me how I get to act, Y/N." She whispers, a singular tear rolling down her face as she turns to Heeseung.

"You can tell my parents, and whoever else you please. Y/N can give them my information. I won't be coming back to Seoul, and I won't be visiting your practice again. Do not contact me further, and I won't make a scene."

She throws the door open, revealing the gaggle of detectives bunched around the door. Sunghoon nearly falls into the office as they disperse like bugs, catching himself on the doorframe. Chaeyoung stares up at him, his own eyes flickering to you. "You okay in here?"

"Fine." Heeseung replies curtly, and Chaeyoung scoffs, pushing past Sunghoon with a scowl on her face. She stalks through the precinct, and Minseo stares wide eyed as she shoves Jay and Jake out of the way to the double doors. Your eyes never leave her, continuing to stare after her as the doors shut.

You hear a disappointed sigh from your husband, and you peer up at him as Sunghoon shuts the door with his lips pressed into a thin line. He looks a mess, and you move to comfort him as Jay opens the door. He strides in confidently, a quirk in his brow as he pulls his hand out of his pocket, a new pack of cigarettes in his hand.

"Shall we?" It doesn't take much convincing to get you and Heeseung out the backway of the precinct, and you find yourself resting your forehead against the rough brick of the building. Jay lights your cigarette, sliding it between your fingers as Heeseung lights his own. You mumble a thanks, before holding it between your lips.

"Long day, huh?" He starts, his words muffled as he holds his own between his lips, the flicker of the lighter catching your attention. You nod, pushing off the brick wall to face the two men. Jay gives you a once over, "New dress?" "Storage." You shake your head, blowing smoke from your lips as Heeseung paces back and forth. "How's your girlfriend?" "Not my girlfriend, just a fling. Cut her off a bit ago. Feeling good, though." He nods, and Heeseung walks by you, your hand reaching for him. He takes it, leaning against the wall as he pulls you to him. He spins you around, making you face Jay as he wraps his arm in front of you. "PDA? From Lee Heeseung?" Jay acts shocked as you snort, closing your eyes as you lean your head back onto his shoulder. "You'd be surprised what Lee Heeseung has been up to these days." "Mmh, do tell." He shrugs, flicking the ash off his cigarette. "Did you know sharing details of your sex life to your friends is considered inappropriate social behavior?" You smirk, and he raises his brow.

"Oh, don't tell me the people who have been married for seven years are fucking. Oh man, holy shit." Jay sarcastically rolls his eyes, holding his hand to his chest as if he were clutching pearls. "Like animals." Heeseung speaks for the first time since you stepped outside, making your eyes widen as Jay's do the same. You glance up at him, watching the way he throws the cigarette butt onto the floor and stomps it out with his foot. He plucks yours from your fingers, slotting it between his lips for a slow drag before giving it back. His lips have a layer of glitter on them from your lipgloss.

"Hee, you cannot say that." "Who cares? It's Jay. It's not like he's going to ask to watch us fuck." He shrugs, making your cheeks grow hot as you turn to Jay to apologize, who is looking away with red ears. Heeseung looks over, blowing smoke out of his lips as he speaks. "Dude." "You fucking brought it up, dickwad." Jay scoffs, before stomping out his own cigarette butt. You don't speak, opting to run a hand through your hair as Heeseung sighs.

"Did you guys hear anything through the door?" "Every word. Walls are thin, you know." Jay nods, offering another cigarette. Heeseung takes it, sighing as Jay hands him the lighter. "I cannot believe she's been in love with you since you were kids." "She's not in love with me, she's infatuated with the idea of me." He rolls his eyes, fiddling with the lighter. "Her parents used to fight in front of us all the time, and when we were seventeen she told me that she wanted something better than that. Admirable, truly, but she was never going to find that with me." He holds the blue flame to the cigarette, before handing it back to Jay. "Wasn't she your first kiss?" "Ugh, yeah. I only said yes because she kept talking about how Mina, you remember her sister Mina? Mina had her first kiss at sixteen." He rolls his eyes again, his arm around you tightening slightly as he leans his head back onto the building. "I think a part of me hates her." "That's valid." You and Jay say in unison, before Jay tilts his head for you to continue. You shake yours, shrugging as Heeseung continues to talk. "She always pushed for us to become more and I just didn't want that. She lacks so much compassion, and that's why her father wanted her to take over the company. She's cold and calculated and that's why I befriended her in the first place, because no one wanted to be her friend. She was mean to everyone, but I guess she learned how to fake it well." You'd never heard Heeseung speak of her this way, but he clicks his tongue before you can ask anything. "I don't want to keep talking about her. I still have to call her parents, fuck." He runs his hand over his face. The three of you sigh in unison, a snort from Jay as he notices it, "Well…I can say that I'm glad to know she's alive, even if we don't let her back into our lives."

"Yeah." Heeseung nods, taking a final drag from the cigarette in his mouth before dropping it and putting it out. "I guess that's the silver lining in this all. Nine years…man." You nod silently, before patting his arm. "We can call on Monday when I get home from work. I have to get all her information, anyway, and remove her from my patient registry so her insurance stops getting processed." "Shit, I forgot about that." Heeseung groans, slumping slightly as Jay laughs. "You guys head on home, we can get paperwork processed to actually close the case. We'll see you on Tuesday, Lieu." "Tuesday?" He echoes absently, and Jay scoffs. "Fine, Wednesday. Is that too much time away for you, workaholic?"

Your laugh makes Heeseung look up, watching you as you put out your cigarette. The two of you only indulged every once in a while, and Heeseung never fully took the habit up after you refused to kiss him one night after a smoke. Jay bids the two of you goodnight as you all walk back into the building, his box of cigarettes now broken in and Heeseung beelining for his office to grab his coat. "Hungry?" You ask as he shrugs it on, and he shakes his head. "Wanna go home and shower, go to bed. Wanna cuddle?"

He never asks. You can’t bring yourself to say no, not that you’d want to anyway.

It's easy with you. You end up leaving your car in the precinct parking lot, dropping the keys on Jake's desk with the promise of dinner if he dropped it off at your house before morning. He rolled his eyes but agreed. The entire precinct watched as you left, Heeseung's arm holding you close – a sight they'd never seen.

"Can I be the little spoon tonight?" He asks as he buckles you in, and you press a kiss to his temple. "Yeah, Hee."

Monday, 6:32pm

The two of you spent the weekend processing everything that happened. You reluctantly left your husband's side for work this morning, driving yourself as he slept soundly. Your day felt incredibly slow, your hands aching to feel his warm skin under yours.

You'd felt the need to coddle him all weekend – you made his favorite meals, you massaged his back, you even made him a new pair of slacks. A navy blue this time, his smile shy as he modeled them for you on Sunday night. The two of you cuddled for hours, Heeseung burrowing his face in any crevice you'd allow. He kissed your skin all over, mumbles of I love you and hold me tighter falling from his lips as you spent the passing hours in your bed.

Your last patient of the day was a young girl in her twenties, her eyes constantly glossed over with tears as she tried to get comfortable with you. She wound up sobbing, your chest aching as you tried to comfort her. By the time she left, she looked much better – and she told you, thank you for your help. You have no idea how long I've been holding that in. It was enough to make your chest swell with pride as you drove home, a smile on your lips as you picked up dinner and played soft jazz on the radio. You felt the weight of the world slip onto your shoulders as you pulled into your driveway, killing the engine as you fished your house key out of your bag.

You'd contacted Chaeyoung's insurance the moment you got to the clinic, and pulled her from your patient registry without a second thought. You shoved her file into your bag and pushed the thought of it all out of your mind, choosing to focus all your energy on your patients and the way your shoes hurt your feet.

"Baby?" You called into the house as you opened the door, kicking your heels off with a sigh of relief. The cold tile of the foyer against your hot skin felt like Heaven, a shiver running down your spine as you set the bag of takeout down on the dinner table. You stop to listen, but hear nothing. "Baby, are you home?" You walk down the hall, reaching to take your earrings out as you cross the threshold to the bedroom. You see your husband laying on his back with his headphones on, the light off and curtains drawn. He wouldn't be able to see you if his eyes were open, but you can see him thanks to the light in the hallway behind you. His arms are crossed over his face, but you hear the familiar quiet sob fall from his lips. You feel your chest ache at the sight, but you don't interrupt him. You merely move your hands from your ears, leaving the earrings he gifted you a few years ago on as you fold your hands behind your back.

You watch him cry for a few minutes, before he groans in disgust. He wipes at his face angrily, sitting up abruptly with his eyes wide. He jumps as he sees you, his hand flying to his chest as you smile. "Hi." "Holy shit, babe. Don't do that." He takes his headphones off, carding his fingers through his hair as you shrug. "Maybe don't lay on our bed in the dark when I call for you twice." He rolls his eyes as you near the bed, your palms cool against his skin. "Anything you want to talk about?" Your thumbs wipe his cheeks as he shakes his head.

"Same old, just angry at the entire ordeal." He mumbles, his hands finding your hips. You hum, pressing a kiss to his hairline. "Well, I brought dinner. Come eat with me." "What did you get?" His voice is muffled as he buries his face in your stomach, the buttons of your vest annoying him as he huffs. You card your fingers through his hair, dragging your nails along his scalp, "I stopped at Pasta La Vista." "What happened to no more cheesy pun restaurants?" He snorts, and you pinch his cheek. "Ah, but I love going to those places with you. I love you, you know."

He sighs, reaching up to turn the light on. His fingers tug gently on the pull cord, the soft yellow light illuminating the room suddenly. You both wince as your eyes adjust, blinking rapidly before looking at each other. His mouth drops, making your head tilt. "Something wrong?" "Babe. Are you serious?"

His voice is whiny, paired with the splotchy cheeks and swollen lips from his crying. You furrow your brow in confusion, feeling his hands tighten on your hips. "What? Did I do something wrong?" "Be so fucking serious with me right now. Look at what you're wearing." He huffs, pulling at one of your belt loops. You glance down at your outfit, a form-fitting black pinstripe suit you hadn't worn in a few years. It had a matching vest, one you paired with a white button down underneath. You'd worn your white Hot Chicks, much to the dismay of your poor feet. "Do I look bad?" You ask softly, glancing at yourself in the mirror when he gets your attention by pulling at your belt buckle. "Are you kidding me? You look fucking amazing! You haven't worn this in ages, where the hell did you find it?" "You could've started with that! You had me thinking I did something wrong!" You huff, swatting at his shoulder as his fingers fiddle with the buttons of your vest. "I'm sorry, but you really caught me off guard. Fuck, have these always fit like this?" He runs his hands down the back of your thighs, and you feel your cheeks heat slightly as you shove his hands off you.

"Stop feeling me up and come eat dinner. We have things to do before we can turn in for the night." You remind him as you turn around to walk out of the bedroom when you feel his fingers pinch the swell of your ass. You reach behind you and smack his hand away, "Stop it!" "Fine, fine. Let me…get cleaned up I guess. I feel gross." He groans, rolling his eyes as he slides off the bed. You make your way to the kitchen without any more of Heeseung's touching, and you carefully plate everything up. You know he'd be content just eating on the couch with a show on, but you need something to busy yourself as your mind whirls with the idea of calling Chaeyoung's parents.

What would you even say? "Nice to meet you, now let me tell you all about how I betrayed your daughter when she came to me for therapy!" You groan, running your hands through your hair as you overwhelm yourself with thoughts. You thought you'd be fine, but you sort of thank your stars that you managed to make it through work without thinking about it. You'd rather be home and agonizing over it than anywhere else.

In all your thinking, you don't hear Heeseung walk into the kitchen. Your head is low between your shoulders as you hold onto the sink, taking deep breaths. You jolt when you feel his hand on your back, a concerned look in his eyes. "Are you okay?" "Yeah, fine. Sorry, just…thinking." You sigh, before pushing off the sink. He gives you a stern look, his hands moving to your waist to pull you into him. “Talk to me.”

You gently bang your forehead against his chest, “What are we even going to tell them?”

A low whistle comes from your husband’s lips, “I have no idea. Promise to still think I’m sexy if I break down?”

You snort, slapping his chest lightly as he smiles down at you. “Emotional vulnerability is sexy, Hee.”

“You want me so bad.” He chides, making you roll your eyes. You try not to let your eyes linger on the muscle of his arms, now showcased by a sleeveless white shirt he must've changed into. “Let’s eat dinner and I’ll take care of whatever hornball issue you have later.”

“Will you keep the suit on?” He asks, brow raised as he scans your face. You rub your temples, before feigning an annoyed sigh. “Yes, Heeseung, I’ll keep the suit on.”

“Have I ever told you how much I love you?” He smiles as you try to weasel your way out of his arms, but he holds you tightly. He pins you against the sink, his hand moving to hold your face gently. The tip of his nose touches yours slightly, the same electricity that skin-to-skin contact with your husband causes runs down your spine. “Have I?”

“You’re going to wax poetic after I said I’d keep the suit on to get you off?” You snort, and he rolls his eyes. “I’m going to wax poetic after my wife agrees to some weird shit I ask of her simply because she loves me as I love her.”

You struggle not to roll your eyes, but your warming cheeks give you away. "Please focus on the order of events, will you? Dinner, dreaded call, then whatever freak shit you have in your head. Move it." He grins as he presses a kiss to your forehead, before letting you worm out of his grasp. Dinner is quiet, with neither of you wanting to talk too much in detail about your days. Heeseung would know you were so stressed that you skipped lunch, and you'd know that he'd had to change his pillowcase twice because of how long he'd been crying. It wasn't something either of you wanted to share, but simultaneously, you both knew. "Do you think they'll be happy?" You murmur around a breadstick, a pout on your husband's lips as he chews. "I mean…I would hope so. Mrs. Cha lost her mind when she disappeared." "Define lost her mind."

He sighs, taking a sip of his water. "I guess the same way I did, but worse. The first year had to have been the worst. No sleep, she barely ate and was having constant breakdowns…but it's different. A mother's love is nothing compared to what I may have felt then." He shrugs, and you find yourself humming in response.

Your eyes are downcast, pushing the remaining pasta around on your plate as he gazes at you. "I'm sorry to have put you through that." "Do you remember our vows? I'd promised I'd be there, always." You say pointedly, and he shakes his head. "I mean, through what happened on Friday. I will never stop apologizing for any of it, I know that in my heart. That day was just too much for you, I saw it in the way you looked at her. She hurt your feelings." "Calling me a bitch is hardly hurting my feelings, I've heard far worse." You snort, but Heeseung leans slightly across the table. "You know that's not what I'm talking about, honey. You're great at your job, you have to know that."

You sigh, "I know, I even had a patient today tell me I helped her a lot and it made me feel really nice. But, I will admit it was a dumb move to keep Chaeyoung as a patient. I should have told her from the get-go who I was and what I knew, and then maybe Friday would've gone differently. If at all, you know." "It's too late to think about what we should have done. We can only look forward, and unfortunately that means we have to make that call to her parents." He slumps in his chair, closing his eyes. "What if I cry?" "Then you cry, honey." You shrug, "I'll be here anyway. We're doing this together." Nothing more is said as the two of you clean up, opting to brush your teeth to remove the taste of the garlic from your tongues. You find yourself reapplying your lipstick, wiping the corners of your lips as you cap the wine red wax. Heeseung sits on the couch with his phone in his hand as you retrieve the file from your purse. He sighs as you walk over, your thigh brushing his as you sit next to him. "Ready?" You ask softly, your fingers flicking the file open. Heeseung sighs inwardly as he dials the number he's known by heart since he was a kid. You drape your leg over his to feel him closer, his hand sliding around your upper thigh as the line rings.

"Cha Residence, Seonmi speaking."

The woman's voice is tired, and Heeseung squeezes his eyes shut as he speaks. "Hi, Mrs. Cha. It's uhm…it's Heeseung." The line is quiet for a moment, before a gentle sigh is heard. "Hi, sweetheart. Long time." "I know, I'm sorry." He mumbles, earning a soft laugh from her. "Nothing to be sorry for. Are you alright? How's your wife?"

"She's good. She's here, actually. Would you like to say hello?" He holds the phone towards you, and you clear your throat as you say a soft hello. "Oh, hello! Wow, I've never heard you speak, I've only seen photos of you. How are you? Heeseung treating you well, I hope?" You feel your cheeks heat as you respond, "Yeah, yes ma'am. I'm okay, how are you?" "Oh, you know. Same old, struggling. Did you guys need something from me? Maybe something of Soyoung's?" She sounds so tired, it makes your heart ache.

"Actually, we called with an update. If you're in the headspace to hear it." Heeseung says shakily, and you find yourself pressing a kiss to his cheek, stamping your lipstick on his skin. He leans into your lips, and you brush another in the same place before leaning your head on his shoulder.

"Oh, boy. Another sighting, I assume?" Mrs. Cha sounds defeated, and you can hear the clicking of a keyboard in the distance. You clear your throat, and Heeseung holds the phone to you. "I think it's better if my wife tells you." "Sweetheart, please get on with it."

You take the phone gingerly, clearing your throat. "For starters, I'm a therapist in the next town over. I started that job a few weeks back, and I've been taking new patients. Your daughter was one of them." Nothing is heard on the other end, and Heeseung gives you a nod to keep talking. His hand squeezes around your thigh, and you speak again. "She's changed her name, and she's married. I…she talked about everything that led to her disappearance as well as everything going on in her life currently. She's well, and she's established."

"So…you found her?" You hear a soft sob from the other end, your own eyes stinging. "We did. She talked a lot about Heeseung, so I didn't tell her we were married. I drove her to the precinct on Friday to see him again for the first time since she disappeared, and it did not go well, to say the least. However, she did give us permission to share her information with you, and I've got everything in front of me if you've got a pen or something to jot it down." You hear the rustling of paper and pens knocking against each other as someone talks in the background. Mrs. Cha sniffles into the phone, "Go ahead. I'm ready." You read everything out to her, spelling street names and offering to send photos over as well. "And you're sure it's her? You know it?" Mrs. Cha's voice is shaky as you hear a chair get pushed back, and Heeseung replies, "Positive. We wouldn't have called if we weren't sure, I was in denial when Y/N told me." "Do you…should I call her? I know she's angry with me, she must be." Mrs. Cha sounds distant, like she's walking somewhere. "She may be angry, but I'm sure she wouldn't have allowed us to give you her information if she didn't want you to contact her or know of her reappearance." You say gently, and hear Mrs. Cha laugh through her presumed tears.

"You chose the right profession, Y/N. I can see how easily this comes to you."

Heeseung's eyes widen as he looks down at you, your own lips spread in a shy smile. His eyes speak for themselves – See? Told you.

"Thank you." You murmur, and Heeseung squeezes your leg as he clears his throat. "Well, that's all we really called for. Feel free to keep us updated, we'll get all the paperwork for the case figured out. We can handle our end privately, but you can choose how to go about things on your end." "Thank you, sincerely. I know the last nine years have been grueling for you as well, Heeseung. I hope you know you'll always have a place in our family and our hearts, and you're welcome in our home any time. You as well, Y/N. We'd love to have you over for dinner."

You gape as Heeseung answers gently, saying he'll figure out some dates and get back to her. She agrees, and a soft take care is whispered from your husband before he hangs up.

He leans forward to put his phone and Chaeyoung's file on the coffee table, before sighing. You rest your arm against the back of the couch, smushing your cheek with the heel of your palm. He slumps against the cushions silently, his hand slinking up and down your thigh.

"Feel better? This was somehow under and overwhelming." "Weight off my fucking shoulders, I'll tell you that much." He huffs, rubbing his face in frustration. You hum, reaching to run your fingers through his hair as he turns his head to face you, a pout on his lips. "Why does everything have to suck?" "Does everything suck?" You repeat thoughtfully, looking around your living room. "I mean, consider the good things. We've got this wonderful home, we have our health and your family. We have our jobs. Job market is garbage, you know." He sighs, looking around the room. "Now I just sound ungrateful." You snort, before pushing yourself up and straddling his lap, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. You settle high on his thighs, his hands instinctively coming to rest on your hips. "You're not ungrateful, you're just going through the motions. I honestly thought you'd be worse. That's why this all seems so underwhelming to me, I thought it would be a much bigger ordeal, that you'd be excited to see her." "I would have been, if it weren't for the fact that she left at her own will. A part of me just wishes she would have fucking said something, I could've talked to her. Or her parents, or something, you know?" He's frustrated as you nod, thumbing the lobe of his ear. "Oh, but you can't save everyone. You're only human. I know that's one of the first fates you face when you do the kind of work you do." He huffs, "I just have questions that I won't ever get answers to. It bothers me because no matter what she does or says, it just feels like betrayal over and over again. If we pile the fact that she said all those shitty things to you, it just makes me hate her more."

"Hating people is so taxing, baby." You shrug, "It's not good for the spirit, or your hairline." "Keep making jokes about my hairline, see how that works out for you." He scoffs, making you scrunch your nose at him. "I've been making jokes about your hairline since we met, I think it's worked out just fine. I have this house, I have this couch…" You trail off as you lean closer, brushing your nose with his, his eyes wide as he looks up at you. "I have you, on this couch, in this house and your signature on a paper that says you're my husband. What does that say about you?" "That I like gorgeous women in suits who make fun of me, I guess." He shrugs, his hands squeezing your hips as you brush your lips against his. You move away as he tries to connect your lips, making him roll his eyes. "Just kiss me, will you?" "Is that how we get the things we want?" You pull back, your brow raised as he sighs. This was a game you liked to play every once in a while, knowing that Heeseung easily flustered when you took charge. He reveled in it, sure, but it definitely took him a bit to accept that you called the shots.

"Babe, come on." "Hm, I don't like that answer." Shrugging, you start moving off his lap, earning a groan as he uses his strength to hold your hips flush to his. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please kiss me, I need it." "You need it?" You scoff, your hands on his shoulders as he blushes, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips. "I need you."

"Yeah? Need me where?" Your eyes look at him expectantly, feeling him shift under you with nerves, looking down. Your gaze doesn't waver as you tilt his chin back up, his eyes full of lust and adoration. "Where?" "Here." His cheeks flushed impossibly deeper as he pouted up at you, moving your fingertips to his lips. He kisses the pads of your fingers, making you coo as you press your lips to the tip of his nose. He chases your lips as you plant kisses around his entire face, stamping your lipstick on his skin carefully. "Baby, please."

"I love you." You murmur against his lips, making his eyes flutter shut as you finally kiss him. His hands move to your waist, pulling your chest flush to his as you shrug off your suit jacket, tossing it to the side as you gently lick into his mouth. He groans into your mouth, his fingers flexing against your body as you suck on the tip of his tongue. His hips rut up against you slowly, a whine from your throat making you pull away, dragging your lips down his jaw.

"Can I take care of you, baby?" You murmur against the shell of his ear, making him shiver as you nip at the lobe, a quiet please from his throat. His hands twitch at your sides, soft whines from his lips as you trail your tongue down the slope of his neck. You feel his fingers move to fumble with the buttons of your vest, before he untucks your shirt, sliding his hands slightly under it to feel the heat of your skin against his.

"I love you so much." He mumbles as you kiss his swollen lips again chastely, your fingers undoing your shirt buttons as he watches your face with low eyes. His hands snake higher on your stomach, before the tips of fingers brush your bare breasts. His eyes widen as he pulls away, jaw falling slack as he sees your lack of undergarments. "Baby." "Just enjoy it." You roll your eyes, shivering as he runs his thumbs over your pebbled nipples. He leans forward slightly, before your hand cards through his hair. "This is not about me." "You said enjoy it. How can I, if you don't let me?" He scoffs, moving your hand from its spot on the nape of his neck, pulling you forward into his mouth. His tongue swirls expertly around the hardened nub, your hand finding and digging into the back of the couch. Heeseung feels his head spinning as he breathes you in, the soft scent of his favorite perfume on your skin. You groan quietly as your hips roll against his, a soft fuck from your lips as he carefully drags his teeth on the sensitive bud. He moves to the other side, your hand tangling in his hair again as he plants wet kisses across your chest. "So perfect for me." He murmurs, flattening his tongue against your nipple as his hands move to undo your belt. He pulls it through the loops within seconds, tossing it aside and palming your ass over your pants, moving you over his bulge slowly. He relishes in the sounds you make, whimpers from your throat making his cock twitch in his pants as he continues to lap at your chest. "Always so fucking beautiful. You make me insane."

You whine in response, pulling his head away from your chest and reconnecting your lips. He feels your hand snake down between your bodies, palming at his hardened cock through his sweatpants. He groans into your mouth, his hips rutting into your hand involuntarily. You slip your tongue in his mouth, letting him messily kiss you back as he tangles a hand in your hair – your own beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging at them gently. He obliges, lifting his hips for you to pull them down to his knees. You pull away from his lips as much as the hand in your hair will allow, your hand wrapping around his leaking cock gently. He shudders as you stroke him, whining against your lips when you pull his hand out of your hair, sliding off his lap and settling between his knees. He lets out a breath as you glance up at him through thick lashes, before pressing a kiss to his inner thigh. His hands move back to your hair, gathering it into a messy ponytail as you continue to drag your lips around his skin, faint lipstick stains marking your path. He feels his stomach cave the moment you swirl your tongue around his tip, a broken moan cutting through the air.

"S'fucking pretty like this…" He groans, watching as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks slightly. Your tongue laps at the underside of his cock, following the thick vein as his tip hits the back of your throat. Gagging around him, you feel his hips jerk up involuntarily, a murmured apology as you pull off, shaking your head. "Want it, want you to do that."

Your ears are watery as you look up at him, your hand wrapped around his shaft as his lips parted in a soft grunt. He wipes his thumb across your lower lip before he takes his cock in his hand, "Beautiful."

You feel your cheeks flush, not responding to the compliment as he opens your mouth for you. You stick out your tongue, making him smirk as he slides the heavy head of his cock on it. You blink up at him before you sink down on him, hearing a soft sigh fall from his lips. He rocks his hips up slowly, throwing his head back with a whimper as you gag around him.

"Feel s'fucking good, baby. Love you so much, fuck…" You feel your skin prickle at the praise, your eyes brimming with tears as the tip of his cock brushes the back of your throat, a groan making him shiver. "Always so good to me…"

You hum as best as you can, feeling his hand tighten in your hair as the tell-tale whimper falls from your husband's lips. He pulls you off almost reluctantly, staring up at the ceiling and biting down on his lip as you look up at him, seeing his chest move in shallow breaths. "Hee–" "Need to feel you." He pulls you off your knees by your wrists, making you slide your knee between his for balance. His lips feel frantic as he kisses you messily, groaning at the slight taste of himself inside your mouth as you try to keep up. "Need to cum inside you, baby." His lips ghost over yours as he unbuttons your slacks, your teeth nipping at his bottom lip as he hooks his thumbs into the belt loops. You let him tug them down, stepping out of them when he snaps the waistband of your underwear against your skin. "Take it off." "What, do you want me to strip for you?" You roll your eyes, and he smirks lightly. "We can spin that back another time. Take it off." You oblige, feeling your husband's hands wrap around your thighs as you kick your underwear off to the side. He pulls you forward, instinctively making you straddle him slightly before he looks up, his hand snaking between your thighs. "Do you need–"

You shake your head quickly as he glides his fingers through your wet folds, his eyes widening as you shiver. He holds his hand up to the light, your arousal stringy between his fingers, gathering around his wedding band. He peers up at you, "Really?" "Shut up." Your cheeks burn as he scoffs out a laugh, before running his tongue over his fingers. "All fours, please." He tilts his head towards the free space on the couch, your eyes narrowing as you do as he says, hearing the thwip of his shirt being pulled over his head.

"You know," You mumble as you settle on your elbows, "This is not-ah!" The warm feeling of Heeseung's tongue on your clit makes you jolt, and you feel him smile into your skin as his hands rest on your hips. He groans as you push your hips against his face, your fingers digging into the couch cushion as you whine into the brown suede. "So fucking wet, for what? A little kissing?" He's talking down to you, amused at the way your pussy clenches around his tongue, your whimper muffled by your shirt sleeve, "I love you." "Yeah? My messy girl loves me?" His voice is clearer now, and you feel his hand grip your hip as he drags the tip of his cock through your folds with a hiss. You push back against him with a whine, earning a firm smack to the back of your thigh. "Behave. You can wait."

You can hear him mutter under his breath as he ruts against you, his breathing shaky as he holds you steady. You feel him sink inside you slowly, the wet squelch making your cheeks burn in embarrassment as you whimper at the stretch. "I know honey, I know." Heeseung's voice is almost goading as he rocks into you slowly, biting down on his lip as you clench around him. "You take me so well, baby. Just love this dick, huh?" He holds your hips tight as you nod, your voice lost on you as he brushes that spongy spot inside you. You're pliant in his hands, your eyes rolling back when you feel his hand come down on your ass sharply, a moan falling from your lips into the cushion.

"Filthy little thing." He mutters, running his hand over the reddened skin. "Love being treated like a slut, don't you?" His fingers move to hold onto your waist, hearing you mumble something before leaning down slightly. "Don't you?" "Yours. Your slut." You mumble as you nod shyly, the duality making his chest ache as he coos. "All mine, yeah? Get this wet for me only, right?" The sound of your soft moans is almost drowned out by the smack of his hips against your ass.

"Always feel so good around me, baby, shit.." His hand tangles in your hair, pulling you up carefully. You whimper as your back hits his chest, your hand holding onto the back of the couch as he bullies his cock into you. He feels you clamp down around him, your skin hot to the touch as he slides his hand down, circling your clit with his fingers.

"Always take such good care of me, my gorgeous girl. My wife, fuck, I love you." He mutters into your neck, his eyes catching your earrings swinging as he nips at your skin. You whine inwardly, looking away from him as you clench around him, your orgasm on the tip of your tongue as he thrusts into you.

His hand moves from your hair to cradle your face, turning you just slightly to see the fucked out glaze in your eyes, your lips swollen and slick with spit. He smiles softly, brushing his lips over yours, "I love you."

You close your eyes as he kisses you messily, nothing but teeth and tongue as your orgasm washes over you, a whiny moan into your husband's mouth. He carefully tugs off your vest and shirt, "Just a little more baby, almost there. Gonna fill you up, yeah?" "Y-Yeah." You whimper as he lets you fall forward slowly, your trembling thighs only egging him on as he runs his hands over your bare back. "So fucking perfect. S-Such a perfect woman, could never ask for anyone better. M-My angel, my everything." He's rambling, forcing himself to focus as he overstimulates you chasing his orgasm. You mewl into the cushion relentlessly, pushing against him when he notices you holding your hand out behind your back. He interlocks your fingers, before spilling inside you with a whimper. He shudders above you, your hand squeezing his gently before you let go. He digs his fingers into your hips deeply, earning a groan as you shakily try to sit up on your elbows. You only manage to push back on him, a choked moan ringing through the air as he grabs at your hips. He winces as he pulls out carefully, his eyes glued to the way you clench around nothing with soft breaths. His fingers ghost over your hole as you push his release out, not realizing how sensitive you are as he smears it all over your glistening folds. "H-Heeseung!" You reach back to swat at him, making his eyes snap up to look at you. He smiles sheepishly, apologizing under his breath as he wipes his fingers on his shirt.

"You okay?" He murmurs, his cheeks aflame as he realizes how spent you are, your hips almost giving out as he holds you up. You give him a tired nod, "We cannot fuck on my precious couch again. People sit here." He scoffs, and you feel the soft cotton of his shirt wiping down your legs. You feel him shift behind you, flinching when you feel his shirt wiping between your thighs. "Can't we just shower?" "We can, but I can't lie…I kind of like watching it drip out." He admits quietly, and you roll your eyes. "I feed so many of your guilty pleasures, but this is one I'm going to cut short. I'm all sticky." "I can make you stickier, if you want." He runs his hands up your thighs, and you scoff as you use your remaining strength to flip yourself onto your back. He's red in the face, and not just from your lipstick, his eyes glued to your center. "Hee, stop. You fucking freak." "This fucking freak is your husband, I'd be nicer to me if I were you. I suggest you tell me you love me, that's a pretty good start." He shrugs, acting nonchalant as he leans down. You give him an amused look as you run your fingers through his hair, "And I married you, why?" "Because I'm tall, tan, young, lovely." He shrugs, making you snort. "Girl from Ipanema, is that you?" "I love you." He wrinkles his nose as you press a soft kiss to it, his hands carefully moving your hair out of your eyes. "Thank you. I didn't realize how much I needed this. How much I…need you. I'm sorry it's taken me this long, baby." Your cheeks warm at his confession, your thumbs gently stroking his cheeks. "I love you. I'm always here when you need a little TLC." "And when I don't?" "And when I do, and when I don't. Whenever, you know I'm here." You assure softly, his eyes slightly glazed over as you press a chaste kiss to his lips. "However, I will admit…my TLC of preference right now is a hot shower. Care to join me?" "You and your hot showers. Can you even stand up?"

"If I can't, it just means you can eat me out in the shower." You shrug, seeing the wheels turn in your husband's head as he locks your legs around his waist. A shriek falls from your lips as he picks you up, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as he moves towards the bathroom with a kiss to your lips. "And suddenly, I too, love hot showers. Shall we?"

Tuesday, 12:33pm.

It'd been a few weeks since you and Heeseung reached out to the Cha family, and the case had been officially declared closed by the Seventh Precinct. However, such a reappearance after so many years for such a prolific family meant many, many interviews and involvement with the press. It meant seeing Chaeyoung and her husband, as well as her family over and over again, even when it came to things that weren't about her.

Your relationship was still not perfect – with you and Heeseung slowly working through your issues, things got easier. He managed to submit the paperwork for his vacation to start on Friday, and had some final things to settle at the Seoul Central District Court with a few attorneys involved in a case he and Jay were attempting to break into. He'd called you to meet him and Sunoo for lunch and a meeting to bring you on as an expert witness, as you had a short day in the office.

Short day in the office does not warrant a short day outside of it, though – and you found your husband crowded by reporters and flashing cameras as you tried to quietly make your way into the courthouse. You hoped they wouldn't see you – Heeseung had been pissed enough already when a few reporters dragged your name through the mud when Chaeyoung gave her side of the story, pictures of you that he loved now torn to shreds by internet trolls and what little social media you did have had been flooded with hateful comments. You wound up deleting everything, and staying away from your phone as much as possible. Heeseung arranged private security, and even had Sunghoon assigned to keep an eye out for any suspicious activity around you.

Nothing had happened, and you were sure nothing would – but you couldn't lie, you felt safer when you and Heeseung were behind the locked doors of your home, hidden away in your bedroom.

You could hear the reporters shouting questions at Heeseung, the tick in his jaw evident as he answered one question at a time. You watch from afar a bit, your facemask protecting you from being discovered as you inch closer. You can see his patience begin to thin and you're about to barrel down the steps to him when you hear a reporter shout over all the others.

"Lieutenant, your wife has been dragged by the media in all forms. What are your thoughts on that, considering that Jeon Chaeyoung was once your life-long friend?" Heeseung's face hardens, and he pinches the bridge of his nose as he speaks.

"I have nothing to say on Mrs. Jeon, I cannot understand why she'd speak about Dr. Lee that way. Please write that down, put that into the world. She's not just my wife, she's her own person and she had a huge role in this case. I would have lost my mind if it weren't for her, and her impact should not be reduced simply because we're married." You feel your chest fill with warmth as you take a few more steps down, a reporter spotting you and you press a finger to your facemask, your wedding ring making her eyes widen. She says nothing as you listen to Heeseung speak.

"Dr. Lee was a pertinent witness to the entire case, and had she not been involved, had she not said something, Mrs. Jeon's case would've remained open and no one would know of her whereabouts. Her family had been in absolute shambles for the last nine years, and frankly, as harsh as it sounds, I'm glad that it's finally over. Dr. Lee is not to blame for whatever upset feelings Mrs. Jeon may have, or whatever resentment she may have towards myself. If she wants to drag anyone through the dirt, she might as well drag me. Dr. Lee is entirely innocent in this, she was a huge stepping stone in bridging crucial pieces of information together and restoring the Cha family. In other words, keep my wife's name out of your mouth unless you're praising her. I'm tired of hearing this, so I have nothing more to say on the matter."

Your eyes are wide as he shrugs, before the reporter who spotted you makes a few moves up the steps, trying not to alert anyone else. You tilt your head at her, and she quietly steps up to you. She holds her recorder up slightly, and you nod, beckoning her closer with your hand.

"Dr. Lee, how do you feel about Lieutenant Lee coming to your defense amongst the influx of hate from netizens?" You lean down to her to speak into the small microphone, clearing your throat. "I think Lieutenant Lee is one of the most kind-hearted, driven, loving people in my life. There's a reason he's my husband, you know. I couldn't ask for a better man." The reporter's eyes soften as Heeseung turns around, bidding the reporters a goodbye as he buttons his coat up, trekking back up the stairs. He looks up, his eyes meeting yours as you give him a little wave. He walks up to you, giving the reporter a curt nod before slipping his fingers in yours.

The reporter gives you a soft thank you, before walking down the steps. You let Heeseung guide you up the steps, and glance over your shoulder to see reporters taking photos of the two of you from behind. You nudge him with your elbow, and he looks down at you. "Yes?" "Kiss me." You tilt your head towards the reporters, and he snorts as the two of you reach the doors. "You sure?" "Positive." You nod as you pull your mask off, the camera flashes almost blinding as they watch you press your lips to Heeseung's, his arm wrapping around your waist as his hand cradles your cheek. Your lipstick stains his mouth as you pull away, and you give the reporters a cheeky thumbs up as he pulls you into the courthouse.

Sunoo's eyes are wide as you walk into his quarters with Heeseung, your lipstick now also stamped on his cheek from a kiss you gave him in the hallway. He smiles warmly as you offer a hug, embracing you tightly. "God, it's so nice to see you in love." He murmurs into your hair, patting your back before you all take a seat at his desk. The three of you are going over the options for lunch when you hear a knock at the door, your head whipping around to see your mother entering the office. Your eyes widen, and Heeseung is up before you know it. He's greeting her warmly, her face remaining stoic as he takes her coat. She looks tired, and you stand on shaky legs.

"Hello, Mother." You say softly, your eyes flickering to Heeseung and Sunoo as they stand to the side. She steps in front of you, her eyes scanning you carefully. You wince as she steps slightly closer, only for her to breathe out softly.

"I wanted to speak to you earlier this week, amidst everything in the media. However, I'm too prolific and I worried I'd be followed to your home, so I left a few messages on your answering machine. I assume you didn't receive them, so is now a good time?" She's still professional, your mother had no idea how to be comforting or warm. You nod slowly, shoving your trembling hands into your coat. "S-Sure. Yeah, we can talk." Your mother had never cared who was around when she spoke to you about anything. It was one of the more mortifying things about her, but she made up for it by keeping her voice quiet enough that only you could hear her.

"May I touch you?" She asks with a twinge in her voice you'd never heard, and you nod slowly. "Okay." She doesn't wait for another second, throwing her arms around you as she pulls you into a tight embrace. Your eyes are wide as you look at Heeseung and Sunoo, their own the size of saucers as you awkwardly wrap your arms around her. "Are you…alright?" "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I read everything that you said in your interviews, about Chaeyoung and her reasons behind leaving, and how deeply you understood her dilemma. I never realized I was pushing you away, and I'm incredibly sorry if I ever made you feel like I wasn't supportive of your dreams or career choices. I know that this may be a too little, too late sort of situation, but I couldn't let more time go by without letting you know how proud I am of you and everything you've accomplished, not just as a professional but as a woman, as my daughter, as a wife."

Your eyes are stinging with tears as Heeseung's jaw drops, your mother pulling back to cup your face in her hands. "And I'll sue that little bitch for all she has for dragging you through the mud. I'll do it, I'll wring her dry of every asset she's ever acquired."

Her eyes are full of tears as you gape at her, before she presses a kiss to your forehead. "I love you so much, darling. I'm so, so sorry."

"Mom-" "I'm so glad to have you, darling. Please don't disappear on me, I promise you I cannot handle it." You let her pull you back into her embrace, the tears streaming down your cheeks before she pulls away quickly. "Alright, I've got a meeting I'm running late to. I just saw you in the window and I needed to pop in and talk to you. As you were, I'll give you a call later." She gives the three of you a curt nod, before taking her coat and skirting back out of Sunoo's office.

The three of you are silent, your arms wrapped around yourself as you cover your mouth with your hand. You don't wipe your tears as they stream down, and you look up at the men staring at you in shock. "She said she's proud of me." You whine suddenly, and Heeseung lets out a soft laugh as you walk into his embrace, Sunoo smiling to himself as Heeseung strokes your hair, sharing a glance with his long-time friend as you sob into his shirt. "Oh, my baby. You deserve all that and more."

"Should we push the meeting? I think we've got a lot of big feelings to work out, Dr. Lee." Sunoo speaks up gently, and you pout as Heeseung agrees before you can say anything. You mumble out an apology, but Sunoo shakes his head, waving you off. "Let me lead you out the backway, those reporters would have a ball with your crying face."

"Shut up, Sunoo." You scoff, making him snicker as he leads you both out of his office, your head bowed as you let Heeseung hide you from onlookers. You both quietly thanked Sunoo as he opened the door for you and bid you farewell, saying he'd try and get everything done before Heeseung's allotted vacation time. They agreed to meet again on Thursday, with Sunoo giving your shoulder a soft squeeze.

"Give yourself some more credit, Y/N. You deserve it."

Saturday, 4:44pm.

"You found it? You look so beautiful, holy shit." Heeseung was laid on the bed, held up by his elbows as you stood in front of the mirror, a quizzical look on your face as you clipped in your earrings. You purse your lips, turning to face him, the sarong skirt of the dress he'd made you swinging slightly.

"You sure? It's not too…showy?" You pout, running your hands over the soft white fabric. You'd dug this dress back out specifically for this occasion, renewing your vows with your husband on a simple vacation in the middle of nowhere. By middle of nowhere, you mean the same field he proposed to you in, two hours out of Seoul and likely full of flowers this time of year.

"Baby, it's just you and me. You can be as showy as you want in your dress, as bummy as you want in your sweatpants. You're fucking angelic." He pulls you to him by your hips, "I did great on this hem, you can't lie." "Wonderful, yes." You roll your eyes, feeling his hands snake under the skirt. You allow it, feeling your cheeks warm as he snaps the waistband of your underwear against your hip. "Let me go down on you." You sigh, rubbing your temples as your husband presses a kiss to your cleavage. "Heeseung, the sun is going to set and we're going to be doing this in the dark." "Can I go down on you after?" He questions, not really paying attention as he stands, his hands low on your back as he pulls you to him. "Heeseung." "Two orgasms, right after we're done, on the hood of my car." He offers, making you snort. "One orgasm, after we're done, in the backseat." "I'll take it!" He presses a chaste kiss to your lips, making you giggle as he lands a soft smack to your ass. "Stop it!" "You love me! Now get your cute ass in the car, we've got shit to do."

And it feels easy. It feels light, sitting next to Heeseung as he pulls out of the driveway with one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding your fingers tightly. It feels good, listening to your husband sing along softly to soft jazz songs on the radio before you plug in your phone, and then hearing him sing along to your playlists. It feels like getting a breath of fresh air when you see the afternoon sunlight beaming on his skin, his white shirt reflecting the light painfully into your eyes. It feels like the way your heart starts beating a little faster when you catch a whiff of his spicy cologne, your eyes falling on him with a soft smile. It feels like an emotional orgasm when he times playing No Song Without You by HONNE perfectly to when you arrive, your pout being kissed off frantically by your attentive, doting husband. It feels like falling in love when he holds you close, pressing his lips anywhere you'd allow him to as you both reach into your pockets for the thick packets of words you've written. It feels like falling in love when he goes off script, holding the papers in his hand as he looks into your eyes. It feels like falling in love when he kisses your tears off your face as you tell him how much you appreciate his changes, it feels like falling in love when he says you should never thank him for doing what's right. It feels like falling in love, when he pulls a box out of his pocket and presents yet another gold ring to add to your set, with your initials engraved on the outside.

It feels like falling in love with he suggests you both pick flowers from the field to press when you get home. It feels like falling in love when he holds your hand and pulls you close when you've wandered too far, it feels like falling in love when he's kissing you against the hood of his car. It feels like falling in love when he carries you into the backseat and you wind up naked in his lap, a whining and writhing mess as he tells you how pretty you are, how much he loves you, how bad he wants to get you pregnant so everyone knows you're his. It feels like falling in love, when on the ride home, he can't keep his hands off you.

It feels like falling in love, when he wastes no time getting you in the bedroom, your dress on the floor with his shirt and pants. It feels like falling in love when he draws a bath for the two of you, it feels like falling in love when he tells you I love you as he washes your hair, your body, your face.

It feels like falling in love again, but this time? You don't feel like you're falling alone.

TAGLIST: @thesassy-mia @starfallia @ramenoil @hoonieversies @wintabite @shnnzsworld @eneiyri @jjongsha @ilovejungwonandhaechan @oopshee @capri-cuntz @petalsofink @teddybeartaetae @chocminteu @moon0fthenight @delvziion @heeseungthel0ml @bbyjw @isa942572, @304files, @seungjiseyo @gaytron3000 @melonvrs @yizhoutv @riribelle @swaggieee

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fushitoru · 10 months ago

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私はスター ! masterlist

note: longfics are works that are >10k, and oneshots are standalone fics 1k-10k. works indicated with a star (★) contain/will contain explicit smut. proceed with caution, heed all warnings, and remember⸻don't like it? don't read it!

series.

the season of thorned roses ⸻ gojo x reader ★

dearest gentle reader, a new season is upon us as the ton gets ready for a season filled with drama, heartbreak, and passion. after being crowned diamond of the season, duke gojo⸺only looking to marry just to secure his inheritance⸺has his sights set on you, the easiest (and most obvious) option. later, when you catch his saying unsavory things about you on a terrace when he least suspected it, you swear to never marry gojo. as london's fashionable set goes through yet another wedding season, will there be hope for scandalous gossip, hate, and thinly veiled insults, or will we witness blooming love and passion?

long-fics.

infect me with your love ⸻ gojo satoru x reader ★

you have always existed in gojo satoru’s shadow. he is a physics prodigy, a person that everyone endlessly admires for his intelligence and charisma, and you hate him for taking the spotlight that you deserve to share with him. but it all changes one day at 5:07AM at your starbucks job when gojo barges in, ordering ridiculously sweet drinks and posing existential questions. is there more to gojo that meets the eye, and is it linked to the vigilante swinging around New York City? (19.7k). part of kinktober 2024!

an imperial command ⸻ kamo choso x reader ★

you, the princess of the nation, and choso, the son of your father's most trusted general, have been inseperable since birth. but after many deem it inappropriate for him to be so close to you, the distance between you and him only deepens after he leaves for war. when he comes back older and a more handsome, bigger version of the choso of your childhood, you both grapple with love, duty, and test the bounds of propierty (13k).

a song of past romance ⸻ gojo satoru x reader ★

king gojo satoru of ithaca travels to sparta, seeking to win over who they say is the most beautiful mortal woman's heart. so when he sees you upon his arrival weaving under an olive tree, looking goddess-sent, he immediately loses the plot and concludes that it must be you that the tales and legends must talk about. it is not, but gojo has chosen who his queen will be. as gojo continues to break down your walls with his endless devotion and silver tongue, you must decide: will you let duty and your loved ones's expectations decide your fate, or will you choose the man who would defy even the heavens to claim you as his queen? (14.8k)

one-shots.

gojo satoru.

worth the wait ★

you abhor your academic rival, satoru gojo. he's a cocky asshole that you fight with constantly for the spot at first place. but when you finally discover what's underneath all those lame sweaters of his with a once in a blue moon visit at the gym (spoiler alert: he's not a scrawny nerd), you'll be fighting your severe attraction to the man who makes your life a bit harder. and maybe fall in love with him, too, in the process (8.8k)

rainy days and brownies ★

you wake up for some soft moments with your boyfriend that involves brownies (turned freaky) (2.2k)

seperation anxiety! ★

clan head satoru begs you to attend a meeting with the higher-ups, but not for the reasons you thought.

all i want for christmas is you! ★

after a well needed rest from the kids, you and your boyfriend focus on baking christmas cookies for your pta responsibilities. however, it ends up taking a naughty twist when satoru finds out the surprise you've planned out for him (2.8k).

the importance of skincare ★

worried about your boyfriend's skin health, you're set out on a mission to teach him about skincare, sitting him down and rubbing products over his face while seated on his lap. only, he convinces you that he has something to teach as well about facials. just not the kind you expected (1.4k)

trouble ★

an unexpected tutoring session with your bully satoru gojo leads to somewhere...unexpected (4.2k)

sukuna ryomen.

so i know who i'm looking at! ★

on halloween night, you get a strange phone call from a man with a distorted voice right as you're chilling while babysitting yuuji. you get an ultimatum: perform for him, or risk your and yuuji's lives (3.1k). part of kinktober 2024!

toji fushiguro.

finish her! ★

you will have to face one of the most formidable wrestlers in history in your next match: toji fushiguro. but don't be confused, this isn't normal wrestling⸺no, it's nude wrestling. and winner gets the spoils of the other's body! (extended ver of my toji drabble here) (3.8k). part of kinktober 2024!

multiple (seperate)

i can't stop looking at his d—d—d—d—FACE! ★

jjk men as overused p0rn/h3ntai plots! (4.1k)

back to the kitty, cause she's kinda pretty! ★

jjk men as overused p0rn/h3ntai plots! (pt 2) (3.5k). part of kinktober 2024!

drabbles

ranking types of hugs he'd be comfortable with another guy giving his gf! ⸻ gojo x reader

ranking types of hugs he'd be comfortable with another guy giving his gf! ⸻ nanami x reader

#aashi writes #masterlist

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vivsinkpot · 1 month ago

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Zoom In, Don’t Glaze Over: How to Describe Appearance Without Losing the Plot

You’ve met her before. The girl with “flowing ebony hair,” “emerald eyes,” and “lips like rose petals.” Or him, with “chiseled jawlines,” “stormy gray eyes,” and “shoulders like a Greek statue.”

We don’t know them.

We’ve just met their tropes.

Describing physical appearance is one of the trickiest — and most overdone — parts of character writing. It’s tempting to reach for shorthand: hair color, eye color, maybe a quick body scan. But if we want a reader to see someone — to feel the charge in the air when they enter a room — we need to stop writing mannequins and start writing people.

So let’s get granular. Here’s how to write physical appearance in a way that’s textured, meaningful, and deeply character-driven.

1. Hair: It’s About Story, Texture, and Care

Hair says a lot — not just about genetics, but about choices. Does your character tame it? Let it run wild? Is it dyed, greying, braided, buzzed, or piled on top of her head in a hurry?

Good hair description considers:

Texture (fine, coiled, wiry, limp, soft)

Context (windblown, sweat-damp, scorched by bleach)

Emotion (does she twist it when nervous? Is he ashamed of losing it?)

Flat: “Her long brown hair framed her face.”

Better: “Her ponytail was too tight, the kind that whispered of control issues and caffeine-fueled 4 a.m. library shifts.”

You don’t need to romanticise it. You need to make it feel real.

2. Eyes: Less Color, More Connection

We get it: her eyes are violet. Cool. But that doesn’t tell us much.

Instead of focusing solely on eye color, think about:

What the eyes do (do they dart, linger, harden?)

What others feel under them (seen, judged, safe?)

The surrounding features (dark circles, crow’s feet, smudged mascara)

Flat: “His piercing blue eyes locked on hers.”

Better: “His gaze was the kind that looked through you — like it had already weighed your worth and moved on.”

You’re not describing a passport photo. You’re describing what it feels like to be seen by them.

3. Facial Features: Use Contrast and Texture

Faces are not symmetrical ovals with random features. They’re full of tension, softness, age, emotion, and life.

Things to look for:

Asymmetry and character (a crooked nose, a scar)

Expression patterns (smiling without the eyes, habitual frowns)

Evidence of lifestyle (laugh lines, sun spots, stress acne)

Flat: “She had a delicate face.”

Better: “There was something unfinished about her face — as if her cheekbones hadn’t quite agreed on where to settle, and her mouth always seemed on the verge of disagreement.”

Let the face be a map of experience.

4. Bodies: Movement > Measurement

Forget dress sizes and six packs. Think about how bodies occupy space. How do they move? What are they hiding or showing? How do they wear their clothes — or how do the clothes wear them?

Ask:

What do others notice first? (a presence, a posture, a sound?)

How does their body express emotion? (do they go rigid, fold inwards, puff up?)

Flat: “He was tall and muscular.”

Better: “He had the kind of height that made ceilings nervous — but he moved like he was trying not to take up too much space.”

Describing someone’s body isn’t about cataloguing. It’s about showing how they exist in the world.

5. Let Emotion Tint the Lens

Who’s doing the describing? A lover? An enemy? A tired narrator? The emotional lens will shape what’s noticed and how it’s described.

In love: The chipped tooth becomes charming.

In rivalry: The smirk becomes smug.

In mourning: The face becomes blurred with memory.

Same person. Different lens. Different description.

6. Specificity is Your Superpower

Generic description = generic character. One well-chosen detail creates intimacy. Let us feel the scratch of their scarf, the clink of her earrings, the smudge of ink on their fingertips.

Examples:

“He had a habit of adjusting his collar when he lied — always clockwise, always twice.”

“Her nail polish was always chipped, but never accidentally.”

Make the reader feel like they’re the only one close enough to notice.

Describing appearance isn’t just about what your character looks like. It’s about what their appearance says — about how they move through the world, how others see them, and how they see themselves.

Zoom in on the details that matter. Skip the clichés. Let each description carry weight, story, and emotion. Because you’re not building paper dolls. You’re building people.

#writeblr #writing community #writers of tumblr #writing tips #character development #creative writing #writing advice #character description #descriptive writing #show don't tell #world building #narrative voice #writing help #fiction writing #amwriting #writing characters

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mariasont · 1 year ago

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Be So Stupid - S.R

a/n: this has been sitting in my WIPs for so long and i finally finished it! now going to reward myself with online shopping xoxo

kind of inspired by when jj and reid split up in season 2 i think? when morgan was kinda being rude to her but i picture like season 12-13 spence

masterlist

pairings: spencer reid x gn!reader

summary: you make a mistake while on a case nearly getting spencer killed, morgan has some choice words and spencer is ready to beat his ass over it

warnings: morgan being a little shit simply for the plot, mention of spencer almost dying, spencer being a protective king pussy boss

wc: 1.4k

How could you be so stupid?

Those were the words that had been on replay, a constant loop, for the past two days. It's because, somewhere inside, you knew Morgan was justified in what he said. How could you have been so stupid to split up with Spencer at the unsubs house?

He was taken by the unsub, a trigger pull away from death. But the team got there, and he was okay. He was alive and breathing and healthy, and you tried to focus on these facts when your chest tightened with that familiar agonizing twinge.

It was a relief not to face anyone afterward. As soon as you got home from the case, you holed yourself up in your apartment, obsessively dissecting the events until the recollections twisted your insides with a nauseating sense of dread. You had run through every potential scenario in your head, agonizing over the grim outcomes if you hadn't arrived when you did.

You would've never forgiven yourself.

So here you were, hiding out in Penelope's lair, doing your paperwork. You convinced yourself it wasn't hiding; rationalizing it as a need for more peace and quiet than the bullpen could offer. You knew it was bullshit, and so did Garcia.

"Just so you know, I'm fully prepared to kick his ass on your behalf," she announced, swiveling to face her monitors, the ribbons in her hair trailing her movement like colorful comets. "It was totally uncalled for. Everyone agrees."

"Everyone?"

"Well, okay, not Spencer, but that's only because he doesn't know," Garcia continued, her pen tapping a silent code against her cheek, followed by the clack of keys. "If he did, he'd definitely kick his ass."

"I don't know about that," you said, repeatedly stretching and releasing the hair tie around your wrist, each snap a self-inflicted reprimand.

"He called you stupid." She was shaking her head so vigorously her blonde locks tumbled into her eyes as she paused her typing to look at you. "And you, my gorgeous friend, are anything but."

"Generally speaking, sure, but this time, Pen, I really screwed up."

"Who called you stupid?"

Spencer's voice was incredibly hard to ignore, distinct—you would recognize it anywhere.

Garcia and you stopped dead, your eyes growing impossibly large as she gave you a look as if to say, Morgan is screwed.

"No one."

"Morgan."

You and Garcia blurt your words out at the same time, your voices clashing in the air. You whipped your head to Garcia, the betrayal written on your face as she only shrugged her shoulders.

"Why would he say that to you?"

Spencer's steps towards you were measured, but each one amplified your unease, you hands wringing together as you looked away. He could read you like a book, and most times that was a good thing, but today it was definitely not.

"It's really not a big deal, Spencer," you insisted, pursing you lips as you dragged your gaze up and over him. "But how about you? How are you holding up?"

You were on your feet in an instant, a little too quickly, wobbling on your heel just a tab before Spencer grabbed your elbow. You ignore his touch, or at least you try, and press the back of your hand to his forehead.

He wasn't warm, but you sure were.

"You know, I don't think you should be back at work so soon."

You weren't lying when you said that. It seemed to soon. Was he looking a little pale? You couldn't tell. He should be home.

His hand was suddenly around your wrist, soft but firm, easing you away from his forehead, his eyes narrowing at you.

"Hey, I'm alright." He was trying to be assuring, offering a faint smile that only served to make your stomach do backflips. "Really, I am."

His fingers frapped around your wrist, not quite letting go, as he directed his attention to Garcia. "Why did he say that to her?"

"I'm right here," you grumbled under your breath, but Spencer was paying you no mind.

"I'm aware," Spencer answered without looking at you as his hands found their way to your shoulders, thumbs tracing absent patterns on your skin. "But you are not providing any answers."

Garcia cut in, folding her arms over her chest as her eyes pinned you with an unspoken accusation. "He said it because you two split up on the case."

Her words seemed to thicken the air itself, snatching away the previous ease as Spencer's expression darkened. It was a new and unsettling sight--the tightness in his jaw, the faint crease in his brows, and the steely sharpness in his eyes.

Without uttering a single syllable, he spun on his heel and strode out the door. You didn't hesitate to chase after him, an inkling of his destination propelling you forward. The look on his face had planted a seed of fear about what he was going to do.

Sure enough, there he was, just as you anticipated, in the middle of the bull pit. His gaze locked on Morgan with a laser-like precision, like a hawk eyeing its prey.

"How could you say that to her?" His voice was jagged, hands thumping against Morgan's shoulders in a way that you frantically looked around for Hotch. "What? Were you trying to make her feel bad? What's the matter with you?"

"Easy, Spencer, what are you getting at?" Morgan's hands went up defensively. But when Spencer's eyes flickered to you, the puzzle pieces clicked into place. "Oh..."

Morgan's eyes found yours. "Come here, sugar."

Morgan was your friend, a good one at that, and you really didn't blame him for what he said. He had good intentions. But here in the bullpen being open and exposed you found yourself stalling, glancing towards Spencer.

Only after he gave you a nod did you take that tentative step forward, clammy palms running down your pants as you stood in front of Morgan.

"Look, I was out of line. Calling you stupid was stupid of me," he started, hand grabbing on your upper arm as he spoke. "We've all been in tough spots and I was an asshole for adding to the pressure instead of helping you through it."

And you knew he meant it, even if it took Spencer nearly coming to blows to bring it about.

"It's okay, I know you didn't mean it, Morgan. And it was my fault really, for not staying with Spencer."

"First off, we made that call together, so if anyone's at fault, it's both of us," Spencer reminded, his hand settling on your lower back as he moved closer to you. His gaze then drilled into Morgan. "And second, Morgan, she's too nice. I say you owe her a month's work of paperwork at least."

You opened your mouth to object, but Morgan cut you off, his hand on your shoulder stopping me mid-breath. "After what I said? I'll do you one better--I'll handle your paperwork for two months."

He was gone before you could even thank him, making his way towards the break room, leaving you and Spencer.

"Hey, look at me." You did, raising your eyes to meet his. "What happened on that last case—it's not on you. We made a call, and we did it with the best intentions. It's not your fault."

He regarded you so... softly. It stirred a flutter of goosebumps across your skin, your hands rubbing up and down your arms as if to smooth away the sensation.

"Seeing you in that situation, so close to..." You paused, drawing in a ragged breath as the sickening memories came flooding back. "I can't help but feel responsible. It's a tough guilt to shake."

He rearranged a lock of hair behind your ear.

"It's a cognitive distortion to assume sole responsibility, but that's just your brain tricking you." Taking your hand he pressed it over his heart. "A human heart beats over two billion times in a lifetime. And every beat right now is telling you, I'm all good."

You could feel his heartbeat—thump, thump—against your palm. You caught yourself wanting to know what it would be like to fall asleep to the sound.

You were so close to each other now, the distance, or lack thereof, slightly overwhelming. "You're all good?"

He gave your hand a squeeze. "I'm all good."

You remained motionless, hand pressed to his chest, wondering if your heart could ever beat in sync with his.

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath

#spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x fem reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid hurt/comfort #spencer reid #dr reid #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fic

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starcrossedxwriter · 8 months ago

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Double Trouble (Aaron Pierre x Black Reader x MBJ)

Warnings! NSFW, HEAVY BDSM, HEAVY Daddy kink, threesome (MFM), Everything is consensual! Degredation kink, Praise kink, Bratty reader, Dom! Aaron, Dom!MBJ

A/N: went hella overboard with this one! The plot is pure filth.

***

“Baby?”

Your soft calls were barely loud enough to be heard over your boyfriend’s latest afrobeats obsession, which blasted through your shared home’s sound system. You lazily kicked off your red bottoms, a guttural sigh of relief escaping you as your exhausted feet relaxed out of the painful position it required to sport such beautiful but impractical shoes all day.

On your way to hunt down the love of your life, you stopped by your study, not even bothering to turn on the light as you discarded your Chloe work tote in your chair and closed the door behind you.

After closing the biggest case of your career, you would not need to see the interior of either of your offices for a week and that almost brought tears of joy to your eyes. You and Aaron did not even have the energy to plan a trip. Having just wrapped a project two weeks prior, you both were overjoyed to spend a week at home wrapped up in each other.

You rolled your shoulders. Prayerfully, your boyfriend would take pity on you and give you a massage to ease the knots that took up residence in your back. You lazily made your way to the kitchen, knowing where you’d find the man you loved - but currently did not like.

His back was to the arched entryway as you snuck in behind him, stealing a grape from his masterful charcuterie board that sat nearby.

Despite your righteous annoyance at him, you never missed an opportunity to simply admire Aaron in his element. Like most actors, he suffered from the curse of always having to be “on.” But in the sanctuary of your home, he could just be Aaron, your gentle, loving, goofy, carefree boyfriend.

And it certainly helped that he looked positively delicious today, setting a stupid table for a stupid dinner you didn’t want to host. He did every day but something was about him today in particular just made you want to sink to your knees and worship him with your tongue. But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction today. You were pissed off.

And that lust simply soured into red hot annoyance at the surprise guest your too-kind boyfriend invited to dinner. And while you never usually complained about company, after months of endless days and sleepless and sexless nights, your vision of a relaxing evening was not entertaining a third wheel.

It was a tall glass of wine, an amazing meal. And… then having your daddy twist you into a literal human pretzel and fuck the stress out of your body.

But he hated you, clearly.

A sentiment you articulated (along with others) in a snarky text hours earlier. But Aaron, forever unbothered by your theatrics, merely responded that you should trust your daddy because…

Daddy knows best.

And despite the strong independent lawyer inside you who demanded control and to be right (and she usually was), you knew he was right about this one thing. Aaron could always see exactly what you needed.

And despite your attitude earlier, you still spied his traditional gift for you after winning a big case neatly displayed on the white marble counter: your favorite cake from a bakery nearby and a bouquet of tulips. The varying vibrant shades of pink made something in your soul smile. He knew you too well.

Your silent studying did not go unnoticed for long, Aaron turning around not even startled to find you there. His expressive eyes lit up at the sight of your half grin, which you tried to suppress because you were supposed to be angry at him, and the hand on your hip as you leaned into the counter.

He was in front of you before you could blink, his strong arm wrapping around your waist to pull you into his embrace. His muscles were threatening to destroy the fabric of his crisp button down, many of his clothes ill equipped to handle the additional muscles he gained for his latest project.

“Hey princess.”

Forever a brat and annoyed at the implosion of your plans for the night, you jerked your head to the side as he kissed you, forcing his lips to catch your cheek instead.

Aaron merely let out a low chuckle, knowing that your bark was far worse than your bite.

When it came to Aaron, you were about as strong as a lawn chair. You’d fold without resistance. Every. Single. Time. You always thought you were God’s strongest soldier… until you met Aaron. Kryptonite indeed.

“Still mad at me?”

“Yes,” you folded your arms as best you could against your chest, scoffing. “Between you playin’ the british assassin all around LA and me trying to negotiate with that asshole partner, we’ve had zero time together and no time to relax. And our first real free night in months without briefs and lines to run, you wanna play captain save a nigga with your friend? And then you spring it on me on some last minute shit. Those lips aren’t gonna get you outta this one, A.”

“I know, I know, Y/N. And I’m sorry for messing up your plans for the night. I know how excited you are to finally have a break. But I’m trying to surprise you so please just trust me. If I know you like I think I do, you’re gonna like it.”

“Well I think we’re about to make history then.”

“What do you mean?”

“The first time you get a surprise wrong. Honestly it’s probably a good thing? You’ve always been a bit too perfect to be real,” you added, causing him to grin. “But the only thing I would like right now is for you to fuck me into oblivion. So unless this dinner guest can help with that, I doubt I’ll like it. But what’s done is done. Now let me go so I can get ready.”

A stare down. Another moment where you’d inevitably crumbled. Because only Jesus himself was strong enough to stare in those eyes and not give this man everything you had.

However, to your surprise, he looked away from you first, nodding and letting his arm fall so you could head upstairs.

You started to walk out of the kitchen, prepared to sulk the last of your frustrations away before putting on the smile of a gracious host when you heard him call after you.

“What if they can?”

“What if they can what?” you glanced behind you.

“Help me fuck you into oblivion.”

You lurched forward, his words stopping you dead in your tracks.

No… he couldn’t mean… The tiniest thrill of excitement jolted across your brain like a shooting star. But you steadied yourself. He couldn’t possibly mean what you were thinking. So you played it off.

“Ha. ha. Ha. Very funny, A.”

“You hear me laughin’?”

You slowly turned around to find him behind you, his eyes brimmed with pure lust. But nothing in his face signaled he was joking about a single thing.

“Remember all those fantasies you told me about, princess?”

It would take lifetimes for you to forget. You had the most Earth-shattering orgasm of your life telling Aaron every filthy fantasy you had while he fucked you on your apartment balcony. You prayed they were long forgotten by breakfast the next morning, but he remembered every single one. And ever since, he made it his mission to help you fulfill them.

“Wait… you’re ser- you’re serious? You want to-”

It was most certainly a fantasy but the practicalities of it seemed unrealistic. You never seriously considered that Aaron would ever try to arrange it.

He merely smirked and pressed his lips to the top of your nose. His voice was low, hypnotic and mesmerizing.

“Got a few treats upstairs for you. Go get ready.”

“Wait… we aren’t gonna talk about this?? You aren't gonna give me details?”

“Nah. You’re gonna be a good girl for me tonight right, baby? I’d hate to punish you in front of company, princess.”

But EYE wouldn't hate that. A voice echoed in your brain, the thought of a spanking making you want to disobey just for the hell of it.

“Of course you’d like the sound of that,” he teased you before his eyes softened a bit. You could tell he saw it. That kernel of hesitation at the whole affair, that side of you that had to be in the driver’s seat wanting to talk and litigate every risk before you leaned into the pleasure of it.

“Hey, Y/N… baby. This is just going to be a fun night. And the moment it’s no longer fun for you, we stop. Just like that. Just say the word. If you aren’t feelin' it and him, we end it and it's still just a fun night with a friend. Understand?”

You nodded before correcting yourself so he didn’t have to. “Yes, I understand. Your surprise might’ve won out again… maybe you really are perfect.”

He shrugged. “That’s what I’ve been tryin' to tell you. Just gotta trust me. Now go get ready. Only wear what I laid out for you.”

Every step to your master suite pumped up your adrenaline. And made you fall deeper in love with your boyfriend. And his ability to fulfill your needs and desires and center your pleasure. He knew your limits, your boundaries, your needs and never wavered.

A black cocktail dress waited for you with strappy gold heels. Along with your gold choker, with “good girl” engraved on its gold charm and your gold bullet.

Your skin felt electrified, a buzz radiating from every cell as you readied yourself. You weren’t surprised at the slick already pooling at the crest of your thick thighs when you slid your thong to the side and eased the bullet into you. You hissed at the cool silicone against your heat but you persisted. It was uncomfortable for a moment but as you continued dressing, you long forgot its presence. You knew its companion, a small gold remote, was with your master. Exactly where it should be.

You examined yourself in the mirror, hands running over your soft curves as you studied yourself. You had to admit that Aaron picked well. The dress accentuated his favorite parts of your body, hugging your hourglass shape so your ass and thighs were on display. The cutouts and mirroring each side of your ribs and plunging neckline would give him easy access to your boobs, which were begging to be freed from the confines of the tight bodice.

“You look fuckin’ gorgeous baby.”

“Thank you. You picked well.”

“Final touch?” he picked up your choker, which waited for him on the bed. He always had the privilege of putting it on you. Because it signified the official start of your game. When the choker was on, your pleasure, your body was his to command, his to give and his to take away. Sweet surrender of control to the person you trusted most in this world.

He towered over you as he stood behind you and placed the piece on your neck.

“We’re gonna have dinner, dessert and then if you’re comfortable with continuing the night, just ask him to stay for a drink. Otherwise, the night will end. Understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good girl.” His hands traced the hourglass shape of your curves, his hands stilling only once along the near-indistinguishable lines of your thong. However, as he opened his mouth to speak, the shrill chime of their doorbell interrupted him. He sighed, turning you around in his arms. “Later. Ready to have some fun?”

“Yes daddy.”

Even in heels you had to stretch yourself to reach his lips. He took your hand, leading you down the stairs, some of your nerves being replaced by sudden intrigue.

“You really aren’t gonna tell me who it is??”

“What would be the fun in that?” With a wink back at her, he jogged the remaining steps and crossed the foyer with the quickness of an athlete and swung their door open.

“Hey man! Thanks for coming by. Glad we could do this.”

“Definitely, definitely. Thanks for the invite, man.”

And that was the second time today you found yourself stopped dead in your tracks. The Michael B. Jordan stepped into your foyer, his charisma and star-powered charm oozing out of his pores as if he naturally produced it.

Fuck me. He invited your celebrity crush, the main character of far more wet dreams than you’d ever admit out loud. And while Aaron was it for you, if you could ever take advantage of the “celebrity hall pass” concept, Michael Bae Jordan would be at the top of your list.

Well, that’s what he’s here to do. Daddy does indeed know best.

At first, you had a feeling you’d be taking Aaron’s out. But now? Hell would have to freeze over before you gave up the opportunity of your dreams. Part of you cursed yourself for not guessing it was him to begin with. Aaron had been in a total bromance with the man since they wrapped filming. But now you had more questions. How did this even come up? How do you organize a threesome? Is this just a normal thing to talk about?

Who the fuck cares? You’re about to have the night of your life.

You pushed them to the back of your mind, filing them away for tomorrow.

“And I don’t think you met my girl yet officially, but this is Y/N." The introduction forced your legs to start to move again, down the stairs and toward him.

“Geesh… they didn’t make lawyers like this when I was comin’ up. Michael,” he introduced himself. He held out his arms for a hug. “Aaron’s told me so much about you.”

“Good thin-,” You started to toss your boyfriend a teasing grin as you closed the last couple of feet to return Michael’s hug. However, just as you were in arm’s length, the forgotten vibrator nestled inside you came alive. You let out an involuntary cross between a sigh and a moan that couldn’t be hidden.

Could the ground open and just swallow me?

Michael’s eyes glistened with amusement, letting you know he was not ignorant to your reality.

“You good, baby girl?” he asked, with a knowing grin as you tried to avoid squirming in his embrace.

“Y-Yea, yea. Just h-had a chill. I was just gonna say that I hope he’s t-telling you good things,” you stammered, the jolts of pleasure siphoning off fractions of your vocal ability.

“Only good things, I promise. Just that you were the sexiest and best lawyer he’d ever seen. He was right about the first part, I’m sure he’s right about the second too.”

“Hardly the best.” Your tone and smile were the picture of humility at his praise. You liked the sound of it on his lips, you also didn’t hate the way “baby girl" sounded when he said it too.

“Y/N is being hella modest. She’s about to be the youngest junior partner in her firm’s history. And the first black woman.”

“Aye! That’s what’s up! So we’re celebrating tonight?”

You grinned. “Don’t wanna get ahead of ourselves… just office gossip you know. We’ll see in a week.”

Fuck, he was sexier than you imagined. Somehow tvs and movies simply didn’t do him justice. Like Aaron, he was at his peak physical weight, his muscles thick and lethal. They both stood in front of you looking like Gods, cut from the most perfect stone.

“I-it’s just so great to meet you. You’re one of my favorite actors.”

Michael drank you in like you were the finest glass of scotch, savoring every inch of skin exposed, every curve on prominent display. You felt hot underneath his stare, as if he had xray vision to see the promised lands this dress covered. You almost wilted like a flower under his intensity.

We aren’t gonna make it through dinner, you thought to yourself. Or I can just be dinner.

It was not your worst thought by far. The vision was quite enticing. Aaron ordering you to strip for them before displaying you on the table so they could feast on you. Your eyes darkened with clouds of lust. You cleared your throat, taking a deep breath, noting the amused glance that passed between the two men. Were all your thoughts broadcasting to them?

“We… should go into the dining room. Dinner’s basically ready,” you offered as the lamiest attempt to escape the spotlight of them. You held your hand out for his coat, giving both men a perfect view of your ass as you turned to hang it in the closet.

You didn’t attempt to hide the grin at the quiet but distinguishable wolf whistle from Michael. It felt good to know he liked what he saw.

And the feeling was most certainly mutual. Michael and Aaron kept you laughing all through dinner as they enthralled you with stories from set. He was engaging and funny and you loved the genuine brotherhood between him and your boyfriend. There was nothing but raw sexual chemistry between you but that was all you needed. Mutual attraction.

The only disappointing aspect of dinner was the utter silence between your legs. Once he turned it off at the start of dinner, Aaron didn’t touch that remote again, much to your chagrin. Two hours and several glasses of wine at the dinner table with two men gently caressing your arms and exposed thighs was a recipe for disaster. And you knew he could tell, see how worked up they had made you, how desperately you wanted more attention.

By dessert, you stopped retaining their words. They were utter nonsense to you because there were far more important things to consider. Like Michael’s dominating muscles and large hands, wondering how strong his grip will be when he fucks you from behind. Punishingly so, you prayed.

You swung between wanting to savor the compliments and worship of two men with needing to be filled, a need that almost had you begging them to fuck you right amongst the dinner plates. But you knew Aaron. The night was young and he liked to play with his prize.

By everyone’s fifth glass of wine, the conversation started to wind down, Michael getting up to head home.

“Thanks so much for this, man. Appreciate the invite. Good to catch up n shit.”

“Oh you have to leave so soon?” There was a hint of sadness in your voice, coupled with the pleas of your signature puppy eyes.

“I probably should… Gettin’ late, can’t take up your whole night.”

You assessed the moment briefly, confirming with every cell in your body and functioning brain cell in your head that you needed this more than the oxygen in the room.

So instead of wishing this walking wet dream a good night, you said, “You should stay for one more drink. We got this amazing bottle when we went to the South of France for our anniversary. Baby, we should open it and sit outside? It’s so nice out. We’re down to keep the good times going if you are.”

“You sure?”

“I insist! Besides, between the three of us, I think we can find some ways to entertain ourselves." The implication in your words couldn't be clearer. You were in and you were ready.

“I’ll grab that bottle from the cellar. Take Michael outside and make him comfortable, princess. Show him a good time while I’m gone.”

And with that, he turned your vibrator back on. He chose the second setting, which was just distracting enough to make the simple tasks of walking, talking and speaking exponentially harder for you.

“Yes sir.”

You forced your feet toward the giant sliding glass doors that led to your expansive backyard. You glanced behind you to find Michael jogging up behind you as he slid something into his pocket.

You tried to distract yourself from the pulses against your g-spot, the growing tension in your belly as pleasure started to build ever so slowly, by turning on the soft string lights hanging above your patio and the speakers to play music.

“Yall got a great view.”

“It was definitely the selling point of the house,” you smiled, awkwardly standing behind one of the chairs across from the couch.

His stance was wide, powerful and assured as he stared at you.

“You gonna sit with me?” When you didn’t move, he sighed. “He said you were obedient. But maybe you just need an incentive…”

Your knees almost gave out beneath you as he increased the setting to five.

“If you wanna feel better, I think you should sit, baby girl,” he offered, his voice low and comforting. “I don’t bite, promise.”

The menacing glint in his eyes let you know that he most certainly would bite if asked. And you would most certainly ask.

“S-sorry,” you awkwardly, quickly finding your way to the couch next to him. You started to sit when he beckoned you closer with a mere gesture of his finger. By the time he had you where he wanted you, you were sitting on his lap.

You leaned into his chest, your eyes falling closed as pleasure shot through you with every pulsing vibration. You bit the inside of your cheek to avoid moaning.

“You ok, Y/N? Seem a little flustered?” His fingers created flames all across your bare thigh as he subtly pushed up the fabric of your dress.

There was still something… tamed about how he touched you and caressed you. He came so close to the spots that demanded a firm strong hand, he held back every time. Like right now. Drawing featherlike patterns on your exposed side, toying with the edges of your thong but not shifting them to the side like you craved.

No, he simply savored the time teasing you, enjoying the soft moans his touch and the bullet caused.

“I’... I’m… fine, t-thank you,” you whispered back. “Just… o-overwhelmed.”

“You wanna cum, don’t you?” his husky voice demanded in your ear. At the sound, you couldn't suppress the moan of pleasure that escaped your lips. You rolled your hips, chasing more.

“Y-Yes…” you whimpered. “P-Please…”

“How’s my girl treating you, Michael?” Aaron’s voice interrupted their moment, his eyes piercing with desire as you writhed and rode another man's thigh. You looked perfect, unrestrained and free.

“Oh she’s perfect. You got a great girl here, A.”

“I know… she is. But she disobeyed me earlier so before she can cum, we have to punish her. Isn’t that right, baby?”

“Y-yes sir.” You didn’t even know what you did wrong but you weren’t going to argue or push back on him. Because this was already like entering a promised land of bliss. To hear him speak so openly about your punishment to another man while he masturbated you on his lap? Aaron was right. This was the destressor you really required.

“Can you tell Michael and daddy what you did wrong, princess?”

You raked your brain, knowing that “I don’t know” would only increase your punishment. Not that you would have particularly minded. Frequent punishments were simply the norm for a proud and loud brat.

And then it hit you, such a small and silly infraction that Michael’s fingers were currently playing with.

“I… w-wore my panties w-when I wasn’t allowed,” you answered.

“That’s right. And we don’t cover up daddy’s prize, do we?”

“No… daddy.”

“You want to be a good girl for Michael and I… don’t you?”

His voice was hypnotic. Despite the pleasure disobeying him brought, you could not help but want to please him, to be his good girl again.

“Y-yes, daddy.”

“And good girls deserve what?”

“Punishment before pleasure.”

“That’s right, baby. So tonight, Michael’s gonna have the honor. How many spankings you think our slut deserves?”

“I’d say 25… 30?”

“30 feels fair. What do you think, princess?”

“Wh-whatever daddy wants,” you whimpered. That was the only acceptable response. Besides, you knew Aaron knew your limits and wouldn’t let Michael cross them. “That's right, baby girl. She can be good when she wants to, just needs remindin’ of her place sometimes,” he mused. And with that, Michael turned off the bullet, a groan of pure frustration escaping your lips.

Punishment before pleasure, you reminded yourself. Why can’t my punishment be sucking their dicks or something??

Michael helped you up, your legs feeling slightly weak after they robbed you of your orgasm. They didn’t bother trying to carry you up the stairs, Michael merely directed you to your deep forest green sectional in the living room and leaned you over one of its arms. He slid off his belt and tied your hands behind your back, ensuring they were loose enough to avoid injury but tight enough not to escape without effort.

You were deliciously helpless.

“Fuck, that’s a gorgeous sight,” you could hear Michael mutter as the two men merely stared at you, boobs pressed out due to your hands being bound, your ass high in the air from being bent over. “Her ass is perfect, man.”

“It’ll look even better when you’re done. Don’t hold back. She loves that shit and she knows our safe word.”

You were glad he assured Michael that you would adore the sweet sting of his palm. You encouraged Aaron to put his entire weight into your spankings when you took on the role as his princess. Forever a gentle soul at his core, he did not like the idea of causing you real, significant pain, preferring to lean heavily into other aspects of dominating you.

It certainly made you fall more in love with him, witnessing his gentleness and concern for your well-being to such a degree. You supposed it was the greenest of flags that it took about 10 long discussions for him to feel comfortable. And even years later, he still checked in throughout to make sure you still enjoyed it. You weren’t a masochist by any means spankings in particular were more than enticing to you. It left you drenched and on the cusp on an orgasm without Aaron doing anything else.

Even more so right now with your ass presented to the two men like a hard-earned prize. You subconsciously stuck your ass out further in search of something. A touch, a slap… literally anything. Your body was reeling.

And you did not even care who was behind you to give you what you needed.

“She’s fuckin’ desperate for it.”

“Yea, she’ll be begging you for it in a minute. I mean I was gone for what? 5 minutes, princess? And I come back and you're humpin' his leg like a filthy whore? And you loved it didn't you? Wanted more? I bet you wanna beg him to tear that ass up right now, don't you?”

Daddy knows me too well. Because the word please was on the cusp of your lips, begging to tumble over like water on a cliff.

You moaned as two hands gripped the firm meat of your ass, kneading and caressing you before they found the helm of your dress. You knew exactly whose hands they were, confirming that Aaron was indeed giving Michael the pleasure of administering your punishment.

His fingers pushed your dress up the rest of the way to expose your ass cheeks, an unmistakable wet spot at the center of your thong.

“Don’t think she’ll be needing this anymore. Whatchu think?” Michael asked Aaron as his finger hooked the delicate fabric around her hips.

“Nahhh, definitely not.”

“FUCK!” You cried out as your thong was unceremoniously ripped clean from your body, the fabric leaving welts on your skin.

You felt his fingers graze your lips.

“All this for us, kitten?”

You merely whimpered an affirmative answer as he presented his fingers covered in your juices. He stuck them in your mouth, you sucking your cum clean off his fingers.

"Can't wait to make you cum all over my tongue, kitten. You taste so fuckin' good."

“P-Please…” You thought you’d implode if you continued to suppress your desperation. Your body felt as if you were betraying her. Why weren’t you trying hard enough, begging loud enough to earn the pleasure you were being deprived of.

“See?”

“You weren’t lyin’. Tell me what you want, kitten”

He’s gonna make me say it??

The words were caught in your throat, blocked by a mental barrier to admit such a depraved thought out loud.

“If you wanna cum at all tonight, I suggest you say that shit. Cause we got all night.”

The lethal warning in his tone forced your thighs together, an electric shock through your body. He was a natural. And the dominance in his voice was all it took to rip the weeds of hesitation right out of your soil.

“S-spank me… please,” Half words, half sobs filled the quiet air. This was untenable. Could you die from this? It felt like you might die from this. “I n-need it. P-Punish me… please.”

The first vicious sting of his hand did make a real sob of joy escape, the sound reverberating through the living room.

You buried your face in the couch cushion for the first few in a foolish attempt to quiet your mounting screams of pain wrapped in the sweet pleasure. His brute strength ensured you felt the ache of every hit. On par with Aaron when your punishments were severe. You were still feeling it days later.

Your head pulled back, his fist wrapped around your curls.

“Do that again and I add five. Understand?”

“Y-yes, yes. I’m sorry,” you moan, keeping your eyes forward and head up.

You felt familiar hands cradle your head, Michael releasing your strains to play with your slick folds in between each blow.

Aaron’s body came into view as he held your chin, forcing you to stare into his beautiful eyes. Clouded with lust, you still could see every ounce of his love and devotion.

“You ok, precious?” he whispered. “Got 10 more.”

“M-More.”

“You’re such a good slut for me, baby. I love you.” His eyes softened a bit. “You want a treat while Michael gives you your punishment? I wouldn’t usually but tonight is all about you, princess.”

You licked your lips, the sudden sparkle in your eyes answering his question without words. You were impatient at the pace he went to unbutton his pants.

He knew how much you loved sucking dick. Genuinely loved it. On more than one occasion, you came home after a long day and immediately dropped to your knees to serve him unprompted. Of course, it always ended up leading to him giving you back the same pleasure tenfold. So it was a win all around.

You licked the beads of precum from his head before enveloping him into your mouth, moaning around him just as Michael rained down the last of your punishment.

Fire. Your skin felt hot and inflamed with every bite of his palm against your skin. And they sent jolts of lust straight to your clit.

“You’re taking your punishment so well. You’re not gonna disobey me again, are you?”

Strings of your spit stayed connected to his dick as he pulled back so you could answer him.

“Never again, daddy!”

“That’s my good girl. You took that so well. Didn’t she?”

You hissed as he gently massaged your hot skin. Fuck, why did his hands feel so good?

“She did. You think she’s ready, A?”

“I think she is.”

You found a secret joy in the way they spoke only to you to dole out orders, but then talked about you to each other like you were merely a piece of furniture.

Aaron scooped you up in his arms, your body immediately nestling into his chest as he carried you to your master suite. He tossed you on the bed like a rag doll as Michael closed the door to your suite. And for a few moments, they simply stood there. Towering over you, intoxicated by the power and anticipation, they didn’t speak or move. They just watched you squirm beneath them.

“You know I love you right?” Aaron broke character for a single moment.

“Of course.”

“Good. Cause it ain’t gon' seem like it for a minute. You know how daddy wants you.”

Fuck. Yes.

There was a challenging grin on your face as you removed the last obstacle to their conquest, leaving you bare before them. With great pleasure, you shifted onto your hands and knees and sank into position. Presenting yourself to him. Vulnerable, exposed. To two apex predators.

And you were ready to be devoured.

Michael pounced with such swiftness of jaguar indeed, you suddenly finding yourself straddling his hips. His punishing grip around your lower back kept you flush to his chest as his lips claimed yours.

Frenzied, animalistic, downright sloppy kisses as you two gave into your most base desires. There was no love here, just lust in its most instinctual level. You two fought for dominance in your kisses, you mainly showing him that you were no damsel.

He moved you with ease, like you were a feather, turning you so your head dangled off the edge of the bed.

“I think our kitten needs a bit of attention.”

His lips kissed a burning trail down your body, veering off course to engulf each of your nipples in his wet mouth, while his hand played with your throbbing clit.

You whined, feeling his breath against your sex, his grip holding your hips firmly to the bed to stop you from getting any more pleasure than he decided.

“So eager.”

He licked up the wetness that spread to your thighs, still avoiding touching you there. He was a menace. The devil really.

You screamed as he wrapped his lips around your bud, every nerve ending in your body zeroed in on him.

Aaron guided your agape mouth onto his hard member again, your tongue licking him like he was your favorite lollipop. He exchanged the bullet for his fingers, easing a second one inside your pussy.

Your litany of curse words were indecipherable with Aaron’s mouth ramming down your throat. He did not let you control the pace one bit. Your mouth was merely a means to an end for him.

You gagged, tears streaming down your face from the sensory overload of having them work in tandem to bring you pain, pleasure, and everything in between.

You arrived at the cliffs of pleasure far faster than you expected, your body ready to fall for the first time all night. Your thighs tightened around Michael’s head as you tried to control it. Foolish it sounded, to stop the fall. But you couldn’t tumble just yet.

You didn’t stop your task of sucking to ask. Instead, you simply stared up at him with plea-filled round eyes.

“Cum on his tongue, princess. Cum for daddy.”

You dove off the cliff with earnest as Michael chose that moment to add a fourth finger, finger fucking you with relentless speed.You let your eyes fall close and surrendered to the crashing waves and thrilling currents that pulled you into oblivion. Right where you wanted to be.

Only Aaron could find the cherry on top to this already perfect sundae as he spilled down your throat. It was typically reserved for her treat as he knew you adored swallowing. And you were grateful he found you deserving.

Aaron took a step back, you pouting at the loss of his dick in your mouth.

“Don’t worry, princess. Won’t be your last taste for the night.” He leaned down and kissed you deeply, a soft whimper escaping at how familiar his lips felt. Home. “I think you need to thank Michael for punishing you earlier and making you cum. How do good whores say thank you?”

"On their knees, daddy."

You moved off the bed and onto the carpet, Michael already sliding off his boxers. Your voice hitched as his girthy thick member sprang from his boxers.

He smirked told her he knew what he was wielding and how to use it well. Admittedly, you had only had sex with three men in your life, two of whom were present. But you felt confident in saying these two Gods among lesser men had the most impressive dicks you’d ever seen.

You’d never live down the humiliation of your near panic attack during you and Aaron’s first time.

“I don’t think you’ll fit,” you remember muttering before trying to escape to hide in his bathroom, your brain overloaded with the fear that he would somehow break you.

But like the perfect gentlemen he was, he held you close and calmed you with sweet kisses and talked you through every inch as he sank into you for the first time. He naturally reached regions you thought were anatomically impossible. You often referred to it as his weapon, one that left you utterly immobile too often.

Michael was similarly blessed and highly favored. Though he lacked a bit of Aaron’s length, his had a girth to it that you knew would cause a stinging stretch. It would be different and you liked the idea of that. As much as your body wanted to skip to that part, you also were feral for a taste of him.

Aaron sat in the arm chair across the room, the perfect view to watch as Michael slid his dick between your plump lips. He stroked his dick back to life watching you spit and gulp down his dick.

“That’s right. Fuckkkk. Get it sloppy, baby girl. Fuck your throat feels good.”

Your body glowed at his praise, Aaron grinning to himself. He adored seeing you in this light, gaining a new perspective to how you felt freedom and pleasure. He never wanted to stop learning how to love you better, please you better.

Inexplicable pride swelled when your eyes connected with him, your dilated pupils lighting up at his smile.

“You ready for me to fuck that pussy, kitten?” Michael demanded, punctuating each word with a deep thrust into the back of your throat. Attempting to respond was a foolish endeavor with him balls deep down your throat.

He pulled out of your mouth and lifted you up to your feet, immediately moving you into his desired position. He bent you over the edge of the bed, one hand glued to your hip while the other pushed your head into the mattress. He positioned you so you were staring right at Aaron.

Being watched. New kink unlocked. You were an actress on display and he was your director, in full control. And it was time to watch his masterpiece.

Your eyes fluttered out of enticing humiliation and bliss as Michael’s head bounced against your pulsing clit.

“Eyes open, princess. And on me."

And this was a moment that made you question who you truly were. A good girl or a disobedient slut? The devil on your shoulder didn’t need deliberation time. You were a disobedient whore. You wanted to be utterly spent when this night was over.

But you also knew he knew that, which is why he picked a task he knew you’d fail either way. You could try as hard as you wanted, it would be impossible to maintain eye contact.

“You ready for Michael to fuck you, princess?”

“Yesssss! Fuck me… I need it.” It was as critical to your survival as air.

You immediately failed at your task, your eyes clenching shut as he pushed inside of you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” you hissed, begging for the moment when the lightening flash of pain subsided and pleasure took root.

“Fuckin’ tight ass pussy on you, kitten,” he gave you a few moments to adjust. When your expletives turned into quiet moans, he moved.

"Won't tell you this shit again, princess. Eyes open and on me or I start spankin’ you when it’s my turn. And you ain’t gon’ like that shit.”

“Sorryyyy, dadddyyyyy.”

His hips snapped viciously into you, his dick curving into your g-spot with every thrust.

Bliss.

Joy.

You panted as he fucked you with relentless precision, he didn’t let a moment go to waste as he fucked you. His grip along your hip was bruising as he pushed and pulled against your body. Never the lazy lover, you met every thrust, using your arms as leverage to throw your fat ass back at him.

“That’s it! Take this dick, slut! You like how I’m fuckin’ this pussy??” he demanded, a hard smack coming down on your still aching ass when you didn’t answer fast enough.

There was no way he actually believed you could form coherent thoughts right now.

“I… love it! D-... don’t stop! Fuck… I’m gonna cum!” Your eyes had not stayed on your master as they should’ve, nor had you even tried that hard. But you deliberately cast them on him to beg for permission. “C-Can I cum daddy?? He feels so gooddddd…”

“Why the fuck would I let you cum? You disobedient whore? Can’t follow simple fuckin’ instructions.

Well shit. He was pissed.

Your face was one of sadness at upsetting your daddy but everything inside was filled to the brim with glee. You weren’t going to be able to walk tomorrow. And then you could look forward to a day of aftercare and pampering from your love.

“P-please, please. I-I’m sorry!! I tried. I-I can’t…” Michael was not helping your cause as you pleaded your case in front of a less than sympathetic judge. He found some superhuman ability to increase his already punishing pace, jackhammering into your g-spot. “Let me cum, pleasseeeee! I can’t hold it.”

“She’s clenchin’ on my dick, brah.”

You were going to cum either way, inevitably, but you were holding strong for those magic words. Moments before you felt yourself starting to break, you finally heard him.

“Cum for me.”

“She’s creamin’ on this dick. This some good pussy, my man! You one lucky nigga.” He didn’t slow his pace as he fucked you through your second orgasm. "That's right, cum all over this dick, baby."

How were you not spent yet? No, you still wanted so much more.

You lost track of your orgasms as Michael moved you into his desired positions, fucking you every type of way that suited him. And all the while, Aaron just watched, commanding your eyes to him in the moments leading up to your orgasms, forcing you to hold his gaze across the dark room.

You thought the Earth had reversed on its axis somehow.

“I’ll let you decide where you want it, kitten. On you or down your throat.”

“Cum on my ass!”

“Whatever baby girl wants.” He pulled out of you and sprayed your back and ass cheeks with his seed. You sighed out of contentment as you laid there, knowing your night was far from over. But you were grateful for the brief reprieve.

Michael shifted off to the side as Aaron rejoined you, the Brit studying your ass painted in another man’s cum. If there was a way be any harder than he already was, he would be it right now.

“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, princess. I love you so much, you’re such a good girl for me. You ready for daddy, now?”

You nodded enthusiastically. Michael was amazing but no one fucked you quite like Aaron. Those were the simple facts.

“Good girl,” he flipped you and pushed your legs up so your knees were essentially up at your ears.

This was a frankly evil thing to do, to start with this position. It was simplistic but he would pound you so deep, you saw fucking stars. At this rate, you would be tapping out far earlier than you would have hoped.

“Ahhhh! Yessssss… thank you daddy! Love your dick, daddy!” You screamed as he entered you in one fluid motion, ending deep in your guts.

“You take me so well, baby. You like how deep I’m fuckin’ this pussy?”

“Yes, yes! Shit! God I love it! Oh Goddddd, fuck, baby…”

“Ain’t no God to call out to here, princess. Just your masters.”

You gasped at the sudden all consuming emptiness of him exiting you. You felt his hand catch your ankle, which was still in the air where he left you. He dragged you to the edge of the bed and lifted you to your feet. You almost collapsed on your stiff legs but you quickly realized, he was not intending for you to support your own weight long.

He hinged you at the waist, your fingertips supporting balancing some of your weight until he reentered you and regained control of your hips. He did all the work, holding all your weight with his strength as he fucked you straight into a sweet abyss. Nothing else mattered. Just the two of you.

Well… three of you. Speaking of which… as if Aaron could read her mind, he says, “Suck him like the whore I know you are.”

Using his strength to turn you both so you were eye level with Michael’s dick. He was getting hard, rested and ready for round two with ease. Both men looked as if they could do this all night while you knew you looked like you had been fucked just as good as you felt.

You surrendered your mouth to Michael, allowing the actor to face fuck you to his heart’s content. And you simply enjoyed every moment of them fucking your holes like men possessed. No breaks, no time for breaths. Nothing. Just unforgiving feral fucking.

You didn’t bother counting the orgasms they gave you as the two men traded places multiple times, using your mouth and pussy to their heart’s content. They worked up a perfect rhythm that brought you thrilling moment after thrilling moment

“Don’t run, fuckin’ whore! You been takin’ it all night. Came in here with that fuckin' attitude. Take this dick!” Aaron ordered as you shied away from his forceful thrusts as he fucked you doggy style.

Your body was being driven past overload as they stimulated every part of you. You could barely concentrate on Michael’s dick in front of your face with how Aaron was fucking you, clearly getting the last word of the evening.

You thought you knew what overstimulation felt like but you had no fucking idea until today. But you knew the orgasm you were building toward would be your best yet, would be worth every moment of this.

“Shit, I’m gonna cum!” Michael called out.

“I’m close too. Daddy’s gonna cum in this sweet pussy, baby. But first, your other punishment. Cum as much as you want.”

And with that, he and Michael went utterly and completely feral on your body, chasing one goal: their collective simultaneous pleasure.

Michael grunted as he painted your face in his cum, much of it landing in your open mouth. He collapsed on the bed next to you, your body immediately crumbling forward without him holding you up. He caressed your skin as Aaron mercilessly fucked you, matching every thrust of his hips forward with a harsh slap to your ass. You knew you would have to endure as many as it took for him to cum.

Shit. You really fucked up.

You screamed and squealed, Michael roughly making out with you and sucked and bit your titties as if you needed more. You and Aaron reached the peaks of your mountains at the same time. At the warmth of him filling your pussy, white blanketed in your vision and sent you free falling into a new stratosphere.

Time felt inconceivable when you opened your eyes again. In your mind, no time had passed but instead of being on the bed, you were surrounded by warmth. Warm water lapped over your aching muscles, something hard propping you up from behind.

“What’s…” you started to say, trying to lift up when a muscular arm snaked around your chest to hold you flush to him.

“Relax, relax, princess. You’re good. Take a breath. Just blacked on us for a minute.”

His voice calmed all the uneasy waters of your soul, you were safe and home with him. There was no better place to be in this life or the next.

“Where’s… our guest?” Your voice cracked from the overuse of your throat. You rubbed your neck instinctively.

“I’ll make you some tea when we get out,” he kissed your temple. “And he passed out in one of the guest rooms. I may have told him there was a strong possibility you’d be up for another round in an hour or two. Told me to get him when you finish soakin’ so he can give you a massage.”

And you knew exactly where the yellow brick road of a massage would lead: to the Emerald Fucking City of Round 4.

Your libido was just as high, if not higher than Aaron’s. More than once, it had been you demanding rounds 4-6 after he already wore you out during 1-3.

“One day you’re gonna get it wrong, you know?” you tease, allowing your head and back to rest with ease onto his chest. His hands massaged your hips and thighs and breasts, all sore from their spanking and biting. “That feels soooo good. You got the magic touch, baby.”

You ok, love? We were rough on you.”

“More than ok. That was the most… insane and fun thing I’ve ever done. Exactly what I needed and wanted. Thank you, Aaron.”

“Anything for you, princess. Rest for me, love.”

You allowed your eyes to flutter closed again, dozing in the comfort of your boyfriend’s arms as he continued releasing knots from your muscles. You simply laid there with him, savoring him and the afterglow of being his.

However, after about 15 minutes, you had rested long enough. This night would end eventually, you wanted to make the most of it with your two daddies.

“Daddy… I think I’m ready for that massage now,” your eyes glistened with your true intentions, letting Aaron know that you were no close to done.

He let out a low chuckle of disbelief. “You really are one of a kind, Y/N.”

“I know,” you winked at him with a playful grin. “Now massage, please.,” you demanded like the spoiled brat you were.

Aaron got out of the bath first, his entire body glistening with water on every perfect panel of muscle and taunt skin. Was it nice being a bead of water sliding down that skin? It might be nice to be a bead of water on his skin.

He quickly toweled himself off before helping you up, using his arms around you as your legs shook.

He dried you before laying you back down on the bed, disappearing down the hall while you laid on your stomach and simply waited.

“Well well well… couldn’t get enough could you, kitten?”

You heard them before you saw them.

“No sir.”

“She’s insatiable. Makes her a good little whore for me, doesn’t it, princess?”

You felt their weight on both sides of the bed.

“Yes, daddy,” you whined as their fingers started doing the Lord’s work massaging out every knot and kink buried in your limbs.

You turned your head toward Aaron, reaching up and kissing him softly as a private thank you before laying down again. You closed your eyes and let them work, let them take care of you.

Whoever said “three’s a crowd” clearly hadn’t met these two.

Tag list: @hxneyclouds @planetblaque @slutsareteacherstoo @theereina @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @apenasumlug4r @motheroffae @blackerthings @kindofaintrovert @thegreatlibraryofalex @melaninpov @hiwasteland @yamst3rdamctrl @miyuhpapayuh @dxddykenn @sageispunk @atribecalledqwest @4pfsukuna @beenathembo @throwmymbackout @nahimjustfeelingit-writes

***

A/N: Hoped you enjoyed that as much as I did! Thanks for reading!

#black writers #michael b jordan #aaron pierre #terry richmond #aaron pierre x reader #Aaron pierre x black reader #Terry Richmond smut #Terry Richmond x reader #Aaron pierre smut #Aaron pierre fanfic #double trouble fic #michael b jordan x oc #mbjordanedit #black panther #michael b jordan fanfic #michael b jordan x reader #rebel ridge

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clara-a7 · 20 days ago

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𝙆𝙞𝙨𝙨 𝙋𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙠 || F1 GRID

彡CONTAINS ; oscar piastri, lando norris, charles leclerc, franco colapinto, george russell

彡WARNINGS ; fluff, prank

彡SUMMARY ; you decide to prank him by not kissing him back.

彡WORDS ; 750

彡DISCLAIMER ; Everything written here is FICTITIOUS.

彡AUTHOR'S NOTE ; sorry if here are any mistakes, english isn't my first language!

⤷Oscar Piastri

Oscar doesn’t say much at first, he just looks at you. His brow creases, and he blinks like he’s trying to make sure he didn’t imagine it. You leaned in, he kissed you, but you didn’t kiss him back. Not even a little.

He pulls back slightly, quiet. Confused, not hurt. His eyes linger on you, like he’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t want to push. “Did I do something?” he asks eventually, voice barely above a murmur. There’s no panic in it, just genuine curiosity and patient, the way he always is with you.

When you finally laugh and tell him it’s just a prank, the tension leaves his shoulders all at once. He rolls his eyes, but the smile tugs at the corner of his mouth anyway. “Really?” he mumbles, shaking his head as he reaches for you again.

This time when he kisses you, it’s slower. No teasing. Just steady, soft affection like he’s grounding you both again.

⤷Lando Norris

With Lando, it only takes a second. The moment your lips don’t move against his, he pulls back slightly, blinking like he’s trying to make sense of it.

He’s not mad not even close. Just surprised. “Wait…” he says, brow quirking. “You didn’t kiss me back.”

It’s not accusatory. It’s just Lando being honest, as always. He tilts his head, his voice lighter now, like he’s already halfway to figuring it out. “Is this one of your little things again?” His lips curve into a smile that’s impossible not to mirror.

When you nod and say yes just a prank he groans dramatically, but he’s already laughing. “Really?! Why you did that to me,” he says under his breath, but he’s tugging you into him again.

This time, he waits. Doesn’t rush. Just brushes his nose against yours, lips hovering like he’s giving you the chance to come to him. When you do, when you finally kiss him back, he hums into it like he’d been holding his breath.

⤷Charles Leclerc

Charles laughs first. It’s instinctive soft, the kind of laugh he only gives when he’s truly caught off guard.

“You didn’t kiss me,” he says, like he’s just discovered something he can’t quite believe. He pulls back slightly, looking at you with that curious tilt of his head. “Did I do something?” There’s no insecurity in it. Just gentle wondering.

You tell him it’s just a prank nothing more and he laughs again, this time with his whole chest. “Ah, so you’re being annoying today.” hes say with a smirk.

He doesn’t press. Just steps forward, closer, resting his forehead against yours. He stays like that for a moment, quiet, breathing you in. “I missed that kiss, though,” he murmurs.

And when you finally kiss him, he smiles through the kiss.

⤷Franco Colapinto

Franco notices right away. He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t ask anything. He just stays close, giving you that soft, slow-burning look that always makes your chest flutter.

“You’re being difficult,” he says quietly, but there’s no heat to it. His fingers skim your waist, warm and patient.

Then he leans in again. Kisses your cheek. Then your temple. Then your shoulder. One by one, like it’s nothing urgent. “You’re really gonna resist me?” he mumbles, lips brushing over your skin. It doesn’t even sound like a real question. He already knows the answer.

And yeah, you fold pretty quickly. You kiss him back finally and he grins into it, pulling back right after with that smug little smile. “Knew it,” he says, looking way too proud.

⤷George Russell

George gasps the second you don’t kiss him back. “No way,” he says, blinking like you just dropped a plot twist. “Did you actually just reject me?”

He stumbles back a step, hand over his heart, full drama. “I’m wounded,” he says, shaking his head. “Betrayed, even.”

But even through all the theatrics, there’s softness in his eyes. He’s not mad. He never is with you. That’s just how George is full of humor, full of heart. Makes everything feel a little easier.

When you laugh and tell him it was just a prank, he exhales like he’s been rescued. “Thank god,” he mumbles, already pulling you into a hug.

This time he takes his time no jokes, no performance. Just you, in his arms, and a kiss that feels like him trying to make sure you’re both still okay. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mutters, low against your ear.

And when you finally kiss him for real, you feel just how much he missed it even if it was only for a second.

✿彡did you enjoy this? comments, likes, and reblogs are immensely appreciatedミ✿

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magnagaruzenmon · 29 days ago

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Accident

Karina looks too cute like this

You were on your way to the restaurant for your first date, stomach buzzing with nerves, when the universe decided to throw in a plot twist—by way of a speeding luxury sedan.

You didn’t even get a chance to swear before the front grill smacked you like a linebacker. You bounced off the hood and landed badly, ankle twisting with a sickening crunch.

“Ah, god—” you groaned, curling around the pain as your foot ballooned to nearly twice its size. The agony was sharp and immediate, then settled into something duller but constant—like your ankle had been replaced with a live wire.

A car door slammed. Footsteps rushed over.

“Oh my god—are you alive?! I swear I didn’t see you!”

You looked up, expecting some panicked auntie. Instead, you were met with the most disarmingly beautiful woman you’d ever seen—glossy black hair, porcelain skin, wide eyes full of panic and… chaotic sparkle?

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t texting, I swear—well, I was looking at the restaurants, but that’s not the same—wait, what’s your name?”

You blinked, still on the ground. “Malcom.”

“I’m Yu Jimin—but you can call me Karina! Okay, I feel terrible, so I’m taking you to the hospital. Can you stand? No? That’s okay. I’ve got you.”

And just like that, she crouched, looped your arm around her shoulders, and half-carried, half-dragged you back to the passenger seat of the car that had just hit you. You stared, dazed, as she buckled you in with the tenderness of a mom securing her toddler.

Fifteen minutes later, you were in the ER, staring at a doctor whose mouth kept twitching like he was holding back laughter.

“So let me get this straight,” he said, glancing between you and Karina, “she ran you over and then personally chauffeured you to the hospital?”

You nodded.

Karina stood beside the gurney, arms crossed like a scolded puppy. “It was an accident,” she mumbled. “And technically I clipped him. Just a little clipping. Barely a love tap.”

The doctor gave up and left the room before he could laugh in your face.

After you got a boot on and were waiting in to be discharged Karina laughed and said, “You know I was actually supposed to headed to a date before this. That’s probably ruined,”

You laugh and say, “if it’s any consolation I was supposed to as well,”

“I guess this can be our first date then,” Karina said with a goofy smile. You laugh and say

“Sure,”

Over the next few weeks, you spent more and more time with Karina—and learned one undeniable truth.

This girl? Absolutely insane.

Not in a bad way. Not the dangerous kind of crazy. More like… a fizzy soda shaken too much, a firecracker in a Hello Kitty box, a sunrise that forgot it wasn’t supposed to talk at 200 words per minute.

Karina was a whirlwind of sunshine: too energetic, too happy, too much—but in the kind of way you start to crave. She skipped instead of walked. She made up songs about brushing her teeth. She got excited about vending machines like they were ancient wonders of the world.

But here’s the thing no one warned you about: her body? Ridiculously sinful for someone so wrapped in pink chaos.

Every time she bounced around the room in one of her oversized crop tops—grinning, giggling, hopping like an overcaffeinated bunny—there was a real risk of divine intervention. One bend, one innocent lean, and boom: cleavage apocalypse. You’d try to keep eye contact, but it felt like a test sent straight from the heavens. And you were failing. Hard.

Then there were the lap moments.

Karina didn’t mean anything by them. That’s what made it worse. She’d plop down on you mid-conversation with zero warning, back wiggling against your chest like she was trying to unlock some ancient, primal curse. Sometimes she’d shift without realizing it, and your brain would short-circuit while she nibbled Pocky and asked if ducks had teeth.

She was, somehow, both God’s most adorable angel and the devil’s most tempting succubus—wrapped in one soft, giggling, maddeningly affectionate package.

And the worst part?

She had no idea what she was doing to you.

Or maybe she did.

But either way… you were hopelessly, blissfully doomed.

The plan was simple: a chill double date. Dinner, drinks, and maybe a board game or two at Giselle’s place.

The execution, however, was anything but chill—because Karina, bless her chaotic soul, had once again decided to dress like a Victoria’s Secret model pretending to be wholesome. Which was ironic because you knew Victoria secret models who were more modest and wholesome than Karina.

She wore a baby pink cardigan that only had two buttons fastened—right at the middle—and underneath, a lacy bralette that could barely be called clothing. High-waisted jeans hugged her hips like they were in a committed relationship, and her hair was tied up in a messy ponytail that made her look infuriatingly effortless.

Giselle’s boyfriend tried very hard not to stare which would have annoyed you but you had your own issues . You tried very hard not to combust.

The whole night, Karina was a golden retriever in human form. She bounced around the kitchen helping Giselle cook, humming pop songs and spinning in her socks like the floor was a skating rink. Or she clinged to you like a new puppy would.

“Do you want more wine, Malcom?” she asked, leaning across the table to pour you a glass—from the wrong side. Her chest hovered right in front of your face like a sentient temptation. Your soul briefly left your body.

“Oh my god,” Giselle muttered beside you, hiding a snort behind her hand. “She’s not even trying.”

“She never tries,” you hissed, face hot.

When dinner ended, Karina claimed your lap like it was her rightful throne. She wriggled slightly to get comfortable, which meant your life expectancy dropped by about five years. She stole bites off your plate and pressed her cheek against yours like a cat marking its territory, all while giggling at a dumb story Giselle was telling about her boyfriend getting locked out in boxers.

You didn’t hear a word of it.

All you could focus on was the fact that Karina’s bralette strap had slid off her shoulder. Her skin was warm against your jaw. Her hips were grinding against your thigh every time she laughed too hard.

She looked up at you with wide, oblivious eyes.

“You okay?” she asked sweetly.

“Peachy,” you croaked, voice cracking like a teenager.

Giselle made a strangled noise. “This is the funniest date I’ve ever been on.”

“I’m just sitting!” Karina protested, still perched innocently in your lap, pouting like a kicked puppy. “Malcom’s the one acting all weird.”

You met Giselle’s eyes over Karina’s shoulder. She grinned like the devil. You were never going to live this down.

Later that night, after you’d survived dinner, board games, and the lap of doom, you and Karina finally made it back to your place.

She flopped onto your couch, kicked off her shoes, and gave you the look—head tilted, brows scrunched, lips pursed. The interrogation look.

“Okay,” she said, pointing a finger at you like you were on trial. “Why were you being so weird all night?”

You blinked. “Weird?”

“Yeah! You were jumpy and awkward and barely spoke during dessert. Did I say something dumb again? You’re not secretly allergic to lasagna or something, right?”

You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. “Karina… it wasn’t what you said. It’s you.”

Her expression softened in that open, trusting way that always made your heart lurch. “Me?”

“Yeah, like—look, you’re adorable and funny and insane, but also you’re just… really sexy. And you don’t mean to be, which makes it worse. You sat in my lap in that bralette like it was no big deal, and leaned over the table, and giggled with your boobs basically—okay, you know what I mean.”

Karina just stared.

Then blinked.

Then laughed. Hard.

“Nooo way. You’re just saying that to be dramatic!”

“I’m serious!” you groaned, collapsing beside her. “Giselle even gave me that look like, ‘bro, I’m so sorry for your suffering.’”

She narrowed her eyes. “I need to hear this from a second source.”

And just like that, she grabbed her phone and FaceTimed Giselle.

You tried to stop her. She smacked your hand away like a mosquito. The line rang once before Giselle answered, wrapped in a blanket, holding a popsicle.

“What’s up, chaos goblins?”

Karina shoved the phone in her face. “Was I sexy tonight?”

Giselle blinked. Then howled.

“Oh my god—YES. Babe, you were almost radioactively hot. I nearly had to throw a blanket on you for public safety. You sat in his lap like it was your throne and bounced like you were trying to get him to fuck you right there.”

“I wasn’t even trying!?” Karina cried.

“I know! That’s what made it worse! You’re like an adorable succubus and he was suffering in absolute silence. Honestly, it was impressive.”

Karina turned slowly to look at you. Her mouth was slightly open in disbelief. “Wait… you were turned on that whole time?!”

You gave her a flat stare. “Karina. I nearly bit through my cheek during Uno.”

She gasped like it was the most romantic thing she’d ever heard.

Then she burst out laughing again—and tackled you onto the couch, straddling you without a second thought.

“Aw, baby,” she cooed. “You should’ve said something.”

You groaned. “You think I didn’t try?”

Giselle was still cackling through the phone. “I’m hanging up before I hear something I’ll never un-hear. Good luck, Malcom. You’re gonna need it.”

The line went dead. Karina grinned down at you, straddling your hips like she was born to sit there—like gravity itself had conspired to put her in your lap and keep her there. That wild sparkle lit up her eyes, mischief blooming across her face like fire meeting dry grass.

“Oh?” she purred, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Let me show you what me actually trying to be sexy looks like.”

And then she kissed you.

Not the shy, fluttery kind. No. This was a kiss that didn’t ask permission—it took. Her lips met yours with a hungry certainty, all heat and rhythm, like she knew exactly where you were weakest and aimed straight for the center. Her hands cupped your jaw, keeping you exactly where she wanted you, and every time you tried to catch your breath, she pulled you back under—deeper, slower, harder.

You groaned into her mouth, clutching her waist like a lifeline, your brain fogging up with nothing but the feel of her.

By the time she finally let you go, you were panting, light-headed, your pulse galloping like it was trying to outrun your restraint.

She didn’t stop there.

Karina leaned in, lips grazing the shell of your ear with infuriating gentleness. Her breath was hot, intimate, maddening. Then her tongue flicked out—just once—before she slowly dragged it along the edge of your ear and finished with a teasing nip at your lobe.

You gasped, hips involuntarily twitching beneath her. She giggled at the reaction, soft and smug, like she’d just discovered your cheat code.

Her fingers trailed down your chest, feather-light, tracing invisible patterns over your shirt. She wasn’t rushing—no, this was deliberate. Torturous. Seductive in the most innocent-seeming way, which somehow made it even worse.

“I’ve been waiting for the right signal,” she whispered, voice all faux innocence wrapped in sin. “Didn’t want to scare you off.”

She leaned back just enough for her bralette to catch the light—those two ridiculous buttons on her cardigan threatening to pop at any second—as she tilted her head, her short fluff of hair bouncing playfully with the motion.

“But it seems like you’ve been ready for me…” she purred, running her nails lightly along your abdomen, “…for a very long time.”

You swallowed hard. She smiled wider.

You had absolutely no idea if this was heaven or hell, but one thing was certain:

You weren’t leaving her lap any time soon. She slowly began to undress first the cardigan, then the bralette.

You almost drooled at how hot her body was and then somewhere along the way. A red light turned green and you took the offensive. You kissed her as you fumbled with your pants and belt as she took off hers.

Before you could think or even consider anything you plunged into her tight wet heat.

Karina smirked in the smug knowing way as you entered her.

Your ears ringing as blood rushed down to your dick. She smiled and said, “fuck me” her voice soft and seductive in all the right ways as you slowly plunged in and out as she greedily sucked you in,

“Fuck yu, your pussy is a vice”

Karina smiles at your struggle before saying, “well I do love you,” her words send you down a spiral as her pussy tightens around you leaving you ragged and breathless before exploding inside her velvety walls. Your seed enters her greedy womb as her walls desperately try to drain every drop from you. She smiles after your spent and says.

“I’ll tone down my accidental sexiness,”

Still inside her you say, “no keep me hard because I want you to know how much I love you as well.”

Karina smiles then says” oh you sweet poor boy,”

#k pop smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #aespa #aespa smut #aespa karina #karina smut #karina x reader

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vibelladonna · 11 days ago

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✑ 𝒶𝓉𝓉𝒶𝒸𝒽𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: The TKATB men, Hot Things They Do + Their Attachment Styles! Oh yeah—we’re so back, babes.

A character breakdown of the four dangerously compelling men—Crowe, Geo, Hyugo, and Sol—sorry, no Deryl this time, there’s a reason why. through the lens of attachment theory and the chaotic behaviors that make us scream into the void, spiral, and convince ourselves we could "help."

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

Yes, I know, I disappeared. Yes, longer than planned. Yes, you missed me—don’t lie, and yes—I missed you more. Plot twist: I wasn’t just napping after exams. I’ve officially committed to Ivy League—pause for applause, or choking, your choice—where I’ll be doing medical psych research this summer. Fancy, I know.

So yeah, I’ve been deep in research—now I’m back to apply it to fictional men who absolutely ruin lives.

Let’s get feral… intelligently.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

You’ve known Crowe for years.

He was never loud about it—didn’t sweep in with fireworks or fall from the sky or pull any rom-com-level stunts. Nah. He just… showed up. And stayed. Quietly inserting himself into your orbit like some well-dressed glitch in the matrix who smelled faintly of jasmine and self-restraint.

People call him Prince Charming.

In your head? You call him Princess Crowe, Supreme of Serenity and Sass. Because yes, sure, he’s got that calm, regal aura—but look at him. He’s too pretty to be real. More beauteous than handsome. Delicate bone structure, elegant fingers, eyelashes that probably violate human rights laws. Honestly, he looks like if moonlight and sarcasm had a baby.

And don’t get me started on the braid.

He wears his dark hair tied back into this loose braid that hangs over his right shoulder, with stray strands escaping just enough to suggest he definitely read about brooding male leads in novels and took notes. It’s the kind of look that says “I could emotionally devastate you and then tuck you in.”

And that’s the thing about Crowe—he looks like a polite heir to a forgotten kingdom, but you just know he could get messy. Like, “trip you with a smirk and gaslight you into thinking it was romantic foreplay” messy.

But he’s also your best friend.

Well, technically. In theory. Because let’s be real: Best friends don’t have crushes on you. Actually… It depends…

Hot Thing #1: The Thumb Tracing

Let’s get one thing straight before we proceed:

Holding hands is not supposed to be an arrestable offense.

It’s supposed to be harmless. Sweet, even. A little contact to say “Hey, I like being near you.” You’re supposed to feel a flutter—maybe blush a little, maybe squeeze back. Normal stuff. Manageable.

But with Crowe?

Crowe turns hand-holding into a transcendent event. A full-body experience. The kind of moment that rewires your nervous system. He doesn’t touch you like it’s casual. He touches you like your skin once whispered a secret into his palm and now he’s obsessed with decoding it again and again.

It starts innocently enough. You’re across from him, probably mid-rant—something petty that feels righteous and holy in your bones. Maybe it’s about that girl in class with her overpriced pens and her attitude that drips superiority like perfume.

You’re waving your hands, voice sharp with conviction—“And then she had the audacity to roll her eyes at me, Crowe. Like I was just supposed to accept that level of delusion and keep going? I mean—”

And then he does it.

He takes your hand. Just—gently folds it into his, like it’s nothing. And while you’re mid-sentence, he starts tracing.

It’s soft. Thoughtless, almost. His thumb moves in slow, hypnotic circles against your skin, as if your hand was always meant to be read like braille. He’s not even looking at it.

He’s looking at you, steady and focused, with those impossible, thoes blue eyes that see straight through the noise and into the marrow. But that thumb? It keeps moving. Drawing soft spirals, lazy loops, idle figure-eights like he’s memorizing every line and vein and secret under the surface.

You lose track of your rant. Your brain glitches. You blink, like you’ve just slipped through reality. “Crowe,” you whisper, trying to anchor yourself, “what are you doing?”

He blinks, serene. “Listening.”

“With your thumb?”

His lips curl into that maddening little half-smirk. The one that ruins lives. “It’s a multitasking thumb.”

And you—you are so done.

Because it’s not just the tracing. It’s the intention. It’s the quiet. It’s the fact that his touch isn’t demanding—it’s remembering. The kind that leaves echoes long after it ends.

The Tracing Catalogue™ isn’t just a list of idle gestures—it’s a tactile love language, a slow-burning monologue spoken in skin and silence. He doesn’t rush. Ever. His thumb glides in these almost sacred patterns: a long sweep up your knuckles, a subtle line drawn from the base of your wrist to the dip beneath your thumb. Sometimes he taps lightly in rhythm, syncing with the subtle beat of your pulse like he’s grounding himself to your heartbeat.

And then, there was that time.

The moment that took your breath hostage. You were talking, something lighthearted—something forgettable—and without warning, he traced a tiny heart on the back of your hand. Just once. Barely there.

You felt it like a confession, so tender and raw that it short-circuited your ability to function. You didn’t react. Couldn’t. Just stared at the ceiling like the truth might be hiding in the cracks of the drywall. How do you respond when someone says everything without saying a word?

And then there’s the other touch.

When his arm slips around your waist.

That’s when it’s over.

Maybe it happens when you’re curled beside him on the couch, the room hushed around you, warm with lamplight and the low hum of music in the background.

Or maybe it’s in public, in a tucked-away café corner where no one’s watching but the air still feels charged. His hand slides around you—casual, like it belongs there—and then his fingers find the sliver of skin where your shirt lifts just slightly.

And it begins again.

Not teasing. Not rushed. Slow, reverent circles. His fingertips graze like they’re trying to calm something unnamed—like he’s writing protective spells in invisible ink. His thumb draws down, curves back up, sketches soft, looping sigils that feel like promises.

He’s not even paying attention to what he’s doing. He’s listening to you talk about something else—art, ethics, the gray morality of your favorite villain—but his fingers stay, moving as if they’re tethered to the rhythm of your voice.

And you try to keep speaking. You try.

But inside?

Nothing but white noise. Static. A gentle, chaotic implosion.

Because it’s not just physical contact. It’s presence. It’s intimacy without demand. It’s the comfort of being seen and held in the same moment. It’s him saying, I’m here. You matter. I won’t rush you. But I’ll stay.

Crowe doesn’t touch to take—he touches to witness. To remember. In a world that constantly demands volume and noise, he listens in quiet motion. His hands say what he’d never admit aloud. You don’t have to ask for softness here. You don’t have to earn it. I’ve already chosen to give it.

And the worst part?

He has no idea what he’s doing to you. He does.

Your heart is scorched earth. Your sense of self? Crumbling. Emotional independence? Weeping silently in the back of your mind. He thinks he’s just being thoughtful. Just being there.

But you know better.

That mf does know, he ain’t slick.

Hot Thing #2: Mind Reader Tendencies

It’s like being escorted through life by a god disguised as a gentleman.

And honestly, at this point, you should be filing some kind of formal complaint with the cosmos, because how is it even remotely fair for one person to be both emotionally literate and devastatingly attractive?

Crowe isn’t just observant—he’s clairvoyant in that maddening, quietly devastating way. He reads you like you’re a well-loved novel: cover softened, margins scribbled with thoughts only he seems to understand. He’s memorized all the dog-eared pages—the ones you thought you kept hidden, folded deep between layers of defensiveness and polite silence.

You never have to ask for anything. Hell, you barely have to think.

You’ll walk back to the table after a miserable ten-minute brush with reality—maybe you just had to talk to someone fake-smiling through fangs, or maybe you stepped in a puddle and questioned every life choice that led you to this point—and there he is. Crowe. Already pulling out your chair like it’s instinct, his hand a steady warmth between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t look up when he murmurs, “Sweet or salty?”

You blink. Confused. You hadn’t said a word.

But he’s already halfway through ordering the pastry. That pastry. The one you always break down for when your mood drops below murderous. The one that tastes like forgiveness and poor coping mechanisms. You sit, stunned, and he just continues his conversation like nothing happened—like he didn’t just read your entire emotional forecast with a single glance.

And that’s not even the most criminal part.

There was this other time, in a crowd—people pressing too close, voices rising in static, the air too hot and full of demand. You hadn’t even reached the edge yet, hadn’t even panicked, but then—

Something cold. Slid into your palm.

You glance down. A bottle of water. Cold, unopened.

You look up. Crowe doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask if you’re okay, doesn’t crowd you further. He just raises an eyebrow in that maddening, knowing way—like he already knows how close the walls were getting. Just holds your gaze, steady and calm, a silent: You good? And you are now. Against all odds, against the crushing weight of existence—you’re good. Because he is.

But the real breaking point? The moment that tilted the axis of your whole internal world?

You’d once—once—mentioned this keychain. Half-asleep during a late-night call, your voice drifting between dreaming and real. Something small. Dumb. A fleeting detail you’d forgotten the second it left your lips.

He didn’t.

The next day, it’s there. Nestled into your bag like a secret. Two of them. Matching. Of course they match. Like some quiet offering you weren’t supposed to find. You pull it out, staring, heart lurching in that awful, beautiful way that says this is love and you are not ready.

You clutch it to your chest, stunned. “Crowe,” you hiss, heart glitching. “Did you…?”

He shrugs. Barely looks up. Doesn’t even try to act guilty. “You liked it.”

“You remembered that?”

That damn smirk. That slight tilt of his head. “I remember everything you like.”

You stare at him, torn between awe and emotional cardiac arrest. How dare he. How dare he weaponize that voice, that calm, unbothered presence, and make remembering you feel like the most natural thing in the world.

And the worst part? It’s not one-sided.

Because somewhere along the way, you started doing it, too.

Noticing the way his shoulders ease when there’s jasmine in the air. Remembering how he always drinks tea when he’s tired but won’t say it aloud. Memorizing the exact pitch of silence that comforts him—and the precise song to hum when his gaze turns distant.

You know which hoodie he’ll actually wear when he’s cold, which movie pulls him out of bad days without needing a word.

It’s not grand gestures. It’s not declarations. It’s presence.

Mutual fluency in one another's unspoken needs. You start anticipating him the same way he’s always read you: sliding your dessert slightly toward him without a word, answering questions he hasn’t asked out loud. Exchanging glances in a crowded room and knowing. Speaking entire sentences with a look, a shift of posture, a barely-there smile.

And it’s terrifyingly intimate.

More than any kiss. More than any vow.

Because this isn’t about touch or words. It’s about the fact that Crowe lives beside you like he belongs there. Moves through your life like he’s always known the layout.

Like he found your soul half-abandoned on a shelf somewhere, dusted it off, and said I know how to carry this without breaking it.

And what’s even more impossible? You belong beside him, too.

Whether either of you says it or not—you know it. And knowing someone like this? Being known like this? It’s dangerous. Addictive.

And utterly irreversible.

Hot Thing #3: Unreachable Vulnerability

aka “He Protects Everyone but Who Protects Him?”

You give. Crowe protects.

That’s the rhythm of it. The unspoken contract. The magnetic balance between the two of you. But the cruel twist—the part that breaks you open again and again—is that he never lets you protect him.

And gods, you’ve tried. With gentle words and even gentler silences. You’ve laid out your heart like a map, offered him little bridges of safety to cross at his own pace—whispers disguised as jokes, late-night check-ins wrapped in casual tones, a hundred soft invitations hidden in the way you say his name when no one else is around.

“Are you okay?” you ask one evening, your voice almost lost beneath the hum of the streetlight spilling through the window. The room is still. Dim. Crowe’s leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere far away. He doesn’t look at you.

Just exhales. Quiet. Controlled.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he murmurs, like it’s a favor he’s offering you. Like your concern is an unnecessary weight he’d rather carry himself.

But you do worry.

Because you see him—not the practiced version the world gets. Not just the dry wit, the strategic calm, the way he stands just slightly in front of you when a room turns sharp.

No, you see the tightness in his jaw when something bruises beneath the surface. You see the tension in his shoulders after a day spent holding up more than anyone should. You see how he goes still sometimes—how his gaze drifts far, inward, haunted by thoughts he won’t share.

You see it, and it kills you.

Because you’d take it. Every burden. Every wound. You’d carry his ghosts if he’d only let you. You’d hold his pain like relics, polish the sharp edges until they stopped cutting him open from the inside. You’d make a home for the parts of him he hides away.

But he never lets you in far enough to touch them.

Once—just once—he let the exhaustion catch up to him. The armor slipped. You sat close, your bodies almost brushing, and when the silence stretched too long, he let his head rest against yours for a moment that lasted longer than it should have. It felt like a confession.

“I mean it,” you whispered. “You don’t always have to be strong for me.”

And he smiled. That awful, beautiful smile. Half-ache, half-apology. The kind of smile that means thank you and please stop all at once.

“I want to be,” he said. “For you.”

And that ruined you. Because it was honest. Honest in a way that was almost cruel. It told you everything—how he sees you, how much he values your faith in him, how terrified he is of shattering the version of himself that makes you feel safe.

Because loving Crowe is like holding fire in your bare hands. He warms you. Protects you. Lights the way through every storm. But he never lets you get close enough to touch the part that burns. The core. The vulnerable flame. He shields it not to punish you, but to protect you—from the heaviness of him, from the fear that if you really knew, you’d run.

As if your love is some fragile thing. As if it wouldn’t survive the truth of him.

So when he places that grounding hand on your back, when he steadies you with that quiet certainty, when he shields you like you’re made of something fragile and divine—you say nothing. Not anymore. Not today.

You swallow the ache. Smile through it. Match his silence with your own. Because this is how he lets you love him: not in grand rescues, but in the quiet presence beside him. In noticing.

In remembering. In never leaving. You guard him in the only way he allows—without confrontation, without demands, without pushing past the line he draws so carefully around himself.

You wait.

Because one day—when the dam finally breaks, when the weight becomes too much, when his walls crack just enough to let the flood through—you’ll be there. Steady. Ready. Not to fix him, not to pull him back to the version he thinks he has to be, but to rebuild with him.

Softer. Truer. Armor made not of silence, but of trust.

Until then, you love him the way he lets you. Quietly. Constantly.

You always notice. You always will.

Attachment Style: 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝓊𝓇𝑒

Confidence. Self-worth. Accepts Supports.

Those are three key words of what would be the start of your and his relationship.Crowe isn’t just a man—he’s a case study in secure attachment dressed like sin and serenity had a child.

Everything about him moves with intent, like he was carved out of composure and gifted to a world too loud for his quiet strength.

The paradox is real: he’s distant without being cold, intimate without being invasive. He looks like he doesn’t need anyone, but loves like someone who deeply values connection. And the truth? Crowe is secure.

Not just emotionally available—emotionally anchored.

He is the kind of love that doesn’t flinch.

Out of all the men in TKATB, Crowe is the most stable. Other than Deryl, heance she the reason why I don’t write him because he’s like a mix between Crowe and Hyugo—look, I just don’t wanna write that much, man T-T.

Not in the sense of boring or predictable—no, Crowe is terrifying in the way gentleness becomes power when wielded with unwavering intent. His love doesn’t crash or spiral. It doesn’t demand to be witnessed through chaos. It simply is—a steady, grounding hum beneath the noise of the world, the kind of presence that calms your trembling hands before you even notice they’re shaking.

He doesn’t love to be impressive. He loves because it’s who he is.

Not possessive. Not performative. Just… quietly devoted.

A man who nurtures love like it’s a fire he’s been entrusted to tend: brick by brick, breath by breath, never smothered, never forgotten.

From a psychological lens, again, Crowe is the embodiment of secure attachment—a rarity sculpted not from trauma responses or codependent patterns, but from inner clarity. This is someone who knows himself. Who doesn’t run from discomfort, but also doesn’t manufacture it for sport? Who expresses his needs without guilt. Sets boundaries without cruelty. Listens without waiting to speak.

He doesn’t play games. Emotional safety isn’t a performance for him—it’s his baseline. He can sit in your silence without assuming it’s about him. He can watch you spiral without trying to fix you. He’ll just be there—a shoulder, a breath, a hand on the small of your back that wordlessly says, I’ve got you.

Where the anxious chase and the avoidants vanish, Crowe stays.

And that? That is rare.

He is safe. But not in the bland, beige, Hallmark-movie way.

He’s safe in the holy shit, I can finally exhale around you kind of way. You could fall apart—shattered, incoherent, undone—and he would catch every piece with reverent hands. Not to glue you back together in his image. Not to fix what he thinks is broken. But just to witness you. To hold the fragments. To let you come home to yourself while wrapped in the kind of presence that never once wavers.

Because Crowe knows that love isn’t about control. Or urgency. Or possession. Love, for him, is about unfolding. Slowly. Deliberately. Willingly.

And he unfolds you in the most devastatingly mundane ways. Tea waiting by your bed before you realize you need it. His jacket slipped over your shoulders before you can pretend you’re not cold. The smell of laundry detergent clinging to your favorite hoodie—the one he washed and folded while humming under his breath. Nothing loud. Nothing dramatic. Just devotion stitched into the fabric of the ordinary.

But don’t mistake this softness for perfection.

Crowe still has his own shadows.

He gets tired. He burns out. Sometimes he overfunctions, taking on too much, because rest still feels suspiciously like failure. He’s the pillar in every room, the one everyone leans on, and sometimes he forgets he’s allowed to lean back. He doesn’t show it often, but he craves reassurance in quiet ways—needs to hear that he’s appreciated, even if he’ll never ask.

Even the most securely attached hearts carry wounds.

Crowe’s just learned how to hold his with grace.

That’s what makes him magnetic—his strength isn’t rigid. It’s fluid. Adaptive. His masculinity is never threatened by tenderness. His confidence is not armor—it’s foundation. And that’s what ruins people for anyone else. Because once you’ve been loved by someone like Crowe?

You stop mistaking chaos for passion.

You stop chasing the highs and lows and learn to worship the steady middle. You crave peace because he teaches you that it’s anything but passive.

You’ve thought about what kind of person Crowe could truly open to. The one he’d actually choose to give that rare, inner part of himself to. It wouldn’t be someone who demands a performance. Not someone who needs him to be impressive, loud, or invincible. It would be someone emotionally mature.

Grounded.

A person who can walk beside him, not behind. Who sees consistency as a love language, not a limitation. Someone who understands that passion, when paired with safety, doesn’t burn out—it burns deeper. Crowe needs someone who understands that intimacy is built in small, sacred rituals. That calm is not boring—it’s divine. Someone who knows the difference between being claimed and being chosen.

And you? You see it.

You don’t need him to shout his love. You feel it in the way he breathes around you. In the way he touches your shoulder like he’s checking you’re still anchored. In the way he cooks for you, like he’s crafting something sacred. In the way he smiles at you across a crowded room, like he’s proud that you are his still point in the storm.

So yes. You’re already doomed.

But it’s the kind of doom you walk into willingly. Reverently. Because there’s no falling here. No cliff. No crash. There’s just the quiet, terrifying comfort of being seen. Of being safe. Of being held in a love that doesn't ask you to shrink or rise—just be. Because Crowe doesn’t love like a storm.

He loves it like home. And once you've felt that?

You won’t settle for anything less ever again.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Ugh. Alright, but just so we’re clear—I’m writing this with the same energy one uses to approach a beautiful, haunted cathedral that might also house a ghost with a knife collection.

Because Sol?

Sol is… a fucking mess.

Of course, you wouldn’t know after ONE thing after hanging out with him, or you peek at it at the start of the game. Not the loud, unhinged, obvious kind of mess. No. He’s the kind of mess that hides in the corner of a nearly empty room, eyes locked on something no one else can see, sketchbook clutched in ink-stained fingers, and a look that says, “If you talk to me, I might vanish into smoke.”

You noticed him before you met him. How could you not? Why would you?

He didn’t fit. Not because he tried to stand out, but because he tried so hard not to be noticed that it was impossible not to notice him.

Black hair streaked with poisonous green, tied back in a loose half-up-half-down way that screamed “I didn’t try” but looked suspiciously intentional. Bangs in thirds, one long streak falling dead center down his face, the others framing his cheeks like curtains to something sacred. Crimson-red eyes with burning orange centers like the last flare of a dying sun—central heterochromia, you’d later learn, but at first? You just called them unholy.

Sol didn’t talk to anyone. Didn’t even seem to see anyone. Sat in the back. Always sketching. Always watching. And dressed like he rolled out of a shadow realm thrift store and won.

Ngl he has that shit on—like the best fit out of everone in that damn game because eveyone shit lowkey kinda basic asf.

He wasn’t trying to intimidate. He just wasn’t trying at all.

And still, somehow? He was the prettiest thing you’d ever seen.

Pretty, and pathetic, in the way haunted things are when they’ve been alone too long. You didn’t approach him like you would anyone else. Not with easy words or a smile. You approached him like someone inching toward a sleeping wolf. Careful. Curious. Fascinated.

Like maybe… maybe... You could stay.

Hot Thing #1: His Hands

Let’s just start with the obvious. His hands. His hands.

They should come with a warning label. Or maybe an art exhibit placard: “Do not touch—unless invited. Hazardous to rational thought.”

Sol’s hands are absurd. Long-fingered, precise, a strange contradiction of delicate and dangerous. He moves like someone who creates for a living and destroys for fun. The faint ink stains along his knuckles and fingertips don’t fade—they’re permanent, like tattoos of sleepless nights and compulsive inspiration.

Calluses rest along his inner fingers from pencils and brushes and god knows what else, but there’s still something careful about the way he moves, something intentional. His hands tremble when he’s lost in thought—not from weakness, but from the sheer intensity of whatever storm’s going on in his mind.

And the veins. God. The veins.

Prominent and winding, twitching subtly whenever he flexes or grips something a little too tight—like he's constantly at war with himself. You could map out your descent into insanity with them. Watch his hands tighten around a paintbrush, or twitch when he's gripping a mug too tightly, or the way his fingers hesitate before brushing against your skin—and every time, you swear you feel it in your lungs.

But it’s not just the aesthetics. It’s the intention.

The first time he cupped your face—with those artist’s hands, rough with talent and gentle with fear—you actually forgot how to breathe. He held you like you were something sacred. Breakable. Like he’d spent years drawing you in his mind before he ever touched you. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, and he was terrified that touching you might undo the illusion.

And you?

You're long gone.

Because when Sol touches you like that—with those graceful, twitchy artist hands, a breath away from trembling—you forget your name. You forget his name. You forget why this is such a bad idea. All that remains is sensation: the calloused pad of his thumb against your cheekbone, the unspoken question tucked inside the drag of his knuckle, the ink-smudged tenderness of someone who holds fragile things like they matter.

You’re not immune. Not even close.

So—maybe out of curiosity, maybe out of pure chaos—you take one of his hands. Just… gently. As if you’re studying it. Turning it over in your palm. Tracing a fingertip along the long lines of his veins. You hear his breath hitch. Not loud. But enough.

And for someone who blends into the background so effortlessly, Sol is terrible at hiding how flustered he is.

His ears were pink first. A soft, creeping flush like a sunrise over frost. Then the edge of his jaw tightens—not from anger, but restraint. His fingers twitch under yours like he’s trying so hard not to pull away… or maybe not to pull you closer. His gaze darts anywhere but your face: the floor, the table, the sky.

Anywhere safer than your expression right now.

“...You're doing it again,” he mutters. His voice is lower this time. Rougher.

“What?” you ask, feigning innocence as your thumb brushes the back of his knuckles. His pulse leaps beneath your touch.

“That thing. Where you look at me like I’m—” he pauses. Swallows. “Like I’m not a disaster.”

You tilt your head. “Maybe I like disasters.”

His eyes flicker to yours—just for a moment. Something vulnerable flashes behind the crimson and gold, something fragile and aching. It vanishes just as quickly. Replaced by that familiar, distant calm he wears like armor.

“…Okay,” he murmurs. Only quiet disbelief. His hand curls slightly around yours, just enough to hold on. Just enough to let you know he doesn’t want you to stop.

And you don’t. You can’t.

Because touching him like this—softly, reverently, like you’re handling some ancient spell-bound relic that might just whisper your name back if you get close enough—it completely undoes him.

Every time your fingers drift along his palm or ghost over the curve between his knuckles, Sol’s composure does this little glitch. Like a frame skip in reality. He tries to act unbothered—muttering under his breath, faking a yawn, suddenly very interested in the corner of the room where absolutely nothing is happening—but his hands? They give him away. Always. They stay exactly where they are. Still. Open. Waiting.

And okay. Fine. Maybe your interest isn’t entirely innocent. I mean, have you seen those hands? Long fingers, all twitchy with tension and stained in ink like a promise. Veins like lightning strikes. That subtle strength in the way he handles a paintbrush, or tightens the strap of his sketchbook bag, or, god forbid, cups your jaw like you’re something he’s afraid to break but dying to know.

Let’s just say—if you ever asked him to do something a little less wholesome with those hands?

You’re pretty sure he’d be excellent at it. Like, overly excellent. Like "I’ve read too many dark romance novels and now I know too much,” excellent. Not that you’re saying that out loud. Yet. Because Sol? Sol would die of embarrassment. Blush to his ears, probably knock over three books and his mug of tea in the process, and then immediately act like you were the one being inappropriate.

But his hands would stay. Still. Open.

Just in case you wanted to hold them again. Or trace the lines. Or test a theory or two about how good he really is with them. Sol won’t say it. He doesn’t need to. But every little movement-every—every twitch, every stillness, every time he lets you touch—It’s him saying: I’m yours, if you ask.

And maybe, someday soon, you will.

Hot Thing #2: His Jaw Tenses

See, Sol is the kind of person you don’t notice until you do—and by then, it’s already too late.

He doesn’t command attention, he slips past it, folds himself into the edges of the room like a shadow that’s always been there. Not because he lacks presence, no, not even close. It’s deliberate. Controlled. Sol’s the ghost behind the curtain, the silent observer whose gaze lingers a beat too long and whose silence says more than most people’s entire vocabulary.

He watches. And remembers.

But then. Oh, then—there’s the jaw thing.

It happens when he’s angry. Or jealous. Or both. And because he’s so quiet, so eerily unreadable most of the time, the first time you catch it, it hits like a freight train.

You're talking to someone else. Just a little too long. Laughing, maybe. Leaning a little too close. You glance over—and there’s Sol, sitting there like a portrait halfway finished in chiaroscuro, face calm but jaw tight. So tight you can see the muscle working beneath the skin, flexing like he’s biting back something vicious.

His pen is still in his hand, but it hasn’t moved in minutes. His heterochromatic gaze finds yours—and holds. Searing. Like the air just got thicker between you.

You shift in your chair, and just like that—scrrrrk—he reaches out, grabs the leg of your chair, and drags it closer to his. Effortlessly.

Your breath stutters. His arm lifts—casual, practiced—and drapes across the back of your chair like he’s staking a claim. You can feel the tension still thrumming in him, that fire he’s trying so hard to tamp down behind his quiet facade.

"Keep talking," he murmurs, barely glancing at you. His lips twitch—half smirk, half warning. "I was listening."

Your face? Absolutely volcanic. Your brain? Static. You try to refocus, try to pretend you're not being slowly incinerated alive by one (1) jealous gremlin masquerading as a sad poet.

But he doesn’t move.

And even with the jaw still clenched, that tension coiled in his shoulders, his hand brushes your back. Soft. Steady. Anchoring.

You don’t know if he’s trying to calm you down or himself.

Either way, it works. Because even when he’s mad—even when that jaw is practically grinding his teeth to dust—Sol doesn’t push you away.

He pulls you closer.

Hot Thing #3: Well.. his Voice

Of course his voice is unfair. Of course it is.

We don’t even get voice acting in the game—but somehow, somehow, I can still hear him. It's one of those cruel little mysteries of the universe, like how your favorite characters linger in your mind long after the screen fades to black.

I remember the creator, Fantasia, once posted what each character’s voice would sound like—just a passing comment, buried in an old post—but it stuck. And among all the characters, Sol’s voice is the only one that doesn’t overwhelm you.

Everyone else? Yeah, they have presence. Energy. Volume. Some sounds normal. Some are… well—Geo. And listen, I say this with love and concern, but that man’s voice sounds like it was designed to haunt your dreams and threaten your ancestors. Geo speaks, and you flinch like someone just unsheathed a cursed weapon. He sounds like vengeance???

But Sol? No. Sol’s voice is different.

It's quiet, careful—like he’s tasting each syllable before deciding it’s safe to say out loud. It’s not sharp or commanding. It doesn’t need to be. His voice is a hush at the edge of the storm. A late-night radio broadcast meant only for you. It’s not there to startle you into attention—it coaxes you in. Warm. Thoughtful. A little hesitant, like he doesn’t speak often, but when he does, you listen.

And that makes it worse. Because he’s not trying to get under your skin.

He just is.

Like, Sol’s voice starts soft, low, breathy, like he’s never quite sure if he’s allowed to speak out loud. Sol talks like he’s unspooling thought directly from the inside of his mind, like every word he gives you is something private, meant to be kept.

His tone curls around your spine like smoke from an incense stick: barely there at first, but then suddenly all you can smell, feel, breathe.

But when he’s immersed? When he’s talking about things he actually loves—books with frayed spines and marginalia scribbled in the corners, the myths he collects like bones, the difference between gouache and oil paints, or how watercolor red bleeds like veins under wet paper?

That voice? Changes.

It deepens. Warms. Sharpens into this low, smooth, hypnotic hum that’s too much and not enough all at once. He leans over his sketchbook one afternoon, humming absently as he touches a brush to the page—burnt sienna fanning out in delicate, crimson rivers.

"The reds always bleed like veins when I paint with them,” he murmurs, his mouth entirely too close to your ear, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You forget to breathe. You forget your own name.

“I—what?” you stammer, blinking like you just came out of a trance.

He doesn’t even look up. Just smirks, barely, and dips the brush again. “You weren’t listening,” he accuses gently. “You just like my voice.”

“I don’t—!” You clamp your mouth shut, cheeks burning.

His eyes flick toward you, crimson ringed with gold, dark lashes brushing his cheek. “You do.” A pause. Then softer: “It’s okay. I like how you say my name, too.”

You malfunction. Completely.

But it’s not just the tone. Not the warmth, or the drop in pitch when he’s tired and his words come wrapped in sleep. It’s the way he speaks—how he always sounds like he’s choosing each syllable with intent. Like he’s afraid of wasting a single one. Like language is sacred. Like you are.

Even when he’s quiet—especially when he’s quiet—there’s so much in it. You can hear care in the way he says your name. You can feel longing in the way he pauses before speaking, like he’s gauging whether he deserves to say something that touches you.

And underneath all the odd, unnerving stillness… there’s sweetness. A tenderness that never needs to announce itself.

He lingers longer than necessary when he brushes your hand. He touches your wrist like it’s something fragile he might break if he’s not careful. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear when you’re not paying attention, then pretends he didn’t. He scribbles quotes and folds them into tiny shapes—leaves them tucked in your books, your pockets, under your pillow.

“You’re not strange. You’re just the only language I haven’t learned how to read yet.”

You don’t tell him, but you keep everyone.

And when you dream, sometimes it’s not his face you see—it’s just the sound of his voice. Low, reverent, a whisper carved into your ribs.

Saying your name like it’s a poem. Like it’s a spell. Like it’s his.

Attachment Style: 𝒶𝓃𝓍𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈

Clingy. Highly Emotional. Seeking Reassurance.

Alright, let’s get something straight right off the bat: You guys know I don’t get the hype with Sol. Like, I see all of everyone on TikTok and Tumblr losing their minds over him like he’s some rare cosmic phenomenon, and I’m just here blinking, trying to figure out what’s so special about him.

He’s a yandere base character with a lot of character, he’s well written, I’ll give you that, because out of all the yandere

Because honestly? Again, visually, Sol looks like half the guys I see on campus every damn day. Long, disheveled bangs shadowing those stormy eyes, a kind of vacant, distant artist stare that’s been milled into the indie aesthetic.

The kind of dude who smells like burnt cinnamon and acrylic paint, like he’s perpetually stuck in a thrift shop or art studio. If you threw a rock into a random thrift, I’d bet it’d hit five Sol lookalikes before it hit you.

Let’s get something straight.

Sorry, you can clearly tell one fucked me up so bad.

Sol is not romantic. He’s not the fantasy.

He’s the delusion dressed in aesthetics so sharp and lyrical that people forget to flinch before they bleed. And I’m sorry if that breaks hearts.

Actually, no—I’m not.

Because someone has to say it. Someone has to be the older sister standing between fantasy and reality with a tired look in her eyes and a warning in her voice: Don’t crave men like Sol.

Don’t mistake his obsession for intimacy.

Don’t confuse his emotional starvation for depth.

Yes, Sol is beautiful—haunting, even. He doesn’t ask to be adored. He doesn’t perform desire. He simply exists in a way that makes your chest ache, like looking at a painting you don’t understand but can’t stop staring at. He’s the kind of character who crawls into your veins and sets up shop in your most vulnerable thoughts.

But that doesn’t make him safe.

In fact, he’s the most dangerous man in TKATB.

Not in the "knife-to-throat" way, but in the "I will latch onto you so completely that you forget where you end and I begin" kind of way. He’s a yandere.

Let’s not romanticize what he really is:

A walking case study in anxious attachment, trauma-coded intimacy, and emotional dysregulation. Sol doesn’t love with boundaries. He loves with abandonment issues and fever dreams. He doesn’t have a type. Not in the curated, preference-based sense. He doesn’t fall for “someone special.” He falls for whoever offers him a drop of attention in a lifetime of drought.

You texted him back twice? He’s writing odes.

You laugh at one of his jokes? He’s dreaming about your wedding.

You touch his arm casually? He’s ruined.

That’s not love. That’s fixation.

That’s attachment disorder dressed up in pretty metaphors and mournful gazes. Sol would bleed himself dry to prove he matters to you. He would carve your name into every corner of his mind, begging the memory of you to stay because he doesn’t know how to hold himself without an anchor, and you are the anchor. You, who smiled at him that one time. You, who didn’t run away fast enough. You, who made the mistake of seeing him.

And gods help you if you ever return that affection.

Because once you do?

He’s yours—entirely. Obsessively. Apocalyptically.

Not in a cute, flowers-and-sappy-notes kind of way.

But in the “I’d rather be miserable with you than happy alone” kind of way. The “I will shrink myself to fit in the cracks of your life” kind of way. The kind of devotion that doesn’t feel flattering. It feels suffocating. And yeah, he writes you poems. He makes you art. He memorizes your favorite songs.

But all of it is built on the trembling foundation of please don’t leave me. He gives you his soul—but not because he trusts you. Because he’s afraid you’re the only one who’ll take it.

Sol is scarcity in a human body.

He’s love-starved. He’s lonely. And that loneliness warps him into something too much and not enough all at once. He doesn’t want you to love him for his talents. Or his personality. He just wants to be chosen. Not out of logic. Not out of reason. Just out of that irrational, terrifying instinct that says, You. You’re mine.

And for anyone who’s ever felt unwanted, unchosen, or overlooked… That kind of love is magnetic. It feels holy. It feels like finally being seen. But it’s not holiness. It’s hunger. And hunger makes people desperate.

Now, listen closely. Because this matters:

Sol will make you feel special.

But that’s not because you’re the only one. It’s because he doesn’t know how to feel okay without someone—anyone—to fixate on. He’ll watch you sleep like you’re the sun and the end of the world. He’ll spiral at the thought of losing your attention. He’ll say he’s fine and then quietly implode when you don’t text back in time.

And the truth is: He’s not ready for love.

He doesn’t have the tools. He has poetry instead of communication. Passion instead of boundaries. And yes, he will ruin you with how beautiful he is when he’s desperate.

But he’ll ruin himself even faster. So please. Don’t aspire to love a man like Sol. Understand him? Yes. Empathize? Absolutely.

But don’t confuse him with a goal. Don’t glamorize his pain. Don’t make a home in someone who’s still setting fire to every place they enter just to see if anyone will stay in the flames.

Sol is not a villain. he kinda is...

He’s just... unfinished. Raw. Beautiful in that tragic, self-destructive way that makes you want to hold him and scream at him at the same time. But love should not be built on survival instincts and panic responses.

And if you’re a younger reader, especially, because I was once your age and I know SOME minors read my work, you're just playing it smart not to show your real age on the internet, so please listen:

This is not what love looks like.

This is not the kind of man you want to save. This is the kind of man who needs to save himself first. And you are not the cure. You are not a salve. You are not responsible for holding someone together just because they’re afraid to fall apart alone.

So no. I will not write him as some perfect tragic prince.

Because he isn’t.

And you deserve better than the fantasy of someone who would rather burn with you than heal beside you. Sol is poetry. But not every poem should be read like a promise. Some are just warnings dressed in beautiful words.

And this? This is yours.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Ah, finally. Geo.

God, I’ve missed writing this man like a bad habit I refuse to quit.

Let me tell you something real—there’s something infuriatingly addictive about Geo. He’s not just tall; he’s annoyingly tall. The kind of tall that makes your posture worse just standing next to him.

He’s the exact height where, if you asked him to grab something from the top shelf, he’d just look at you, expression flat, silently judging your weakness while reaching for it anyway. Like some quiet, reluctant guardian deity who hates your incompetence but takes care of you anyway.

He’s broody. Of course he is. Broody, serious, emotionally constipated in the way only someone raised under an oppressive cocktail of expectations, trauma, and tactical training could be.

He doesn’t “glare”—he assesses, and the moment his eyes lock onto you, you feel like you're being psychologically dissected and filed into a threat matrix. He doesn’t just walk into a room. He occupies it. Quietly. Commandingly. Like a ghost who’s also your landlord.

And yet?

No one knows a damn thing about him.

He’s the human equivalent of redacted classified files. He’s got the kind of presence that screams: If you think you know me, you don’t. Geo’s not mysterious for attention—he’s just actually private. Like "burned his own childhood photos" levels of private.

If you ask where he’s from, you’ll get a clipped “overseas” and a look so cold you’ll suddenly forget what the question even was. He’s not hiding anything in the way someone guilty might—he’s hiding everything because he can. And because of him, your curiosity is noise.

Geo’s rich, obviously, but not the new-money, “look at my luxury watch and hypercar” kind of rich. No, he’s old moneyrich—the kind where generational power moves in silence. His taste is curated, not expensive for the sake of expense, but because he understands precision. Geo’s wealth feels like legacy and bloodlines and something cold passed down through hands that never knew softness.

Now here’s the thing: he is not approachable.

Geo radiates this “do not engage” energy like a psychic wall. Trying to be friends with him cold? Suicidal. You don’t meet Geo—you get vetted by him. If you somehow worm your way into his orbit, it’s not because you charmed him—it’s because he saw something in you that wasn’t a liability. And even then, he watches. Always. Like he’s trying to solve you before you solve him.

Honestly, you’d need Crowe to run interference, several bribes, a six-month campaign of micro-interactions, and a willingness to have him ignore 90% of your existence before you even get a nod of recognition. And when you do get that nod? Oh, congratulations. You now mean slightly more than nothing to him. That’s progress.

And yet—yet—that’s what makes him devastating.

Hot Thing #1: His Useful Height

Geo’s height is not just a trait. It’s a threat.

A walking hazard to your sanity. A full-body reminder that evolution had favorites. Because it’s not just that he’s tall—it’s that he uses it, casually, instinctively, infuriatingly well.

Even when you can reach something on your own, he doesn’t let you. Doesn’t even hesitate. You’ll be mid-reach, fingers brushing the top shelf like a responsible, self-sufficient adult—and suddenly, he’s behind you. Close. Solid. His hand effortlessly sliding past yours to grab the exact item like he was summoned by the gods of smug utility.

“You were struggling,” he says mildly, placing it in your hands like some kind of benevolent height deity.

“I was not,” you grumble, trying not to combust from how his chest just barely grazed your back.

He doesn’t argue. Just scoffs. That very specific Geo scoff. The kind that’s 60% dry amusement, 30% mischief, and 10% 'I know I’m hot, but I’m going to pretend I don’t.'

And sure, maybe he likes being helpful. Maybe he enjoys the way your flustered silence lingers in the air afterward. But mostly? Mostly, it’s the excuse it gives him to lean in.

Because every time he reaches up to grab something, he does it deliberately close—his body brushing yours, his arm stretching just overhead, his torso turning ever so slightly so you can catch the shift of his muscles beneath that stupidly well-fitting hoodie.

You try not to look. You fail. Every single time.

Then, just as casually as he appeared, he steps back and returns to whatever he was doing like nothing just happened. Like you’re not standing there, gripping a box of cereal like it’s a loaded weapon, heart trying to escape your ribcage.

And always—always—he leaves with a scoff.

“You’re good?” he says once, catching the color on your cheeks/facial expression.

“I’m hot,” you lie flatly, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Geo raises a brow. “Mm. Sure. That explains the staring, too, I guess.”

You want to throw something at him. You also want to kiss him. Which is a real problem.

And let’s talk about doorframes. There should be an international crisis summit about the way Geo leans on them. His arm stretched casually overhead, braced against the frame like it was built to accommodate his wingspan.

That lazy, lopsided posture—the kind that says I’m comfortable in every molecule of my body. Shoulders relaxed, shirt rising just enough to hint at skin, and his head tilted with that quiet, unreadable expression like he’s cataloging your every reaction.

It’s a war crime. It’s inhumane.

Especially because it’s not on purpose. It’s never on purpose. It’s just him—tall, composed, stupidly attractive Geo existing in your general vicinity while your brain decides to restart its operating system like a cheap laptop trying to load a full RPG on dial-up.

And when you finally point it out?

He has the nerve to look confused.

“…The lean?” he repeats, brows furrowed.

“Yes,” you snap, practically frothing. “The lean, Geo. You do it every time you want to ruin my life.”

“I was just standing,” he says, like that’s a normal thing to do when your arm is flexed, your bicep is straining against cotton, and your stare could melt glaciers.

You want to scream. Instead, you mutter, “There should be laws.”

And Geo? He scoffs. God help you.

But the absolute worst—the final nail in the coffin—is when he drives.

Because, of course, Geo reverse parks like a man who has conquered past lives. Of course, he shifts into gear with one hand on the wheel, the other slung casually over your seat, twisting with effortless control as his eyes flick to the mirrors. The car glides perfectly into place like it was drawn there by divine magnetism.

“Why,” you whisper hoarsely, “are you parking like we’re in a heist film?”

He glances at you. Calm. Confident. Zero shame. “Didn’t want to mess up the angle.”

You’re short-circuiting. You’re heat-flushed. You’re considering marrying this man solely out of survival instinct.

“I am the angle, Geo. You are messing me up.”

And it only gets worse when he responds with a small, smug chuckle—and goes back to adjusting the rearview mirror like he didn’t just hand-deliver your soul to the afterlife.

And the truth? You’d let him do it again.

Hot Thing #2: The Outfit Combo

aka “Domestic Geo Is a Public Threat to Your Sanity”

There’s a sacred kind of violence in the way Geo dresses when it’s just the two of you—no witnesses, no performance, just private comfort tailored for your psychological destruction. It's not a calculated seduction.

It's worse. It’s instinctual. Organic. The kind of unintentional torment that comes from a man who has no idea what he looks like in grey sweatpants and a tight black shirt… or worse, knows exactly what he looks like and chooses violence anyway.

Let’s start with the setting: your apartment, a lazy Sunday, maybe a storm tapping against the windows while something warm simmers on the stove.

You’re the one bundled in his oversized sweatshirt—because, of course, he insists you wear it, mumbles something about you needing to “stay warm” while he eyes you like you’re the coziest thing he’s ever seen. You know the truth: he just likes how it looks on you. The drape of the sleeves. The way it smells like him. The fact that it’s his.

But him?

Geo’s at the counter, yawning, stretching, completely unaware (or pretending to be) of the absolute crime scene that is his outfit.

Nothing but sweatpants. And not just any sweatpants.

Those cursed grey ones. Worn soft. Hung dangerously low on his hips like they’ve got something to prove. They cling in all the wrong-right places, and somehow manage to reveal more than they conceal—each motion sending a silent, godless prayer into the air. And paired with that black t-shirt? Tight. Sinned against. Fitted like it’s trying to stay decent but failing gloriously.

Every muscle on display. Every line etched by fire and cruel genetics. You swear the shirt wasn’t that tight before he washed it, but now? It hugs his chest like a second skin, riding just slightly higher in the back, lifting just enough to tease a sliver of toned waist with every step.

And his hair. Messy from sleep. Tousled in a way he hates, muttering under his breath while running a hand through it like he’s offended by his hotness. You watch him move across the room like gravity is just a concept that chooses to worship him. His voice, still raw from sleep, is a low rumble when he finally breaks the silence:

“Did you eat yet?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your brain has fully exited the chat. You’re busy wondering how one man can look like he bench-pressed your emotional stability and then dropped it on purpose.

Geo glances at you, takes in your dazed silence, and arches a brow. “...What?”

You blink. Realize you’ve been staring at the waistband of his sweatpants like it’s a holy relic. “I—uh. Sorry. Lost my train of thought.”

He leans on the counter, arms folded, veins flexing with a casual, effortless threat. “Ha, simp.”

“I WAS NOT.”

“Sure.” And then the smile. That evil, knowing little quirk at the corner of his mouth like he knows. Of course he knows. He just won’t admit it. That’s the true hell of it all.

But if the home fits are emotional warfare, then gym Geo is a full-scale psychic assassination. You’ve tried working out with him. Honestly, you gave it a noble shot.

But it’s hard to focus on form when he’s three feet away doing pull-ups like gravity personally offended him. Back muscles rippling. Shoulder blades flexing with each movement. And you? Struggling to breathe like an asthmatic Victorian maiden watching a gladiator fight.

There’s sweat. So much sweat. His shirt sticks to his chest in a way that makes you question if cotton was ever ethical to begin with. His arms are a living map of divine punishment. The way he pushes up his sleeves before spotting you? Fatal. Intentional or not, it’s like he’s loading a gun and handing it to your libido.

And then… life intervenes. Work. Time. Distance. You’re stuck at home, haunted by the ghost of Geo’s muscles and the memory of how low those sweatpants really sit when he's stretching in the kitchen.

So you beg. Not even with dignity.

“Geo, I’m serious. I need this. One gym selfie. Please. I'm losing my mind. Just—just one flex. For my health.”

His reply is a single, soul-crushing word: “No.”

You spiral. You threaten to write poetry. You do write poetry. Terrible, desperate haikus about forearms and jawlines. You light candles. Curse his ancestors. Offer sacrifices to whatever cruel deity decided to gift that body to a man who refusesto let you thirst in peace.

Then, just as you’re giving up hope—ping.

Message from Geo.

You open it expecting a meme, maybe a gif. Instead?

It’s him. Shirtless. Standing in front of the mirror. Every muscle gleaming with sweat and sin, carved like living marble. Obliques deep enough to drown in. That cruel V-line disappearing into those same grey sweatpants now riding even lower, like they’ve lost the will to restrain. The angle? Cinematic. The lighting? Demonic. His face? Calm. Expression flat, like this, is nothing. Like he’s nothing. Like he didn’t just destroy your week with one jpeg.

The caption? “Thought you’d like this.”

You did. You did, in fact, like that.

You screamed into your hands. Threw your phone across the room. Whispered “Geo, I’m literally at work” like he was there to hear you. Which he wasn’t. Because he was probably drinking water like a smug bastard while you mourned your innocence and tried to remember how to function in a world where that image now existed.

To this day, you can’t look at grey sweatpants without blushing. And Geo? He still wears them around the house like it’s nothing. Like he is nothing. Like he’s

not the physical embodiment of your final brain cell waving a white flag.

And the kicker?

He’ll ask why you’re so quiet, shirt clinging to his chest, waistband teasing danger, voice low and unbothered.

“You okay?” No. You are not okay.

Geo: 1. You: deceased.

Hot Thing #3: The Scent of Him

Geo smells… divine.

There’s no other word for it. It's not loud or obnoxious—he doesn't storm your senses like some overcompensating cologne ad. No. Geo’s scent is subtle. Discreet.

The kind of fragrance that lives in the air between words, like a secret only meant for you to discover. It’s private, restrained—something you have to earn the right to know. And once you know it? You're ruined. Addicted. Held hostage by it in the best, most unhinged way.

It’s hard to describe exactly. There's something warm and grounding in it, like clean skin kissed with cedar and maybe some barely-there spice—soft but masculine, clean but not sterile, a whisper of danger dressed in warmth.

It lingers like a ghost, clinging to his clothes, haunting your pillows, hanging in the folds of his hoodie long after he's gone. You’ve tried describing it to someone once and failed spectacularly. Ended up mumbling something like, “Imagine if safety and sin had a baby.” That about sums it up.

You pretend it's nothing. But your body reacts like it is everything.

It starts innocently—like the way you always end up seated beside him when you're out with friends. You don’t say why. You just... do. Your hand brushes his arm as you sit, your shoulder brushes his when you lean. He doesn’t flinch. Neither do you.

And that scent—it just exists, subtle and quiet and infuriatingly Geo. You find yourself pretending to reach past him for something, stealing half a second of inhaling him like you're not building a shrine to his laundry detergent in your soul.

Once, he caught you zoning out mid-conversation, eyes soft, brain mush.

“...You good?” he asked, deadpan, brow barely lifted.

You blinked. “Yeah. Sorry. Tired.”

LIESSSSS, YOU LIE. You were high off his hoodie. No regrets.

But it’s at his place, where the scent becomes something else entirely. Something sacred.

You and Geo walk in from classes, kick off his shoes, shrug out of his hoodie, and suddenly the air feels warmer. You don’t even realize how bad your day was until he’s next to you on the couch, stretching with a quiet sigh, and that smell hits you—comfort layered in human form. Not strong. Just... there. Softly invading your lungs until the ache in your chest unwinds.

He doesn’t talk much at first. Just sits with you, occasionally resting a hand on your knee or brushing his fingers along your arm. He doesn't have to ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t even need the details. He just exists—radiating presence and calm—and that scent does more to soothe your nerves than an hour of therapy ever could.

And then, the nap.

You weren’t even planning on sleeping. Geo was working on something beside you, laptop open, brows furrowed in concentration, and you were scrolling mindlessly on your phone, your head drifting toward his shoulder more with each breath.

He smelled good. Not in-your-face good. More like ambient-good. The kind of scent that makes your muscles go slack without realizing it. Something herbal and clean and goddamn intimate.

Next thing you knew, you were waking up. Still on the couch. Room quiet. Phone forgotten. Blanket half-tangled around you, and—wait.

Geo. On top of you. Dead asleep.

Sprawled across your chest like a human furnace, one leg tangled with yours, his arm slung protectively over your stomach, his head tucked into the curve of your neck like you were built to hold him.

His breath was slow, steady, warm against your collarbone. His hair tickled your chin—messy, soft, smelling like his conditioner and his shampoo and him. And all you could do was breathe.

You didn’t dare move. Not because of the weight (though, good lord, the man sleeps like a stone statue), but because the moment was too precious. Too tender. You threaded your fingers through his hair slowly, reverently, breathing in that scent like it might vanish if you weren’t careful. He sighed in his sleep.

A little exhale, a subtle curl of fingers against your side. You almost cried. It wasn’t just about how good he smelled—it was what he smelled like. Comfort. Safety. Something yours.

And then there’s The Hoodie Incident.

You had one of his sweatshirts. Accidentally—Not really, he left it at you plce and you never said anything about it.

You wore it to bed one night because the scent of him helped you sleep better. Wrapped yourself up in it like armor. He noticed it missing after a few days and asked.

“That mine?” he asked casually, brow raised.

“Nope,” you said, already wearing it again, sleeves tucked over your hands.

He stared at you, then walked over, stopping way too close. He leaned down just a little, nose brushing your hair as he murmured: “Keep it.” A beat. Then softer, with that deadly smirk: “Smells like me, right?”

You froze. Brain stopped. Oxygen left the building. He knew.

He fucking knew. And he weaponized it. Now you own that hoodie. Officially. And every time you wear it, you remember the way he said those words. You remember the scent. You remember how it makes your shoulders drop and your thoughts still. And on the days he’s away, when your chest feels a little hollow and the world a little louder, you curl up in it, close your eyes, and breathe deep. It’s not just a hoodie. It’s a promise. A presence. A reminder that Geo might not always be in the room, but he’s still there.

In your space. In your breath. In the fabric of your comfort.

And he always will be.

Hot Thing #4: Incredibly Patient

It’s not something you notice right away—not in the obvious, neon-sign kind of way. Patience doesn’t announce itself. It creeps in slowly. Quietly. Steadily.

But once you see it in Geo, once it sinks in that he’s never rushed with you, never irritated, never short-tempered, you’re done for.

Geo is incredibly patient with you.

And not in the condescending, pretend-nice sort of way either. It's not a performance. It's just how he is with you. Whether you’re fumbling through something new or spiraling emotionally, he doesn’t push. Doesn’t pry. Doesn’t tap his foot waiting for you to get your act together.

He waits. Silently. Solidly.

Like a fortress with a heartbeat.

It shows in the little things first. Like the way he teaches you archery—because he’s your man, when you not never gonna touch archery. He never rolls his eyes when you mess up. Never sigh when you get the same move method four times in a row. You’ll be sitting on the floor, half-focused, frowning at the bow like it insulted your bloodline—and then his hand will appear, warm and massive, curling gently over yours.

“Here,” he murmurs, and his voice is always so low when he talks to you like that. Patient. Measured. Soft in the way gravity is soft—subtle, but you feel it everywhere.

He shifts your fingers gently, adjusting the angle of your hands, the way you’re holding the bow. And he leans over just slightly, close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back, his chest barely brushing yours. His breath ghosts past your ear.

“Try again.” But you can’t. Not really.

Not because you’re incapable, but because your entire nervous system is buzzing—not from the game, but from the feel of him. The way his touch isn’t rushed. The way he doesn’t even seem bothered that you’re not paying attention.

The way he notices, of course—but says nothing. Just lets you pretend like you’re actually trying to win when really, your brain is too busy short-circuiting over how gentle he is with you.

And it’s not just with archery practice.

There was one day—you were completely unraveling inside. Stress eating you alive, too many things happening all at once. You’d come over without warning, didn’t say much, just let yourself in with a weak excuse and sat stiffly on his couch. Geo looked at you—really looked—and didn't ask anything.

Didn’t push for an explanation. You could feel his gaze settle on you from across the room, could feel the weight of his silence, but it wasn’t judgment. It was presence. Waiting. Quiet support.

You didn’t want to talk. You couldn’t. So instead you got up, walked over without a word, and folded yourself beside him on the couch. Head on his chest. Nothing else.

Now, Geo isn’t one for touch. He doesn’t cling. Doesn’t really do hand-holding or snuggling or any of the cutesy, high-friction affection. But when it’s you? When you come to him looking tired and wrecked and saying everything in your silence?

He shifts wordlessly to make space for you. Tilts his body so you can settle into him. One of his arms slowly, carefully, finds its way around your shoulders—tentative at first, like he’s not sure if it’ll help.

It does.

You stayed like that for a long time. His shirt smelled like him—clean skin and woodsy soap and something faintly sharp, like wind on cold steel—and you buried your nose into it like it was oxygen. He didn’t ask what was wrong.

Didn’t fill the silence with empty reassurances. Just kept his hand loosely resting against your back, his thumb brushing a lazy, quiet rhythm there. Over and over. Like he was grounding you without even meaning to.

At some point, you must’ve whispered, “Sorry.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just blinked slowly, tilted his head so his jaw brushed your hair. “What for?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You didn’t have the energy to explain how your emotions had knotted themselves too tightly to speak. But he didn’t press. Didn’t sigh or pull away or make it about himself.

He just let you exist. In your mess. In your silence.

And later—after you’d dozed off and woken again with a sore neck and a clearer head—he asked, voice calm and unreadable: “You wanna talk about it now?”

You didn’t. But the way he asked? The way he waited for you to say yes or no, giving you full control of the moment—it made your throat ache. Made you feel safe. Like no matter how messy things got, Geo would be there. Not trying to fix it. Not trying to change you. Just staying.

And that’s what patience looks like with him.

It’s in how he watches you wrestle with learning something and never gets annoyed. How he lets you take your time, even when you’re being difficult. How he gives you space when you don’t want to talk, but also makes room for you to collapse wordlessly against him.

How he listens to you ramble about some obscure obsession for fifteen minutes and never once checks the time. It’s how he trusts your pace. Waits for you to come to him. And when you do—when you finally reach out with hands shaking and words unspoken—he’s already there, steady and silent and yours in the kind of way that doesn't need to be loud to be real.

That’s Geo. Incredibly patient. Almost unfairly so.

And when it’s just the two of you, and you’re fragile in a way most people don’t see? It doesn’t feel simple anymore. It feels sacred. Like maybe love isn’t always fire and fury.

Sometimes, it’s just a man letting you fall apart against his chest—and waiting quietly while you stitch yourself back together.

Attachment Style: 𝒶𝓋𝑜𝒾𝒹𝒶𝓃𝓉

Distant. Unemotional. Avoids Closeness.

GEO. GEO. GEO. MY MAN. MY MAN.

MY. MF. MAN. GEO. GODDDDD I MISS WRITING HIM.

Those are three key words of what would be the start of your and his relationship. Geo’s Attachment Style: Dismissive Avoidant, But Not Entirely Heartless, an intimate autopsy of the man who flinches from closeness but still finds himself soft for you.

Let’s set one thing straight: Geo isn’t cold. He’s controlled.

There’s a difference—and it matters. Most people see the first layer: the distant, unreadable expression, the measured movements, the voice that rarely shifts tone unless absolutely necessary.

They call it stoic. Or maybe “chillingly calm.” They don’t realize it’s not for their benefit—it’s for his. A shield built over the years of knowing that needing people often ends in being disappointed by them.

Geo’s attachment style is avoidant, yes.

But not in the obvious “get away from me” kind of way. It’s more subtle. More surgical. He doesn’t avoid you physically; he avoids the implication of you. He’ll let you sit close. He might even make room for your leg to rest against his. But try to ask him what he’s thinking? What he feels?

And you’ll get a blank look. A pause that lasts just a beat too long.

Then something like, “Nothing important.”

That’s Geo. Dismissive to the core. Not because he doesn’t feel—no, that’s the real tragedy. He feels so much it becomes necessary to compress it all into a vault behind steel and smoke. Emotions are like open circuits in him. Dangerous. Hot. Always at risk of shorting out the entire system.

So he doesn’t express. He manages.

And the irony? Despite all this—despite the fact that he moves through the world like emotional intimacy is a sniper’s red dot aimed at his head—he’s still so incredibly patient with you.

That’s the paradox. That’s where the spell gets cast.

You’ve seen it. The way his brow never creases when you stumble through explanations. When you’re in a mood and don’t want to talk, he never pesters you with questions. He just makes space for your silence like it’s another language he happens to be fluent in. He teaches you things—like his likes and dislikes, his routines—with a steady hand and zero judgment. You fumble? He guides. You panic? He grounds.

He’s never unkind to you.

Even when you’re emotionally volatile, even when you show up unraveling and say nothing at all—he’s calm. Distant, yes. But never cruel. He lets you lean your head on his chest when you’re done pretending to be fine. He stiffens, sure, like physical closeness is a language he doesn’t quite speak fluently. But he doesn’t pull away.

And that’s the difference.

He doesn’t push you out.

He just… doesn’t know how to pull you in.

It’s funny in a way—how you might joke about showing up as a cat to get his attention. You’d think he’d roll his eyes or walk away. But no. He’d freeze. Horrified. Because of affection in feline form? That’s too direct. Too raw. But then he’d let you stay anyway. Make a space for you to curl up beside him without ever acknowledging what it means.

And once you’re in, even as a metaphorical cat? He’ll keep you.

He won’t say it. Won’t dare speak it out loud. But he’ll start moving differently. Making room for you in his routines. One night, he’ll throw you a hoodie without comment. Another time, he’ll share his charger before you even ask. And one day, when you’re bone-tired and thinking you might just break, he’ll make you tea—perfectly how you like it—without asking if something’s wrong.

Because he already knows. He always knows.

Geo doesn’t love declarations. He loves recognition. In presence. In survival. And his avoidant tendencies? They don’t disappear. But they bend—just a little—when it comes to you.

And the real kicker? Warning, I got into my feelings too much here.

You like him. You really do.

Not in the flippant, surface-level way you’ve liked others before—no. This is different. He is different. The attraction didn’t hit you all at once. It wasn’t an explosion. It was erosion.

Soft, steady. A slow collapse of every defense you’d so carefully built, worn down by quiet eyes, dry wit, and the kind of patience that made you want to shatter in his hands.

Here’s the unkind truth—the one I’ve had to accept without romanticizing, without making excuses or reading too deeply into things that aren’t there: when it comes to Geo, there are rules. Unspoken, razor-sharp boundaries written in the fine print of his presence.

And at the top of the list is this: I would never tell him.

Tell him I like him? Hell No. That’s not part of the plan.

The plan, instead, is quiet. Strategic. I’d start by getting close to the others—Crowe, the rest of the friend group. Make myself a part of their ecosystem. Not to deceive, but to anchor myself. To become a steady fixture. And then maybe, if I’m lucky, I can learn to be friends with him—Geo. That would be enough. That has to be enough.

Because unless I knew—absolutely knew—that he was ready to open that gate on his own, I wouldn’t risk it. Not a single word. Not a glance too long or a comment too soft.

Because the moment I confess, even slightly, even subtly… he will disappear. Not in fury. Not with cruelty. Just—cool, detached vanishing. His eyes would dull, his tone would shift into something polite and flat. And I’d feel the connection we built snap like a tripwire I never meant to cross.

The worst part? He wouldn’t even leave. He’d still be there—still at group hangouts, still responding in the same dry, measured cadence. I’d still see him because I’d still be friends with Crowe. But the closeness? Gone. Just like that. A line drawn. And I know—I know—I’d feel the change before I even understood what I did wrong.

He’d move me into the mental drawer labeled “Admirer.”

Fan. Supporter. Background character.

And once I’m in there? I never get to come out. Not to him.

Maybe that’s why I feel so strongly about him.

Because I get it. I understand that avoidant armor better than most. As a writer, I’ve lived in that space between longing and fear for years. I’ve crafted entire relationships on writing—made people fall in love with characters who could never abandon them, because they weren’t real. Because fantasy doesn’t leave you unread or misunderstood. Fiction is safe.

It’s the only place I’ve ever felt like love could be controlled.

In real life, intimacy terrifies me. Emotional closeness is a risk I struggle to take. It’s not just nerves—it’s a deep, gut-level dread of what happens when you let someone see all of you. So I keep my distance. I withdraw. I rationalize the silence. I bury the truth under sarcasm or detachment. And yeah—maybe that’s why I see so much of myself in Geo. Maybe that’s why I care.

Because when I look at him—through the cracks he doesn’t know are showing—I see someone doing the exact same thing. Someone who doesn’t reject connection because he doesn’t want it, but because he’s scared of what it could do to him. Of what it’s already done.

There’s something deeply human about that. Something raw. And I can’t help but wonder what happened to him. What shaped him into this version of himself—this reserved, unreadable, emotionally armoured man. Because no one just becomes that way. No one is born closed-off and analytical to the point of silence. That kind of detachment is a defense, not a default.

So no—you can’t blame me for wanting to know. For wanting to understand him, even if I never get to hold him.

And that’s the truth: if Geo were real, I’d want to be his closest friend before anything else. I wouldn’t push. I wouldn’t prod. I wouldn’t ask for more than he can give. I'd just stay. Let him learn that I won’t vanish when he goes quiet. Let him realize that I’m not afraid of his silence, his avoidance, his walls.

I know what lives behind them.

And if that friendship turned into something more—if, one day, he looked at me and chose us—then yes, I’d be ready. But only if he reached first. Only if he let himself want me out loud. Not because I asked, but because he couldn’t not.

Until then, I’d watch from the background. Not as a fan. Not as a dreamer.

But as someone who sees him. Truly. Quietly. Completely. And waits.

So all is recommended is to just stay silent. Carefully. Strategically. You become a student of him—his moods, his tells, the way he pulls slightly at his sleeves when he’s agitated but won’t say so. You learn to read silence like a second language. You hold your feelings like a loaded weapon—safety on, never raised. Never fired.

Because love, to Geo, is risk. And risk? He does not do it lightly.

He’s avoidant. Profoundly. Not because he doesn’t crave closeness—but because he fears what comes with it. Intimacy, to him, is exposure. Vulnerability. Leverage. A soft belly in a world of blades. So he compartmentalizes. He controls. And when things get too close, he doesn’t snap—he disappears behind the steel doors of practiced emotional restraint.

You’ve been on the receiving end of that vanishing act.

You’ve seen how quickly his warmth can turn to winter.

And that’s when you realized—Geo isn’t cold. He’s guarded.

There’s a difference.

He’s spent so long building walls that sometimes even he forgets what they’re keeping out. But every now and then? He slips. Just for a moment. A flicker. A look. A comment too tender to be accidental. And then—just as fast—he seals it up again. Buried. Archived.

He feels deeply. That’s the problem.

Geo has the heart of a poet locked inside the armor of a tactician. He observes everything—stores it all. He doesn’t forget the things that matter. Not your allergies. Not your favorite song. Not the way your voice catches when you’re trying not to cry. He just doesn’t know what to do with that tenderness.

Because he doesn’t trust people to hold it gently.

So he plays the long game. He tests. Watches. Waits.

And if you pass—if you’re patient, steady, real—then maybe, maybe, he’ll let you stay. Even then, the intimacy doesn’t come in big, sweeping declarations. You won’t get love letters. You won’t get flowers on your doorstep. What you will get is him moving silently through your life in ways no one else notices.

He won’t say, “I care.” But he’ll quietly correct your posture when you’re standing too long, press a water bottle into your hand when you’re too distracted to hydrate. He’ll edit your work without being asked. He’ll walk on the sidewalk. He’ll memorize your routines and build himself around them without ever needing acknowledgment.

That’s the paradox of Geo’s attachment style:

He avoids love like it’s a battlefield. But once he lets you in?

He loves like war. Strategically. Completely. Without retreat. And it’s never loud. Never boastful. But it consumes everything quietly, from the inside out. The only evidence left behind is how much softer the silence feels when he’s next to you. How even his presence at rest feels like protection.

And still—he flinches when it gets too real. He’ll pull back at times, without warning. He’ll retreat into logic, shift into disinterest, claim to be fine when he isn’t. But if you know him—truly know him—you’ll see the tension in his jaw. The pause before he looks away. The way his fingers twitch, wanting to reach for you and stopping short.

That’s the part most people miss.

Geo doesn’t fear connection. He fears being seen and discarded.

So he’d rather be unreadable. Untouchable. Unloved… than unloved after being known. But you stay. Quiet. Consistent. Not asking for more than he can give, but never letting him forget you’re there. And in time, he stops scanning the room for exits. He starts planning with you in mind.

He doesn’t say, “I love you.” But he changes his route to walk you home. He remembers your comfort shows. He lets you rest against him, even when he doesn’t know what to say.

Because you made it. You got past the gate.

You are no longer a threat. You are no longer a risk.

And Geo? Geo is not good at love. But he’s brilliant at loyalty.

Once he lets you in, you’re his. No conditions. No expiration. He won’t say it. But he’ll mean it. And in a world where most love burns bright and fast and dies in the ashes— Geo’s love is something else entirely. It’s forged. Tempered. Cold to the touch, but unbreakable. And if you’ve ever known a love like that?

You never forget it. Because no one else ever comes close.

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

Ah, yes. Hyugo. Such a sweet paradox!

Let’s talk about this baby boy—because honestly, even with all the chaos and brilliance dripping off the others, Hyugo holds his own in the pantheon of personal favorites. And somehow, the fact that he and Geo sit at the top of that list together just… says something dark and poetic about me, doesn’t it?

They’re complete opposites—Hyugo with his golden-retriever chaos, Geo with his stone-faced elegance—and yet, I adore them both with the same violent fervor. But today isn’t about brooding silence and suppressed emotion.

It’s about Hyugo. Our menace. Where do I even begin?

He’s sweet. So sweet.

Unreasonably kind in a way that makes you pause and side-eye the situation because you don’t trust people who smile like that and mean it. But Hyugo does. He’s genuine.

The type who holds doors without making it weird. Who notices when you’re off and asks if you’ve eaten today. Who has the emotional intuition of someone twice his age but hides it under playful sarcasm and that boyish grin.

Also: top student. One of the best on campus.

And yet? He misses class like it’s a sport. Like he’s actively trying to test the limits of how many absences a professor will tolerate before snapping. He'll stroll into class after ghosting for a week, turn in some god-tier assignment, and walk out again like an academic cryptid.

I wish I had that kind of university dominance. That’s not student behavior. That’s political power. It’s infuriating. It’s iconic. It’s Hyugo.

Now, depending on who you ask, he’s either a delinquent in disguise or a straight-laced prodigy. But no one denies one thing: he’s reliable. When it counts, when things get serious, when someone’s in real trouble, Hyugo shows up. Always. No drama. No noise. Just a quiet, steady presence and the kind of help that doesn’t need to be asked for.

And can we talk about how cute he is? No, like—actually cute.

He’s got that youthful glow, the kind that makes people go, “Aww,” before realizing he’s capable of absolutely unhinged behavior when provoked.

Oval-shaped face, soft features, maybe a bit baby-faced still, but it works. It works so well that when he does something unexpectedly hot—like cracking his knuckles while solving a logic puzzle, or shooting someone a sharp look mid-fight—you’re thrown. You're blindsided. You're clutching your metaphorical pearls like, “Oh???”

Because Hyugo is that rare, lethal mix of adorable + competent + quietly dangerous. A walking contradiction: he’s the storm and the rainbow. The mischief and the method. He’s playful, sometimes reckless, always charming—and he masks his depth with lightness.

But it’s there. Oh, it’s so there. Underneath the jokes and casual demeanor is a razor-sharp mind that doesn’t miss a thing. He knows more than he lets on. And you feel it. Every time he tilts his head just so and gives you a look like he already knows what you’re about to say.

That’s the Hyugo effect.

You go in expecting chaos, and somehow, you walk out with your heart rearranged. He’s not the loudest. Not the darkest. Not the flashiest.

But he stays with you.

Hot Thing #1: That Damn Sliver Tongue

There’s this thing Hyugo does—this unholy, maddening, absolutely criminal little habit that should honestly be banned by every institution of higher learning. And God help you, it’s never on purpose. That’s the worst part. It's not like he knows he's driving you to the brink of cardiac arrest. No. This man, this deceptively innocent-looking menace, just casually, absentmindedly… pokes his tongue into the inside of his cheek.

Or, if he’s feeling particularly destructive to your well-being, he’ll drag it slowly along the back of his teeth—like it’s just a casual muscle memory, no big deal, nothing to see here. Meanwhile, you're across the room calculating the odds of surviving your own attraction.

It happens at random. No warning. No preamble.

You could be hanging out in the lab, watching him bend over a desk, sleeves pushed up to his elbows as he messes with a disassembled drone that looks like it was stolen from Area 51. He's muttering to himself, utterly immersed in his task, hair a little messy, one hand balancing a screw between his fingers. Then—bam. Tongue in cheek. Subtle. Smooth. Like he’s tasting a secret only he gets to enjoy.

And your body? Instantly betrays you.

You feel heat crawl up your neck like a virus. Your pulse jumps. You suddenly forget how to breathe through your nose. And Hyugo? He’s just there. Fixing wires. Completely unaware that he's spiritually assassinated you with a single, lazy tongue movement.

“Hmm,” he murmurs under his breath, squinting at the circuit board like it personally insulted his mother. Then there it is—the soft swipe of his tongue over the bottom of his front teeth, slow and focused, as if he’s savoring the flavor of his own brilliance.

You? Dead. Absolutely spiritually slain.

The first time it happened, you choked on your drink so violently Hyugo actually looked up, concern flickering across his face. “You good?” he asked, brow arched, voice low and calm—like he wasn’t just casually making the most pornographic expression of the week by accident.

You nodded, hacking into your sleeve like a dying Victorian orphan. “Y-Yeah,” you wheezed. “Fine. Just thinking about... gravity.”

“Gravity?” he echoed, amused.

“Yeah. It’s the only thing keeping me from lunging across this table and committing multiple crimes.”

He laughed. The audacity. Laughed. And then had the nerve to go right back to what he was doing—eyes sparkling, tongue flicking out once more like he wasn’t a walking biohazard to your sanity.

It’s gotten worse with time. You start seeing it everywhere. He does it when he’s sketching, scribbling down blueprints with that focused look in his eyes and one earbud hanging loose.

He does it while reading, posture all lazy and slouched, legs wide open like a throne he doesn’t even know he’s sitting on. He even does it while playing with your hair absentmindedly during movie nights, gaze distant, and tongue pressing into his cheek like the scene unfolding on screen is somehow arousing to his neurons.

You swear to god—one of these days you’re just going to lose it.

You’ve already started imagining what else that mouth can do. Not even in a sinful way (okay maybe a little sinful), but in a deeply curious way. Like, surely no one’s allowed to have that much dexterity in their face for free. Surely it’s your moral duty to conduct an investigation. For science.

But no. You behave. Barely.

Because when it comes down to it, Hyugo doesn’t mean to be sexy. He’s not smirking on purpose. He’s not trying to fluster you or steal your soul with the ancient forbidden technique known as “tongue teeth cheek combo.” He’s just being himself. Just that kind, clever, infuriatingly focused version of himself who does hot things without realizing they’re hot.

And that’s what kills you most of all.

Because it’s natural. It’s honest. It’s so damn pure that it makes your crush feel one hundred times worse. Like, how dare he? How dare he sit there looking like that, doing nothing but existing in a hoodie and rolled sleeves, and somehow awaken thoughts in you that belong in a fanfiction archive under “E” for “Explicit and Emotionally Compromising”?

So now you live in fear.

Fear of the next time he’ll do it again—right in front of you, tongue dragging lazily, eyes lost in thought—and you’ll be expected to act normal, sane, rational. You won't, of course. You'll blink slowly like you're buffering in real time and mumble something about kinetic energy or friction or divine punishment.

“You're staring again,” he'll say, eyes flicking up to meet yours with a knowing smile.

“You’re the one doing… things with your mouth,” you snap defensively, then pout.

He blinks, confused. “...I’m literally fixing the game system.”

Yeah. Exactly. Send help.

Hot Thing #2: His Eye Contact Is Dangerous

Let me tell you something about Hyugo’s eye contact, and I need you to really listen—because this isn’t just any look.

This isn’t your average glance-across-the-room, polite-nod-of-acknowledgment kind of thing. No. This man stares like he was born to emotionally undress you using nothing but two annoyingly pretty eyes and a terrifying level of focused attention.

It’s not accidental. It’s not fleeting. It’s not safe. When Hyugo looks at you, it’s like he’s reading a page only he can see—in your brain. He listens to you talk like he’s decoding scripture, like every word out of your mouth might be the key to the universe. And you’re just there, talking nonsense about some random childhood movie that definitely shouldn’t be this deep, and he’s—

“So you’re saying… your favorite movie was Shrek 2 because it helped you process betrayal?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Struggles. “…Yes?”

He nods thoughtfully, eyes still locked on you like lasers made of warmth and unsolicited emotional insight. “That makes a lot of sense. The way the narrative reframes traditional heroism and confronts ego through the lens of ensemble character development—”

STOP. Why is he validating you? Why is he intellectualizing your brainrot? Why is he making Shrek 2 sound like a groundbreaking psychological thesis?

And the whole time, his eyes—those infuriatingly warm, soft brown eyes—stay locked on you like you’re the only person in the known universe. They don’t flicker away. They don’t bounce awkwardly to his phone. They stay. Steady. Present. Intentional. And it should be illegal, honestly, how good that feels.

You try to keep talking, you really do. But there’s a moment—a small, barely-there tilt of his head, the way his brows knit ever so slightly like he’s really invested in what you’re saying, and suddenly your brain starts buffering.

“Wait—what were you saying again?” you blink, face hot, internally screaming.

He doesn’t tease you. He doesn’t laugh. He just smiles—gently. “You were talking about that dream you had,” he says, tone calm and so stupidly nice it hurts. “The one with the haunted blender and the French goose?”

You nod like you remember. You do not remember.

“Right. Yeah. Haunted goose. Totally. Goose… blender…”

And he just sits there. Watching. Listening. Still tuned in like you’re not spiraling into existential embarrassment. Like your voice is honey and your rambling is holy. And what’s worse—he’s not even trying to flirt. This isn’t a seduction technique. This is just how Hyugo operates. Fully attentive. Ridiculously warm. Dangerously real.

He’s so earnest. So genuinely interested in what you’re saying. It makes you feel important. Like you matter. And that’s the problem. Because somewhere between his steady gaze and the way he tilts his chin like he’s trying to memorize your facial expressions, you start to think maybe you actually do matter.

And that’s how he gets you.

You don’t just get flustered. You get possessed. Your ears go hot. Your fingers start fidgeting. Your thoughts fall apart like poorly constructed IKEA furniture. You start using words like “haunted goose” in casual conversation. All because this boy had the audacity to look at you like your voice was the sun coming up.

Sometimes, when you're across from him—say, at a café table, knees accidentally brushing, his sleeves pushed to the elbows and his chin resting on his hand—you’ll glance up mid-sentence, and he’s already watching you.

“Don’t stop now,” he’ll say, soft grin tugging at his lips. “You were lighting up.”

Lighting up??? Sir. Please. Have some decency. You can’t just say things like that and expect people not to fall in love with you. That’s entrapment.

So now every conversation with Hyugo is a dangerous game. A tightrope walk between “casual chat” and “oops, I just imagined us getting married because you looked at me too long.” Because when he’s got his full attention on you—arms folded, head tilted slightly, eyes glowing like he swallowed a candle—you don’t stand a chance.

There should be a warning label on his forehead. Something like: “May cause heart palpitations, blushing, full-body stuttering, and immediate longing.”

And yeah, it’s a little pathetic how weak you are for it. But you don’t care. Because when he looks at you like that—and you feel seen, not just noticed but understood—you'd willingly melt under that gaze for the rest of your natural life. No regrets. Just vibes.

And possibly a haunted goose.

Hot Thing #3: That Parting Kiss

There’s something so stupidly, unfairly romantic about the way Hyugo never forgets to kiss your cheek goodbye. Every. Single. Time.

It doesn’t matter what the situation is—doesn’t matter if he’s late for something—knowing damn well it isn’t classes, mid-conversation, or if you're standing in the middle of a crowded station with fifteen people brushing past you. Hyugo always makes time. Always finds that one sacred second to pause, lean in, and brush a warm kiss against your cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you’re his home base. His starting point and endpoint, and everything between.

And it’s not just a quick peck and run. No. There’s intention in it. His hand usually finds your waist—or sometimes your wrist, if you’re holding something—and his head dips close like he’s shielding the moment from the world.

“Later, baby,” he’ll murmur, lips just barely grazing your skin, voice stupidly soft and low like you’re the only one he ever speaks to like that. Then he pulls back with a half-smile, eyebrows raised. “Don’t miss me too hard, yeah?”

And then he’s gone. Just… gone. Like, he didn’t just casually throw a whole intimacy bomb at you and walk away with zero consequences. You, meanwhile, are left standing there blinking at the air where he used to be like:

“Okay. That happened. That’s fine. I’m fine. My heart is not skipping and my stomach is not flipping and my entire face is not turning to lava. That’s just your average Monday goodbye.”

It’s NOT. Even worse is when it’s done in front of people.

Because he doesn’t care. He could be surrounded by teammates, strangers, actual cameras—it doesn’t matter. He still leans in, still whispers your nickname like it’s sacred, and plants that soft kiss on your cheek like you belong to him and everyone should know it.

One time, you tried to beat him to it—get a quick hug and duck out before he could do the whole goodbye routine. Rookie mistake. You barely got three steps away before you felt fingers wrap gently around your wrist and pull you back in. Not hard, not demanding—just firm. Certain.

“Hey,” he said, tilting his head like you’d forgotten your keys. “You trying to skip my kiss?”

“I—wasn’t,” you lie, poorly, as he slides an arm around your waist and leans in again, closer this time.

“Mmhm.” He kisses your cheek, slower than usual. “Thought so.”

And then he goes. Again. Leaving you looking like a malfunctioning Disney animatronic with a brain full of nothing but soft lips and the smell of his cologne. What makes it worse—better? worse—is how casual he is about it. Like the kiss isn’t even the thing. Like it’s just… part of the ritual. Something unspoken and sacred that says:

“You matter.”

“I see you.”

“I’ll come back.”

It’s the consistency that kills you, really. Because it’s not some big dramatic gesture saved for special occasions. It’s every time. Whether it’s a ten-minute errand or a three-day trip, Hyugo never skips the goodbye kiss. And over time, that steady little act becomes something you crave. Something you wait for.

And when he forgets? Oh wait—he doesn’t.

Not once. Not even when he’s flustered or exhausted or running late. You’ve had mornings where he’s scrambling to shove on one shoe while chewing toast, and he still circles back, grabs your face in both hands like he needs it, and presses a kiss to your cheek like it’s oxygen.

“Sorry—almost forgot,” he’ll say, breathless, smiling like he’s teasing but means it more than anything. “Can’t leave without this.”

And how are you supposed to survive that?

How are you supposed to live a normal life when this man drops a kiss on your cheek like a love letter, like a promise, like a damn curse you never want lifted?

Short answer: You’re not.

You’re simply going to blush, melt, and wait for the next time. Because that parting kiss? That quiet, consistent, soft little thing? It’s the hottest form of affection there is.

And you’re absolutely, irreversibly, deliciously ruined by it.

Hot Thing #4: That Damn Smirk

Genuinely, someone needs to take this man—Hyugo, to court and file a class-action lawsuit for emotional damage. You’re just trying to have a normal, casual, totally-not-deranged conversation with Hyugo.

Maybe you’re recounting your day. Something safe. Mundane. Like the time you tripped over a wet floor sign and tried to play it off like you meant to launch yourself into a wall. But it’s impossible to keep your thoughts straight because Hyugo is sitting too close.

Not in a socially acceptable “we’re just friends” way either. No. His thigh is grazing yours, warm and solid. His shoulder keeps brushing your arm every time he shifts.

His arm is slung lazily over the back of the couch behind you, not quite touching you, but close enough to brand awareness into the skin of your neck. He’s giving the illusion of casual distance while actively breathing your air.

And then there’s his face.

His cursed, unfair, drop-dead criminal face.

More specifically: the smirk. That slow, knowing, devastating smirk that shows up right when your brain is at its weakest.

You’re mid-sentence—something about your embarrassing run-in with a poorly-placed caution sign—and then his eyes flick to your lips. Just for a second. Barely there. But it’s over. Your tongue ties itself in a knot, your thoughts scatter like startled birds, and suddenly you're blinking at him, completely blank.

“—and then I tripped over the sign, because I thought it was a—uh…” You trail off. “…What was I saying?”

You can feel the moment he chooses violence.

Hyugo shifts again, slouching even lower into the couch so that he’s all lazy limbs and confident calm, stretching himself out like a cat who knows damn well it’s the center of attention. He tilts his head slightly, that dangerous smile creeping onto his lips—not even a full grin, just a pull at one corner, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Take your time,” he says, voice soft and stupidly smooth. “I’m listening.”

No. No, he is not allowed to be that close and that hot and that patient. It’s too much. You are not emotionally equipped for this level of concentrated charm. You blink at him. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

“You know what.”

He hums, thoughtful. “Nope. But if I did, would you stop me?”

Touché. He leans in, just slightly. His fingers ghost along the couch behind your back, not touching you but so close you can feel the heat. His breath brushes your cheek, and now you’re fairly certain your soul has left your body and is watching from the ceiling like, “Oh no. I’m going to fold.”

“You sure you’re not nervous?” he asks, low and teasing. “Your voice gets all high when you’re flustered.”

You scoff (weakly). “I am not flustered.”

He doesn’t argue. He just smiles wider—that smile, the smug one—and lets the silence stretch. The longer it goes on, the more it eats you alive. He’s not talking. He’s not moving. He’s just looking at you with those warm, rich eyes, with that maddening smirk that says, you’re mine, even if he hasn’t said it out loud yet.

“Say something,” you mutter, your voice barely there. “Anything. I’m about to crawl out of my skin.”

And he does.

He says, “You always look at me like that?”

“…Like what?”

“Like I’m the problem and the solution.”

You don’t even have a response. You just stare at him, mouth slightly open, breath uneven. And then—because he is made of sin and silk—he lifts his hand, brushes his knuckles against your jaw, and tilts your chin just slightly. You don’t remember leaning in. You don’t remember closing the space. But suddenly his mouth is on yours.

And oh, it’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s intentional.

He kisses you like he’s thought about it. Like he’s planned it. One hand settling around your waist, the other sliding up to cradle the back of your head.

His lips move slow, deep, unhurried, like he’s savoring you—tasting every syllable you’ve ever stammered in his presence. When your fingers clench in his shirt, when you make a tiny sound against his mouth, he smirks into the kiss and pulls you closer, like that was exactly what he wanted to hear.

And when you finally pull back—barely, breathless, dazed—he’s looking at you like you’re the one who started it. “You were saying something about a sign?” he murmurs.

You blink, lips swollen, heart in your throat. “…What sign?”

He grins. Full-on. Smug and satisfied. Absolutely insufferable. “Exactly.”

So no. It’s not fair. It’s actually unethical. Because that damn smirk? That sly, quiet little upturn of his lips that always comes before he ruins your day with a single look or kiss or whisper? It’s a death sentence. A promise. A challenge.

And you’re failing. Beautifully. Voluntarily. Every. Single. Time.

Attachment Style: 𝒹𝒾𝓈𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓈𝑒𝒹

Those are three key words of what would be the start of your and his relationship. Hyugo’s attachment style? Disorganized as hell. Capital D. Italicized. Underlined twice in red.

It’s that rare, volatile cocktail of craving closeness and fearing it—of pulling someone in just to push them away the moment it starts to feel too real. It’s intense. Inconsistent. Unstable in a way that feels like whiplash and poetry at the same time. Hyugo: A Study in Disorganized Attachment and Devastating Presence.

Let’s not sugarcoat it—Hyugo is a mess.

Not. Not like Sol, he's—ugh, that man is whole other level.

Not the cute, quirky kind of mess you can fix with a night in and some chamomile tea. No, Hyugo is chaos wrapped in silence. The kind of person who makes you feel like you’ve just uncovered a secret, only to realize it’s already falling apart in your hands.

Disorganized attachment fits him like a custom-tailored curse. One minute he’s with you—so present, so tender, so there—and the next, he’s vanished like smoke. No call. No warning. Just gone.

And the wild part? Everyone’s used to it. “You’re in Hyugo’s class? Good luck catching him.” or “Mister MIA strikes again.” or “Does he even go here?”

But the truth is, he does.

Just not in the way that fits a schedule. Hyugo is everywhere and nowhere, running errands for professors, covering hush-hush matters for the administration, disappearing into side jobs he won’t talk about. He’s useful—too useful. The kind of guy who shows up when no one else can, handles what others won’t, and quietly earns the kind of backstage immunity that keeps him off the radar and still in the system.

He's a ghost with credentials.

And yet, when he's with you? He's with you. Fully. Deeply. Intensely. He speaks low and soft like your words are sacred, like you’re a language only he understands. He doesn’t touch often, but when he does, it’s deliberate. The brush of his fingers on your wrist. A palm between your shoulders when you’re tense. Barely-there moments that land like thunder.

And then—he’s gone again.

Hyugo is affection wearing armor. Intimacy holding its breath. He wants to love, to be known, to be seen—but he doesn’t trust it. Not really. Not fully. He’s lived too long managing expectations, compartmentalizing emotion, prioritizing others’ needs over his own. Somewhere along the way, closeness became a threat. So when you get close? He panics. He disappears. Not to hurt you, but because he doesn’t know how to stay.

He’s full of contradictions. He ghosts your texts but brings your favorite snack without you ever asking. He disappears for days, then returns with that tired smile and eyes that say, “Please don’t give up on me.”

He won't explain himself. Won’t offer apologies the way you might want. But he’ll show up with little offerings, hoping you understand the subtext:

“I’m still trying.” or “I care.” or “This is all I know how to give.”

And you believe him.

Because Hyugo isn’t manipulative—he’s terrified. Torn between the craving for connection and the deep-seated fear that he’ll ruin it the moment he touches it too hard.

That’s the heart of disorganized attachment: love feels like danger. So he pulls you close and pushes you away, hoping you’ll read the space between as loyalty. Hoping you'll stay, even if he doesn’t always know how to meet you halfway.

Hyugo’s affection feels like gravity—irregular, relentless. You orbit him without realizing you’ve started to. You excuse his absences. You memorize the cadence of his quiet. You forgive him, even when he hasn’t asked.

And that’s the trap.

Because when he does choose you—when he lets you into his emotional bunker—it’s like watching winter thaw. A slow, rare, aching thing. He’s still messy. Still inconsistent. But for once, he’s trying not to vanish. That effort is real. And when Hyugo tries, it’s the bravest thing he does.

So no, Hyugo isn’t the dream boyfriend you read about in neat little romances with perfect communication and stable text response times. He’s not reliable in the traditional sense.

But he is real. Raw. Complex. And if you’re patient—if you understand the language of broken patterns and unspoken apologies—then loving Hyugo becomes an act of rebellion. An act of faith. Because when he stays—when he chooses to stay—it’s not by accident.

It’s because you’ve become his safe place. And that?

That means everything—it’ll be the bravest thing he’s ever done.

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