kitkat @breakmeonce - Tumblr Blog

ꪆৎ LESSONS FOR A GOOD GIRL || keeho & jiung (18+)

℘ — keeho (기호) x reader x jiung (지웅) ▸ ⌜ 3.3k ⌟

synopsis ▸ keeho and jiung teach you how to put your lack of a gag reflex to use

δ — nsfw (mdni), smut, blowjob, handjob, deepthroating, face-fucking, head pushing, sorta meandom!keeho, sorta softdom!jiung, platonically fucking ur friends

ᯓ an — a belated birthday gift for my wife featuring her bias and bias wrecker <3 (no this isn't just a poorly disguised excuse to just write more keeung absolutely not) (do i have a thing for keeho teaching people stuff? maybe)

MASTERLIST

ᯓ TIE ME UP || jongseob (18+)

℘ — jongseob (종섭) x reader ▸ ⌜ 6.4k ⌟

synopsis ▸ you make a surprising discovery in your friend’s bedroom. you didn’t realize confronting him about it would put you in such a… bind.

δ — nsfw (mdni), smut, dom!jongseob, sub!reader, piwon cameo, bdsm, bondage, shibari, fingering, orgasm denial, light nipple play, unprotected sex, creampie, aftercare, pictures are taken

requested ▸ many people :’) ᯓ an — jongseob being the secret freak in piwon? of course i was going to hop on that

MASTERLIST

ᯓ PRETTY BOY GIRL || jongseob (18+)

℘ — fwb!jongseob (종섭) x reader ▸ ⌜ 2.1k ⌟

synopsis ▸ you knew you had to do something about it when you saw him in long hair and that collar. that something just happened to be getting him under you, crying for you to call him your pretty girl.

δ — nsfw (mdni), smut, riding, sub!jongseob, collars, hair pulling, feminization (reader calls him good girl, pretty girl), dacryphilia, overstimulation

requested ▸ anon ᯓ an — girlseob. that's it, that's the tweet.

MASTERLIST

silverpiwon

He should have been on MySpace

dolljayie

He definitely should grow out his real hair like this. PLEASE BRO

silverpiwon

Jongseob was already outrapping the whole kpop industry at 15 and now he also got cunty????? We have no idea what might happen next

With this jongseob I fear everybody else can just go home

channlust

unrelated to any requests or anything but there’s way too many people sucking dick and not enough people eating pussy in general. Just wanted to point that out…thought it was fun to say

that is...not an odd thing to say

real…

fic inspo….

#need more eaters

FROM THE START ⭑ Kim Jongseob

011: Late Night Conversations.

The evening passed quicker than you expected, and dinner had gone surprisingly well. You spent most of it seated on one side of the table with Dohoon and Haerin, while Intak and the rest of his friends filled the opposite side.

Even then, Dohoon kept drifting between both groups, leaning over to chime into their conversations every few minutes.

You and Jongseob shared glances a few times across the table, small, fleeting moments that felt bigger than they should. Your stomach gave little flips each time his eyes met yours, and you quickly looked away, cheeks heating without fail.

FROM THE START ⭑ Kim Jongseob

009: Traveling And More Traveling.

You sat perfectly still, barely daring to breathe.

Just wake him up! Simple as that. Just say his name, nudge his shoulder, and that’s it.

Too bad you’re kind of a pussy.

In reality, your entire body felt locked in place. His head was resting against you like it belonged there, steady and warm, and the longer you let it stay, the harder it felt to disrupt it. This was already awkward for you, and the second he opened his eyes and realized where he’d been sleeping, it was likely going to be awkward for him too.

Which meant you had about five more seconds to be brave.

FROM THE START ⭑ Kim Jongseob

009: Traveling And More Traveling.

You sat perfectly still, barely daring to breathe.

Just wake him up! Simple as that. Just say his name, nudge his shoulder, and that’s it.

Too bad you’re kind of a pussy.

Which meant you had about five more seconds to be brave.

Cherry Wine

keeho x reader

wc: 5.4 k

⚠︎: emotional distance, miscommunication, insecurity, fear of vulnerability, crying, relationship anxiety, angst, hurt/comfort, reconciliation

sypnosis: You love Keeho in silence, afraid of asking for too much. But one night, over cherry wine and quiet confessions, you both learn that love was never meant to be endured alone—it was meant to be shared.

The first thing you notice is the color.

Not consciously. Not at first. It slips into your awareness the way dusk does—gradual, inevitable—until it’s all you can see.

His hair.

Under the weak glow of your desk lamp, it isn’t just red. It isn’t just purple. It lives somewhere in between, shifting depending on how he moves, how he breathes. Plum in some places. Wine-dark in others. But right now, with his head tipped forward and his phone casting a pale rectangle of light across his face, it looks like the center of a crushed cherry.

Rich. Stained. Almost soft-looking.

You stare at it longer than you mean to.

Your cursor blinks on the screen in front of you. Waiting. Expectant. Patient in a way you aren’t.

You blink back at it.

The essay is still half-finished. Your notes are scattered—digital tabs open across the top of your laptop, a notebook half-filled beside you, pen resting uselessly in the crease of its spine. You’ve reread the same paragraph three times and absorbed none of it.

Behind you, he shifts slightly.

Not enough to break the quiet. Just enough to remind you he’s there.

Keeho sits on the floor with his back against the side of your bed, legs crossed loosely, shoulders relaxed in that effortless way he seems to exist in. His phone rests in one hand, thumb scrolling slowly, lazily. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t frowning. Just… existing.

Comfortable.

You’ve always liked that about him.

He never demands space. Never fills silence just to fill it. He lets things be quiet without making it feel empty.

Outside, a car passes. Its headlights sweep briefly across your wall, across him, catching in his hair again—cherry-dark, wine-soft—before disappearing.

He doesn’t look up.

You don’t say anything.

You tell yourself you like this. The quiet. The ease of it. The way you can work while he sits nearby, the simple gravity of his presence anchoring you without effort.

It’s enough. It should be enough.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You type a sentence. Delete it. Type another. Delete that too.

Behind you, his thumb pauses.

You hear the faint shift of fabric as he adjusts his posture, his shoulder brushing the side of your mattress.

He’s close. Close enough that if you leaned back just slightly, your arm would touch his shoulder.

You don’t. Not because you don’t want to. Just because… you don’t.

You glance at him over your shoulder, quick and subtle, the way you’ve taught yourself to do.

His head is bowed, eyes focused on whatever’s on his screen. His lashes cast faint shadows against his cheeks. His mouth is relaxed, lips parted just slightly, like he’s breathing through them without realizing.

He looks calm. Untouchable in his calm. You wonder, briefly, what he’s looking at.

Schedules, maybe, messages, the group chat, fans, work. Always work.

Your chest tightens before you can stop it.

You turn back to your screen quickly, before the feeling can take shape. Before it can become something with edges and weight.

You click into another tab. Reread a sentence. Pretend you’re concentrating.

Behind you, his phone makes a soft sound. A notification.

He shifts again. His shoulder presses more firmly against the mattress now, his head tipping back just enough that you can see him in your peripheral vision.

He exhales slowly. Not tired. Just there. Existing beside you, but not with you.

You hate yourself for thinking it.

Because he came over, didn’t he? Because he’s here. Because that should mean something.

It does mean something. It means everything.

Your fingers curl slightly against the edge of your desk.

You remember when being near him felt louder. When every small touch felt like it echoed for hours afterward. When sitting this close would’ve made your heart race instead of settle into something quieter. Something heavier.

Now it feels like holding your breath without realizing it.

Not painful. Just… suspended.

You wonder if he notices. If he notices how often you glance at him without speaking. If he notices how you keep waiting for him to look up first. If he notices anything at all.

He laughs softly under his breath.

You freeze.

Not because it’s loud. It isn’t. It’s barely there, just a quiet exhale of amusement at whatever he’s seeing on his screen.

But it wasn’t because of you.

You stare at your laptop harder, eyes burning slightly.

This is stupid. You’re being stupid.

He’s allowed to exist without orbiting you.

You know that. You’ve always known that.

You’ve built yourself around that knowing—around independence, around self-sufficiency, around never needing more than what’s freely given.

You don’t need attention. You don’t need reassurance. You don’t need—

“Hey.”

His voice breaks gently through your thoughts.

You turn slightly, startled.

He’s looking at you now. Really looking at you. His phone rests loosely in his lap, forgotten.

“What’re you working on?” he asks.

His voice is soft. Curious. Careful, in the way he always is with you. Your throat tightens unexpectedly.

“Just… an essay,” you say.

He nods, like that makes perfect sense.

“What’s it about?”

You explain it briefly. He listens. Really listens. His eyes stay on your face, steady and warm and present in a way that makes your chest ache.

He asks a small follow-up question. You answer. The conversation lasts less than a minute, and then it fades. Not awkwardly. Not sharply. Just… naturally.

He smiles faintly and nods again, satisfied, before glancing back down at his phone. And just like that, he’s gone again.

Still here. Still beside you. But somewhere else. The quiet returns.

He leans his head back against the bed, eyes flickering across his screen. The light shifts across his hair again, catching that crushed-cherry color, dark and sweet and almost painful to look at.

You wonder if he knows how beautiful he is like this. You wonder if he knows how much space he takes up without trying. You wonder if he knows you’re still waiting.

Your cursor keeps blinking.

Waiting, too.

You don’t move. Neither does he. And the space between you stays exactly where it is. You tell yourself to focus. You really do.

Your fingers return to the keyboard, hovering, waiting for your brain to catch up with them. The words are there somewhere. They have to be. You’ve done the research. You’ve outlined everything. There’s no reason this should feel so hard.

You type a sentence. Read it. Delete it.

Behind you, he shifts again, and this time the mattress dips slightly as he leans his head back more fully against it. You can feel the faint pressure of him through the frame of the bed, a physical reminder of his presence that makes it harder—not easier—to concentrate.

You wonder if he knows how distracting he is.

Probably not.

He’s always been like this. Effortless without trying. Existing in a way that doesn’t demand attention, but earns it anyway.

You reach for your pen, tapping it lightly against the edge of your notebook.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You stop when you realize you’re doing it.

Silence fills the space again, thick but not uncomfortable. Not exactly. It’s familiar. It’s what most of your time together looks like lately—shared quiet, shared space, separate worlds.

You glance at the clock in the corner of your screen. He’s been here for almost an hour. Neither of you have touched each other once. Not even accidentally.

Your chest tightens, just slightly. You push the feeling down. He’s tired. He’s busy. He came here anyway.

That should be enough. It is enough. It has to be.

Behind you, his phone goes dark. You notice because the faint glow disappears from your peripheral vision. The room shifts subtly without it, the only real light now coming from your desk lamp.

He doesn’t pick it back up immediately. Instead, he just sits there. Quiet.

You feel his eyes on you before you see them. Not heavy. Not intense. Just… there. You don’t turn around. You don’t trust yourself to. After a few seconds, he speaks.

“You’ve been working on that all night.”

His voice is gentle. Observing, not accusing. You swallow.

“Not all night.”

A pause.

“Most of it.”

You can hear the faint smile in his voice when he exhales.

“You’re gonna burn yourself out.”

You almost laugh at that. Almost.

“I’m fine.”

You say it automatically. Reflexively. The same way you always do.

I’m fine.

It’s easier that way.

He hums softly behind you. Not agreement. Not disagreement. Just acknowledgment. You wait for him to say something else. He doesn’t. The silence stretches again. You hate how much you want him to push. To insist. To tell you to stop and come sit with him. To reach for you first.

Instead, he just says, “Did you eat?”

Your throat tightens.

“Yeah.”

Another automatic answer. He accepts it just as easily.

“Okay.”

Okay.

That’s it.

You stare at your screen, vision blurring slightly around the edges. You don’t know what you were expecting.

He’s not doing anything wrong. He’s here. He’s talking to you. He cares. You know he cares.

You do.

So why does it feel like something is missing? Why does it feel like you’re standing just outside of something you used to be inside?

Behind you, he stretches his legs out slowly, his foot brushing lightly against the back of your chair.

It’s accidental. Probably.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. Neither do you. The contact is barely there. Just the faintest pressure through the thin material of your clothes.

But it’s something. It’s more than nothing. Your heart stutters in your chest.

You wait. For him to notice. For him to move closer. For him to do anything. After a second, he shifts again. His foot slides away. The contact disappears. You stare at your screen harder, blinking rapidly.

This is stupid. You’re being stupid.

You could turn around right now. You could stand up, walk the two steps it would take to close the distance between you, sit beside him, lean into him like you’ve done a hundred times before.

He wouldn’t stop you. He’d welcome it. You know he would.

So why don’t you? Why are you waiting for him?

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeve.

Because you want him to. Because you don’t want to ask. Because asking makes it real. Because asking means admitting you need something.

And you’ve never been good at needing things.

Behind you, he speaks again.

“Hey.”

Softer this time. Closer.

You turn before you can stop yourself.

He’s looking at you already.

His head tilted slightly, eyes steady on your face, searching in that quiet way he has. His hair falls into his eyes a little, that dark cherry color catching the low light, making his features look softer. Younger.

Concern flickers there. Barely visible.

“You okay?”

The question lands gently between you.

Not heavy. Not demanding. Just open.

You freeze. Because this is it. This is your chance.

You could tell him. You could say, I miss you. You could say, I feel like I’m the only one reaching for us. You could say, I need you to choose me first sometimes.

The words rise in your throat. And stop.

You smile instead. Small. Easy. Safe.

“Yeah,” you say.

“I’m okay.”

He studies you for another second. Like he’s not entirely convinced. Like he wants to believe you anyway.

“…Okay,” he says softly.

And that’s the end of it. He looks away first this time and something in your chest sinks quietly out of reach.

Sometime after midnight, your eyes start to burn.

Not sharply. Not enough to force you to stop. Just enough to make everything feel slightly out of focus, like your brain is lagging a second behind the world in front of you.

The clock in the corner of your laptop reads 12:47 AM.

You don’t remember when it got that late.

The essay is closer to finished now. Not done, but shaped. Tangible. Paragraphs that once felt impossible now exist, lined neatly beneath each other, proof that you’re still capable of moving forward—even if it never feels fast enough.

You reread your last sentence; It makes sense. You leave it alone.

Behind you, the room is quieter than before.

Too quiet.

You realize, slowly, that you haven’t heard him move in a while. Your fingers pause on the keyboard. You listen.

Nothing.

Not scrolling. Not shifting. Not even the faint rustle of fabric.

You turn carefully in your chair.

Keeho is still on the floor, back resting against the side of your bed exactly where he was hours ago—but his head has fallen slightly to the side now, chin tipped toward his shoulder.

His phone rests facedown beside his thigh. His eyes are closed.

He fell asleep waiting for you.

The realization settles somewhere deep in your chest, heavy and fragile at the same time.

His hair has shifted, strands falling across his forehead, the color darker now in the absence of stronger light. Less vibrant. More muted. Like cherry juice dried into fabric.

You stare at him longer than you mean to.

He looks younger like this. Unarmed.

You wonder how long he stayed awake before giving in.

If he fought it. If he kept glancing at you, hoping you’d turn around first. If he wanted your attention and didn’t ask for it, the same way you didn’t ask for his.

The thought makes your throat tighten.

You push your chair back slowly, careful not to make too much noise.

He doesn’t stir.

You stand, stretching the stiffness from your legs, and step around him quietly. Up close, you can see the faint crease between his brows, even in sleep. The kind that never fully leaves, like his mind doesn’t know how to rest completely.

Your hand hovers near his shoulder.

You hesitate. You could wake him.

Tell him to come to bed. Tell him he doesn’t have to sleep on the floor. Tell him you didn’t mean to make him wait so long.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for the blanket folded at the foot of your bed.

You shake it out gently and drape it over him, careful not to jostle him too much. The fabric settles around his shoulders, soft and familiar.

He shifts slightly, brow smoothing, but he doesn’t wake.

You linger there, standing over him, unsure what to do with yourself.

He came here to be with you.

And you spent the night with your back turned.

Guilt curls quietly in your stomach.

You crouch down before you can overthink it, lowering yourself onto the floor beside him.

Close enough to touch. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him through the blanket.

You study his face the way you allow yourself to only when he isn’t looking.

The slope of his nose. The softness of his mouth. The way his lashes rest against his cheeks.

He looks peaceful.

You wonder if he feels distant from you too, or if this is enough for him.

Your hand moves before you fully decide to let it, fingers reaching out slowly, hesitantly, until they brush lightly against his sleeve.

Just barely. He doesn’t react.

Your chest aches. You leave your hand there anyway.

Just to know you still can.

Two weeks pass in silence.

Not cleanly. Not all at once. Just fragments of days that blur into each other until you can’t remember which moment started the quiet and which one made it worse.

Nothing changes in any obvious way.

He still texts you. Still calls you when he can. Still comes over when schedules allow, slipping into your space like he belongs there—because he does.

Because he always has.

But something underneath it all has shifted. Not broken. Not gone. Just… stretched thin enough that you can feel it now. The distance that neither of you acknowledges. The careful way you both orbit each other without ever colliding.

You stop turning around as much when he’s in the room.

He stops asking if you’re okay, not because he doesn’t care, because you’ve taught him the answer already.

The first time it really cracks, it isn’t in front of him. It’s in front of Theo.

You hadn’t planned on telling him. You hadn’t planned on telling anyone.

But he notices. Theo always notices.

You’re sitting beside him, knees drawn up slightly, hands curled into the sleeves of your sweater. He’s talking about something—something normal, something easy—but his voice fades into background noise as the pressure in your chest builds and builds and builds until you can’t hear anything else.

He stops mid-sentence.

“…What’s wrong?”

The question is gentle. You shake your head immediately.

“Nothing.”

It comes out too fast. Too thin.

Theo doesn’t argue. He just waits. And that’s what breaks you. Because he doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand. Doesn’t fill the silence.

He makes space for it.

Your throat tightens. Your vision blurs. You blink hard, trying to force it back, but it spills over anyway.

“I don’t think he needs me,” you whisper.

The words feel wrong the moment they leave your mouth.

Not true. But not untrue, either.

Theo’s expression softens immediately, his body turning toward you fully now, attention unwavering.

“What do you mean?”

And that’s it. That’s all it takes. Everything spills out.

Not gracefully. Not calmly. Messy. You cry harder than you meant to.

Your hands shake as you press them to your face, breath stuttering between broken pieces of sentences.

“I’m always the one asking if he wants to hang out,” you manage. “I’m always the one reaching first. And I know he’s busy, I know he is, I know he doesn’t mean it, but—”

Your voice cracks completely.

“It feels like if I stopped trying, he’d be fine.”

Theo doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t correct you. He just listens.

You wipe at your nose uselessly, your lips trembling.

“I don’t tell him,” you admit quietly. “Because I don’t want to make it worse. I don’t want him to feel bad. I don’t want him to think I’m… needy.”

The word tastes sour. You hate it. You hate needing anything at all.

Theo exhales slowly beside you, and when he speaks, his voice is steady.

“He can’t meet you halfway if he doesn’t know you’re walking alone.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I thought it would fix itself,” you whisper.

“It won’t.”

Theo’s words aren’t harsh, not cruel. Just honest.

You look at him, eyes red, face aching from crying.

“I don’t want to upset him.”

Theo’s expression softens even more.

“You’re not upsetting him,” he says quietly. “You’re trusting him.”

The words settle somewhere deep inside you.

Heavy. Terrifying.

Necessary.

“If you keep holding it in,” he adds gently, “you’ll start resenting him for something he never knew he was doing.”

Your chest aches at that. Because you already feel it starting.

Small. Quiet. Growing in the spaces you leave untouched.

Theo reaches over, squeezing your shoulder once.

“You love him,” he says.

It isn’t a question.

You nod weakly.

“Then let him love you properly.”

It takes you another week. Seven more days of almost saying it. Seven more days of swallowing the words at the last second. Seven more days of convincing yourself it isn’t that bad.

Until the day he shows up at your door with a bottle in his hand.

You notice the bottle first. Dark glass. Cherry wine.

Your favorite.

Your stomach twists immediately.

He lifts it slightly when you open the door, a small, almost shy smile on his face.

“I had today free,” he says. “I thought… we could hang out.”

Hang out.

Such simple words.

Your chest tightens anyway.

You let him in.

Everything feels normal at first.

Too normal.

He takes off his shoes. Sets the bottle carefully on your counter like it matters. Like it was chosen with intention. He moves around your space easily, comfortably, like he belongs there.

Because he does. Because he always has.

You sit beside each other later, the bottle open between you, two glasses resting on the table.

The wine is darker than you remember.

Almost the exact color of his hair.

Cherry-dark. Plum-soft. Familiar.

He talks first.

About work. Schedules. Practices. Small frustrations he usually keeps to himself.

His voice is quieter than usual.

“I feel like I’m always behind,” he admits, staring down into his glass. “Like no matter how much I do, it’s never enough.”

Your chest aches at the confession.

Because you understand that feeling too well. He exhales slowly, shoulders rising and falling.

“I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

Your hands tighten in your lap.

Because you never wanted to disappoint him either.

The silence stretches. Your palms start to ache.

It comes on slowly at first. A dull pressure beneath your skin, your fingers curling slightly as if bracing for something that hasn’t happened yet. Your hands tremble faintly, and you press them together to hide it.

Your heart won’t stop pounding.Your chest feels tight. Too tight. You can feel it in your throat. In your ribs. In your lungs. Your nose burns. Your lips feel raw.

You don’t realize you’re crying until your vision blurs.

He notices immediately. His head snaps up.

“Hey—”

His voice is soft. Alarmed.

You shake your head quickly, breath stuttering.

“I feel like you don’t choose me,” you whisper.

The words leave you before you can stop them. The room goes completely still.

Keeho freezes.

His eyes widen slightly, confusion flashing across his face, followed immediately by something worse.

Hurt. Not defensive.

Just hurt.

Your hands shake harder now.

“I know you’re busy,” you say quickly, voice breaking. “I know you are, and I don’t blame you for that, I don’t, but I feel like I’m always the one asking. I’m always the one reaching for you first, and I kept telling myself it would get better and that I was being stupid, but it doesn’t feel stupid. It feels real.”

Your chest aches so badly it feels like it might cave in on itself.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” you admit weakly. “I didn’t want to make you feel like you weren’t enough.”

Your nose is red now. Your lips trembling uncontrollably.

“So I just… didn’t say anything.”

His expression crumples.

Because he didn’t know. He didn’t know you were hurting right in front of him.

He doesn’t interrupt you.

Not once.

He just sits there, completely still, his glass forgotten in his hand, eyes locked on your face like he’s afraid if he looks away, he’ll miss something important.

Your palms ache harder now, trembling where they rest in your lap. You curl your fingers inward, trying to stop it, but it only makes the feeling worse—sharp and electric beneath your skin.

“I tried to fix it myself,” you whisper.

Your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to.

“I thought… if I just stopped feeling like that, it would go away.”

He swallows.

You can see it.

The way his throat moves. The way his chest rises and falls a little faster now.

You force yourself to keep going, even though every word feels like pulling something fragile out into open air.

“I don’t tell you when I want attention,” you admit. “I don’t tell you when I miss you. I don’t tell you when I want you to come closer.”

Your lips tremble. You press them together, but it doesn’t stop.

“Because I thought I was supposed to handle it on my own.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“I’m independent. I’ve always been independent. And I thought… that’s what you liked about me.”

His brows pull together immediately.

You shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“But sometimes you get so focused,” you continue. “On games. On writing. On work. And I sit there waiting for you to look at me first, and you don’t.”

The words feel cruel.

You hate how they sound.

“I know you’re not doing it on purpose,” you say quickly. “I know you’re not. But it still hurts.”

His fingers tighten slightly around his glass.

You notice everything right now. Every small movement. Every breath.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” you whisper again. “I didn’t want you to think I was too much.”

Your chest aches so badly it makes your voice unsteady.

“I didn’t want to be clingy.”

The word hangs there. Ugly; heavy.

Your fingers twist together.

“I’ve been called that before,” you say quietly. “Clingy. Too affectionate. Too emotional.”

You hesitate.

“…You called me that once.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, his face changes. Not defensive, not angry. Just immediate regret. You rush to explain.

“I know you didn’t mean it in a bad way,” you say quickly. “I know you were joking. But it stuck with me.”

Your nose burns. Your lips feel raw from trying to hold everything together.

“It made me feel like I needed to be less.”

He sets his glass down slowly, carefully, like he doesn’t trust his hands right now.

“I tried to be perfect,” you admit.

Your voice breaks completely on the last word.

“I tried to be the perfect girlfriend. Someone who doesn’t need too much. Someone who doesn’t interrupt your work. Someone who doesn’t make things harder for you.”

Your shoulders shake slightly.

“But I don’t know how to do this.”

The confession leaves you hollow.

“This is my first real relationship,” you whisper. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Your chest rises and falls unevenly.

“I have these expectations for myself,” you continue. “Like I’m supposed to do everything right. Like I’m supposed to know exactly how to love you properly.”

Your fingers curl tighter into your sleeves.

“And when I don’t, it feels like I’m failing.”

Your voice drops even softer.

“I take one step forward and three steps back.”

Silence fills the space between you. It’s thick, fragile.

“I didn’t tell you,” you say. “Because I thought… if I just tried harder, it would fix itself.”

Your vision blurs again.

“But it didn’t.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

“And I started feeling like I was the only one trying.”

There it is. The truth in its ugliest form.

You hate yourself for saying it, you hate yourself for thinking it.

But it’s real.

You wipe at your face uselessly, hands trembling worse now.

“I just wanted you to choose me,” you whisper.

Your voice is barely there.

“I wanted you to ask first. To reach for me first. To make me feel like you needed me too.”

The room is impossibly quiet. For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t breathe.

And then—

“I thought you didn’t need me.”

His voice is soft, broken in a way you’ve never heard before.

You look up.

His eyes are glassy now, shining under the low light. Not crying. Not quite. But close enough that your chest aches all over again.

“You’re so capable,” he says quietly. “You handle everything on your own. You never ask for help. You never ask for anything.”

His fingers flex against his knee.

“I thought… giving you space was the right thing.”

He lets out a shaky breath.

“I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

The confession sits between you.

Tender. Painful. Honest.

“I didn’t realize,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “that staying back was hurting you.”

His gaze drops to your trembling hands, and something in his expression shifts.

Guilt.

“I never wanted you to feel alone,” he says.

He hesitates.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches toward you Not suddenly. Not assuming; offering.

His fingers hover near yours. Waiting.

You stare at his hand. Hovering there. Not touching you. Not yet.

He’s always careful with you. You don’t know when that started, or if he’s always been like this and you’re only noticing now. The way he never assumes. Never takes without asking, even in silence.

It makes your chest ache for an entirely different reason. You let your fingers uncurl slowly. Just enough. He notices immediately.

His hand closes around yours gently, warm and steady despite the tension you can still feel in him. His thumb brushes once over your knuckles, tentative, like he’s relearning something he should’ve never forgotten.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

The words are quiet.

Not defensive. Not rushed. Just real.

“I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head instinctively. “It’s not just you.”

“It is,” he says softly. “Part of it is.”

He doesn’t squeeze your hand tighter. Doesn’t trap you there. He just holds it.

“I should’ve asked more. I should’ve reached for you first. I should’ve made it obvious that I wanted to be close to you.”

His voice falters slightly.

“I thought I was respecting you.”

You swallow.

“I thought I was protecting you from feeling suffocated.”

The word makes your stomach twist.

You’ve both been trying to protect each other from things that were never there.

“I didn’t realize,” he continues, “that I was creating distance instead.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“I didn’t realize I was creating it too.”

He looks up at you.

You force yourself not to look away.

“I don’t tell you what I need,” you admit. “I expect you to just… know.”

Your fingers tighten slightly in his.

“That’s not fair to you.”

His brows pull together immediately. “You needing things isn’t unfair.”

“But not telling you is,” you whisper.

Silence settles again. Not empty. Just full.

Full of things finally being seen.

He shifts closer to you slightly, not pulling you, just reducing the space.

“I want to do better,” he says.

Simple. Certain.

“I want to be someone you don’t have to question.”

Your throat tightens.

“I want that too,” you whisper.

You hesitate before adding, “I just… need you to meet me halfway.”

“I will.”

No hesitation. No doubt.

“And you have to let me,” he adds gently.

The words don’t hurt. They heal. You nod slowly.

“I’ll try.”

It’s the only promise you can make. Not perfection. Just effort.

He lifts your joined hands slightly, pressing his forehead briefly against your knuckles. The gesture is small. Quiet. But it feels heavier than anything else tonight.

“I do choose you,” he whispers.

Your chest breaks open. Not painfully, just enough to let something new in.

Later, the room feels different.

Lighter.

Not fixed. Not magically perfect. But softer. Easier to breathe in.

The empty wine glasses sit abandoned on the table. The bowl of cherries rests beside them, a few stems scattered like evidence of something shared.

You stand from the couch slowly, your fingers slipping from his.

He watches you immediately. Not confused. Just attentive.

You move toward your shelf, toward the one thing you’ve kept untouched since he gave it to you.

The vinyl. Cherry red. Custom.

Your birthday gift from him.

You slide it carefully from its place, fingers tracing the outer sleeve. The photo printed there catches the low light—both of you on your first date, smiling in that unguarded, unfamiliar way people do when they don’t know yet how deeply they’ll come to love each other.

Inside, the protective inner sleeve crinkles softly as you pull the record free.

The small note is still there. You remember every word of it.

‘For all the versions of you I’ll get to love.’

Your chest tightens gently. You set the record onto the player with careful hands.

Behind you, you hear him stand. You don’t turn around. Not yet.

The needle lowers. A soft crackle fills the room.

And then—

Cherry Wine begins to play.

You close your eyes briefly. When you turn back around, he’s already watching you.

Not distant. Not somewhere else. Here. With you.

He doesn’t say anything. He just steps closer.

Slow. Careful.

Like the moment might break if he moves too fast. His hands find yours again, more certain this time. Still gentle. Still asking. You let him pull you closer.

Your bodies fit together in that familiar way, his arms settling around you, yours resting against him, your cheek brushing the soft fabric of his shirt.

You sway together. Not really dancing. Just moving. Breathing.

Existing in the same space again. Properly.

His hand rests at your back, warm and steady.

“I’ll try harder,” he murmurs quietly.

You nod against him.

“So will I.”

The music plays on. The cherry-red vinyl spins beneath the needle.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of you are waiting for the other to reach first.

You already have.

A/N: Hey lovelies, I was going to post this on Valentine’s Day, but… things happened. This started as a little Valentine’s idea, but I couldn’t resist exploring the quiet, messy, soft-heart side of first love instead. If any of this hits close to home, you’re never alone. Thank you for reading, and your likes, comments, and reblogs mean more than you know.

@ breakmeonce

hellooooo can you write a imagine for jiung where the reader cannot handle his deep morning voice and keeps him in bed?? 🫠

ᝰ.ᐟ honey || jiung (18+)

synopsis ▸ you’ve always loved your boyfriend’s voice but it’s a special treat in the morning

⌜ 0.6k ⌟ ▸ δ — nsfw (mdni), smut, blowjob, voice kink

ᯓ an — write about jiung's delicious, scrumptious, deep voice? why yes!

MASTERLIST

You wake up to sun spilling through the curtains you didn’t bother to close last night, too caught up in Jiung-induced needy cravings.

You shuffle under your blankets, wincing when the movement reawakens the dull throbbing between your hips.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

You can almost still feel the rough way he’d been driving into you last night, hushed, frantic whispers of your name falling from his lips as he pushed you into overstimulation in search for his release. The memory makes you squirm.

Arms, strong and insistent, wind around your waist and tug at you until you’re pressed flush into Jiung’s bare chest.

You look up, smiling fondly when you’re met with Jiung’s sleepy, slow-blinking eyes.

“Good morning,” he mumbles and you nearly melt into the bed at the deep, honeyed baritone of his voice, rough with sleep.

You hum, pressing a lazy kiss to his jawline. “Don’t talk.”

He makes a confused noise, brows furrowing and lips pouting cutely. “Why not?”

He grunts when you nip at his jaw in retaliation.

“Because if you keep talking in that voice, I might not let you out of bed,” you threaten him. You push at him, rolling him onto his back and settling yourself atop his chest.

He chuckles, the sound deep and husky and enough to make the lingering heat between your legs start to thrum alive once again.

“I have practice in forty minutes,” he tells you, and god, you want to drown yourself in the sound.

You trail kisses down his neck and he tilts his head back to give you space. “That’s plenty of time.”

He sighs, humming softly as you start to climb down his body, peppering kisses down planes of smooth skin and wiry muscle. “It’s really not…” He trails off, eyes fluttering closed as you tease your lips against the v-line over his boxers.

You lower your mouth, tonguing over the growing hardness under the thin material, and drink in his raspy breaths, watch every shift in his expression still slow and liquid from remnants of his sleepy haze.

“I just need five. Don’t be so quiet Ji,” you tell him, peeling his boxers down in slow, agonizing movements. “I wanna hear you.”

He lets out a sharp breath when your lips wrap around his already leaking tip, moaning softly when you suck.

“‘S good,” he says quietly, his fingers carding into your hair and gently pushing you to take more.

You give under the guide of his hand, sinking down to take more of him before you start a slow pace, one that has him breathing heavily with deep groans threading between each exhale.

Every noise he makes spurs you on to take him deeper, faster, your fist wrapping around the base of him that you can’t take.

“Feels so good,” he whispers, bleary eyes fixing down on you. His lips are parted to let his breathy grunts pass. “Take me so well— ah, such a good girl for me.”

The words go right to your head, leaving you heady enough to moan around the velvety taste of him.

His body stirs under all the sensations and his hips start to buck up in frantic little rolls as he nears his edge.

You pause, lifting one hand to intertwine with his in your hair and guide him to hold your hair tighter, blinking your eyes up at him with silent intent.

He falters, staring down at you for a moment to recover from his shock. “Yeah?”

You hum in assent, and that’s all the cue he needs to tighten his grip in your hair and start fucking himself up in your warm, pliant mouth, all while whining and moaning about your pretty little mouth taking him so, so fucking well.

Even if your eyes go blurry with tears and it starts to get hard to breathe, you push through it. All to just hear those sweet, sweet noises drip from his honeyed voice.

taglist: @jellyybelly, @jseobbie, @tintedsvn, @mrssaturday, @stxrxyyz, @smingki99, @hxraiiii, @peachy-x-k33n, @choxochip, @ozzysoatsolivesandpasta, @boptak, @peonyjoo, @kittyshotak, @oyasumiaikko, @straystar-8, @aalyluvz, @evemds, @willowedjelly, @velvetjoong, @seonghwaswifeuuuu, @delicatechris, @orchidves, @lycxee, @girlcrushd, @halaziasupremacy, @chandlxa, @soulssnucky, @snyngjhn, @starrystarryung, @leleluvrs, @princessthelsa, @izzyreadsstuff, @mo8ny4951, @numberoneobsession, @shmooooo, @cherryyberry1 @keymeadoww @just-agirl-lol

message me or comment to be added to my taglist! 𓆩⟡𓆪 check out my masterlist for my other works + works in progress

1 reblog/comment = 1 virtual kiss <3

#chat i love jiung #jiung p1harmony #jiung p1h #i love noisy men #breakmeonce recs #bmo recs

literally speechless…omg

liliesonthego

I love fanfiction

I love writing fanfiction

I love reading fanfiction

I love people who love reading fanfiction

I love people who interact with fanfiction writers

Stay sexy everyone 🫶🏽

#breakmeonce recs #bmo recs

FROM THE START ⭑ Kim Jongseob

006: My Sis Has Standards.

💌 from mika! DOUBLE UPLOAD.. EEYYUCCKCK i hate doing the smau part with just piwon it actually hurts so bad i cant do it. anyways. jongseob LOSER BUTTASS BOOO but it gets better guys pls trust the process. Endmfxhsgahsjs im so scared im not portraying them good im going crazy. ok bye ill shut up now ily mwah.

TAG LIST (open) : @u2jwon @lisie-loves-u @quiiirkiiis2 @nataliasdiary @pxronbeat1 @seonghwaswifeuuuu @seobpaya @cryingwithsparkl3s @jongseobsno1fan @niyareloadedd @maffyy @yumimeimi @ilovjongseob @seobsongz @stylann @snowzxki

prev. | next.

Cherry Wine

keeho x reader

wc: 5.4 k

⚠︎: emotional distance, miscommunication, insecurity, fear of vulnerability, crying, relationship anxiety, angst, hurt/comfort, reconciliation

The first thing you notice is the color.

Not consciously. Not at first. It slips into your awareness the way dusk does—gradual, inevitable—until it’s all you can see.

His hair.

Rich. Stained. Almost soft-looking.

You stare at it longer than you mean to.

Your cursor blinks on the screen in front of you. Waiting. Expectant. Patient in a way you aren’t.

You blink back at it.

Behind you, he shifts slightly.

Not enough to break the quiet. Just enough to remind you he’s there.

Comfortable.

You’ve always liked that about him.

He never demands space. Never fills silence just to fill it. He lets things be quiet without making it feel empty.

Outside, a car passes. Its headlights sweep briefly across your wall, across him, catching in his hair again—cherry-dark, wine-soft—before disappearing.

He doesn’t look up.

You don’t say anything.

You tell yourself you like this. The quiet. The ease of it. The way you can work while he sits nearby, the simple gravity of his presence anchoring you without effort.

It’s enough. It should be enough.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You type a sentence. Delete it. Type another. Delete that too.

Behind you, his thumb pauses.

You hear the faint shift of fabric as he adjusts his posture, his shoulder brushing the side of your mattress.

He’s close. Close enough that if you leaned back just slightly, your arm would touch his shoulder.

You don’t. Not because you don’t want to. Just because… you don’t.

You glance at him over your shoulder, quick and subtle, the way you’ve taught yourself to do.

He looks calm. Untouchable in his calm. You wonder, briefly, what he’s looking at.

Schedules, maybe, messages, the group chat, fans, work. Always work.

Your chest tightens before you can stop it.

You turn back to your screen quickly, before the feeling can take shape. Before it can become something with edges and weight.

You click into another tab. Reread a sentence. Pretend you’re concentrating.

Behind you, his phone makes a soft sound. A notification.

He shifts again. His shoulder presses more firmly against the mattress now, his head tipping back just enough that you can see him in your peripheral vision.

He exhales slowly. Not tired. Just there. Existing beside you, but not with you.

You hate yourself for thinking it.

Because he came over, didn’t he? Because he’s here. Because that should mean something.

It does mean something. It means everything.

Your fingers curl slightly against the edge of your desk.

Now it feels like holding your breath without realizing it.

Not painful. Just… suspended.

You wonder if he notices. If he notices how often you glance at him without speaking. If he notices how you keep waiting for him to look up first. If he notices anything at all.

He laughs softly under his breath.

You freeze.

Not because it’s loud. It isn’t. It’s barely there, just a quiet exhale of amusement at whatever he’s seeing on his screen.

But it wasn’t because of you.

You stare at your laptop harder, eyes burning slightly.

This is stupid. You’re being stupid.

He’s allowed to exist without orbiting you.

You know that. You’ve always known that.

You’ve built yourself around that knowing—around independence, around self-sufficiency, around never needing more than what’s freely given.

You don’t need attention. You don’t need reassurance. You don’t need—

“Hey.”

His voice breaks gently through your thoughts.

You turn slightly, startled.

He’s looking at you now. Really looking at you. His phone rests loosely in his lap, forgotten.

“What’re you working on?” he asks.

His voice is soft. Curious. Careful, in the way he always is with you. Your throat tightens unexpectedly.

“Just… an essay,” you say.

He nods, like that makes perfect sense.

“What’s it about?”

You explain it briefly. He listens. Really listens. His eyes stay on your face, steady and warm and present in a way that makes your chest ache.

He asks a small follow-up question. You answer. The conversation lasts less than a minute, and then it fades. Not awkwardly. Not sharply. Just… naturally.

He smiles faintly and nods again, satisfied, before glancing back down at his phone. And just like that, he’s gone again.

Still here. Still beside you. But somewhere else. The quiet returns.

He leans his head back against the bed, eyes flickering across his screen. The light shifts across his hair again, catching that crushed-cherry color, dark and sweet and almost painful to look at.

You wonder if he knows how beautiful he is like this. You wonder if he knows how much space he takes up without trying. You wonder if he knows you’re still waiting.

Your cursor keeps blinking.

Waiting, too.

You don’t move. Neither does he. And the space between you stays exactly where it is. You tell yourself to focus. You really do.

You type a sentence. Read it. Delete it.

You wonder if he knows how distracting he is.

Probably not.

He’s always been like this. Effortless without trying. Existing in a way that doesn’t demand attention, but earns it anyway.

You reach for your pen, tapping it lightly against the edge of your notebook.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You stop when you realize you’re doing it.

Silence fills the space again, thick but not uncomfortable. Not exactly. It’s familiar. It’s what most of your time together looks like lately—shared quiet, shared space, separate worlds.

You glance at the clock in the corner of your screen. He’s been here for almost an hour. Neither of you have touched each other once. Not even accidentally.

Your chest tightens, just slightly. You push the feeling down. He’s tired. He’s busy. He came here anyway.

That should be enough. It is enough. It has to be.

Behind you, his phone goes dark. You notice because the faint glow disappears from your peripheral vision. The room shifts subtly without it, the only real light now coming from your desk lamp.

He doesn’t pick it back up immediately. Instead, he just sits there. Quiet.

You feel his eyes on you before you see them. Not heavy. Not intense. Just… there. You don’t turn around. You don’t trust yourself to. After a few seconds, he speaks.

“You’ve been working on that all night.”

His voice is gentle. Observing, not accusing. You swallow.

“Not all night.”

A pause.

“Most of it.”

You can hear the faint smile in his voice when he exhales.

“You’re gonna burn yourself out.”

You almost laugh at that. Almost.

“I’m fine.”

You say it automatically. Reflexively. The same way you always do.

I’m fine.

It’s easier that way.

Instead, he just says, “Did you eat?”

Your throat tightens.

“Yeah.”

Another automatic answer. He accepts it just as easily.

“Okay.”

Okay.

That’s it.

You stare at your screen, vision blurring slightly around the edges. You don’t know what you were expecting.

He’s not doing anything wrong. He’s here. He’s talking to you. He cares. You know he cares.

You do.

So why does it feel like something is missing? Why does it feel like you’re standing just outside of something you used to be inside?

Behind you, he stretches his legs out slowly, his foot brushing lightly against the back of your chair.

It’s accidental. Probably.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. Neither do you. The contact is barely there. Just the faintest pressure through the thin material of your clothes.

But it’s something. It’s more than nothing. Your heart stutters in your chest.

This is stupid. You’re being stupid.

You could turn around right now. You could stand up, walk the two steps it would take to close the distance between you, sit beside him, lean into him like you’ve done a hundred times before.

He wouldn’t stop you. He’d welcome it. You know he would.

So why don’t you? Why are you waiting for him?

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeve.

Because you want him to. Because you don’t want to ask. Because asking makes it real. Because asking means admitting you need something.

And you’ve never been good at needing things.

Behind you, he speaks again.

“Hey.”

Softer this time. Closer.

You turn before you can stop yourself.

He’s looking at you already.

Concern flickers there. Barely visible.

“You okay?”

The question lands gently between you.

Not heavy. Not demanding. Just open.

You freeze. Because this is it. This is your chance.

You could tell him. You could say, I miss you. You could say, I feel like I’m the only one reaching for us. You could say, I need you to choose me first sometimes.

The words rise in your throat. And stop.

You smile instead. Small. Easy. Safe.

“Yeah,” you say.

“I’m okay.”

He studies you for another second. Like he’s not entirely convinced. Like he wants to believe you anyway.

“…Okay,” he says softly.

And that’s the end of it. He looks away first this time and something in your chest sinks quietly out of reach.

Sometime after midnight, your eyes start to burn.

Not sharply. Not enough to force you to stop. Just enough to make everything feel slightly out of focus, like your brain is lagging a second behind the world in front of you.

The clock in the corner of your laptop reads 12:47 AM.

You don’t remember when it got that late.

You reread your last sentence; It makes sense. You leave it alone.

Behind you, the room is quieter than before.

Too quiet.

You realize, slowly, that you haven’t heard him move in a while. Your fingers pause on the keyboard. You listen.

Nothing.

Not scrolling. Not shifting. Not even the faint rustle of fabric.

You turn carefully in your chair.

Keeho is still on the floor, back resting against the side of your bed exactly where he was hours ago—but his head has fallen slightly to the side now, chin tipped toward his shoulder.

His phone rests facedown beside his thigh. His eyes are closed.

He fell asleep waiting for you.

The realization settles somewhere deep in your chest, heavy and fragile at the same time.

His hair has shifted, strands falling across his forehead, the color darker now in the absence of stronger light. Less vibrant. More muted. Like cherry juice dried into fabric.

You stare at him longer than you mean to.

He looks younger like this. Unarmed.

You wonder how long he stayed awake before giving in.

If he fought it. If he kept glancing at you, hoping you’d turn around first. If he wanted your attention and didn’t ask for it, the same way you didn’t ask for his.

The thought makes your throat tighten.

You push your chair back slowly, careful not to make too much noise.

He doesn’t stir.

Your hand hovers near his shoulder.

You hesitate. You could wake him.

Tell him to come to bed. Tell him he doesn’t have to sleep on the floor. Tell him you didn’t mean to make him wait so long.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for the blanket folded at the foot of your bed.

You shake it out gently and drape it over him, careful not to jostle him too much. The fabric settles around his shoulders, soft and familiar.

He shifts slightly, brow smoothing, but he doesn’t wake.

You linger there, standing over him, unsure what to do with yourself.

He came here to be with you.

And you spent the night with your back turned.

Guilt curls quietly in your stomach.

You crouch down before you can overthink it, lowering yourself onto the floor beside him.

Close enough to touch. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him through the blanket.

You study his face the way you allow yourself to only when he isn’t looking.

The slope of his nose. The softness of his mouth. The way his lashes rest against his cheeks.

He looks peaceful.

You wonder if he feels distant from you too, or if this is enough for him.

Your hand moves before you fully decide to let it, fingers reaching out slowly, hesitantly, until they brush lightly against his sleeve.

Just barely. He doesn’t react.

Your chest aches. You leave your hand there anyway.

Just to know you still can.

Two weeks pass in silence.

Not cleanly. Not all at once. Just fragments of days that blur into each other until you can’t remember which moment started the quiet and which one made it worse.

Nothing changes in any obvious way.

He still texts you. Still calls you when he can. Still comes over when schedules allow, slipping into your space like he belongs there—because he does.

Because he always has.

You stop turning around as much when he’s in the room.

He stops asking if you’re okay, not because he doesn’t care, because you’ve taught him the answer already.

The first time it really cracks, it isn’t in front of him. It’s in front of Theo.

You hadn’t planned on telling him. You hadn’t planned on telling anyone.

But he notices. Theo always notices.

He stops mid-sentence.

“…What’s wrong?”

The question is gentle. You shake your head immediately.

“Nothing.”

It comes out too fast. Too thin.

Theo doesn’t argue. He just waits. And that’s what breaks you. Because he doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand. Doesn’t fill the silence.

He makes space for it.

Your throat tightens. Your vision blurs. You blink hard, trying to force it back, but it spills over anyway.

“I don’t think he needs me,” you whisper.

The words feel wrong the moment they leave your mouth.

Not true. But not untrue, either.

Theo’s expression softens immediately, his body turning toward you fully now, attention unwavering.

“What do you mean?”

And that’s it. That’s all it takes. Everything spills out.

Not gracefully. Not calmly. Messy. You cry harder than you meant to.

Your hands shake as you press them to your face, breath stuttering between broken pieces of sentences.

“I’m always the one asking if he wants to hang out,” you manage. “I’m always the one reaching first. And I know he’s busy, I know he is, I know he doesn’t mean it, but—”

Your voice cracks completely.

“It feels like if I stopped trying, he’d be fine.”

Theo doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t correct you. He just listens.

You wipe at your nose uselessly, your lips trembling.

“I don’t tell him,” you admit quietly. “Because I don’t want to make it worse. I don’t want him to feel bad. I don’t want him to think I’m… needy.”

The word tastes sour. You hate it. You hate needing anything at all.

Theo exhales slowly beside you, and when he speaks, his voice is steady.

“He can’t meet you halfway if he doesn’t know you’re walking alone.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I thought it would fix itself,” you whisper.

“It won’t.”

Theo’s words aren’t harsh, not cruel. Just honest.

You look at him, eyes red, face aching from crying.

“I don’t want to upset him.”

Theo’s expression softens even more.

“You’re not upsetting him,” he says quietly. “You’re trusting him.”

The words settle somewhere deep inside you.

Heavy. Terrifying.

Necessary.

“If you keep holding it in,” he adds gently, “you’ll start resenting him for something he never knew he was doing.”

Your chest aches at that. Because you already feel it starting.

Small. Quiet. Growing in the spaces you leave untouched.

Theo reaches over, squeezing your shoulder once.

“You love him,” he says.

It isn’t a question.

You nod weakly.

“Then let him love you properly.”

It takes you another week. Seven more days of almost saying it. Seven more days of swallowing the words at the last second. Seven more days of convincing yourself it isn’t that bad.

Until the day he shows up at your door with a bottle in his hand.

You notice the bottle first. Dark glass. Cherry wine.

Your favorite.

Your stomach twists immediately.

He lifts it slightly when you open the door, a small, almost shy smile on his face.

“I had today free,” he says. “I thought… we could hang out.”

Hang out.

Such simple words.

Your chest tightens anyway.

You let him in.

Everything feels normal at first.

Too normal.

He takes off his shoes. Sets the bottle carefully on your counter like it matters. Like it was chosen with intention. He moves around your space easily, comfortably, like he belongs there.

Because he does. Because he always has.

You sit beside each other later, the bottle open between you, two glasses resting on the table.

The wine is darker than you remember.

Almost the exact color of his hair.

Cherry-dark. Plum-soft. Familiar.

He talks first.

About work. Schedules. Practices. Small frustrations he usually keeps to himself.

His voice is quieter than usual.

“I feel like I’m always behind,” he admits, staring down into his glass. “Like no matter how much I do, it’s never enough.”

Your chest aches at the confession.

Because you understand that feeling too well. He exhales slowly, shoulders rising and falling.

“I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

Your hands tighten in your lap.

Because you never wanted to disappoint him either.

The silence stretches. Your palms start to ache.

Your heart won’t stop pounding.Your chest feels tight. Too tight. You can feel it in your throat. In your ribs. In your lungs. Your nose burns. Your lips feel raw.

You don’t realize you’re crying until your vision blurs.

He notices immediately. His head snaps up.

“Hey—”

His voice is soft. Alarmed.

You shake your head quickly, breath stuttering.

“I feel like you don’t choose me,” you whisper.

The words leave you before you can stop them. The room goes completely still.

Keeho freezes.

His eyes widen slightly, confusion flashing across his face, followed immediately by something worse.

Hurt. Not defensive.

Just hurt.

Your hands shake harder now.

Your chest aches so badly it feels like it might cave in on itself.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” you admit weakly. “I didn’t want to make you feel like you weren’t enough.”

Your nose is red now. Your lips trembling uncontrollably.

“So I just… didn’t say anything.”

His expression crumples.

Because he didn’t know. He didn’t know you were hurting right in front of him.

He doesn’t interrupt you.

Not once.

He just sits there, completely still, his glass forgotten in his hand, eyes locked on your face like he’s afraid if he looks away, he’ll miss something important.

Your palms ache harder now, trembling where they rest in your lap. You curl your fingers inward, trying to stop it, but it only makes the feeling worse—sharp and electric beneath your skin.

“I tried to fix it myself,” you whisper.

Your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to.

“I thought… if I just stopped feeling like that, it would go away.”

He swallows.

You can see it.

The way his throat moves. The way his chest rises and falls a little faster now.

You force yourself to keep going, even though every word feels like pulling something fragile out into open air.

“I don’t tell you when I want attention,” you admit. “I don’t tell you when I miss you. I don’t tell you when I want you to come closer.”

Your lips tremble. You press them together, but it doesn’t stop.

“Because I thought I was supposed to handle it on my own.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“I’m independent. I’ve always been independent. And I thought… that’s what you liked about me.”

His brows pull together immediately.

You shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“But sometimes you get so focused,” you continue. “On games. On writing. On work. And I sit there waiting for you to look at me first, and you don’t.”

The words feel cruel.

You hate how they sound.

“I know you’re not doing it on purpose,” you say quickly. “I know you’re not. But it still hurts.”

His fingers tighten slightly around his glass.

You notice everything right now. Every small movement. Every breath.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” you whisper again. “I didn’t want you to think I was too much.”

Your chest aches so badly it makes your voice unsteady.

“I didn’t want to be clingy.”

The word hangs there. Ugly; heavy.

Your fingers twist together.

“I’ve been called that before,” you say quietly. “Clingy. Too affectionate. Too emotional.”

You hesitate.

“…You called me that once.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, his face changes. Not defensive, not angry. Just immediate regret. You rush to explain.

“I know you didn’t mean it in a bad way,” you say quickly. “I know you were joking. But it stuck with me.”

Your nose burns. Your lips feel raw from trying to hold everything together.

“It made me feel like I needed to be less.”

He sets his glass down slowly, carefully, like he doesn’t trust his hands right now.

“I tried to be perfect,” you admit.

Your voice breaks completely on the last word.

“I tried to be the perfect girlfriend. Someone who doesn’t need too much. Someone who doesn’t interrupt your work. Someone who doesn’t make things harder for you.”

Your shoulders shake slightly.

“But I don’t know how to do this.”

The confession leaves you hollow.

“This is my first real relationship,” you whisper. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Your chest rises and falls unevenly.

“I have these expectations for myself,” you continue. “Like I’m supposed to do everything right. Like I’m supposed to know exactly how to love you properly.”

Your fingers curl tighter into your sleeves.

“And when I don’t, it feels like I’m failing.”

Your voice drops even softer.

“I take one step forward and three steps back.”

Silence fills the space between you. It’s thick, fragile.

“I didn’t tell you,” you say. “Because I thought… if I just tried harder, it would fix itself.”

Your vision blurs again.

“But it didn’t.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

“And I started feeling like I was the only one trying.”

There it is. The truth in its ugliest form.

You hate yourself for saying it, you hate yourself for thinking it.

But it’s real.

You wipe at your face uselessly, hands trembling worse now.

“I just wanted you to choose me,” you whisper.

Your voice is barely there.

“I wanted you to ask first. To reach for me first. To make me feel like you needed me too.”

The room is impossibly quiet. For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t breathe.

And then—

“I thought you didn’t need me.”

His voice is soft, broken in a way you’ve never heard before.

You look up.

His eyes are glassy now, shining under the low light. Not crying. Not quite. But close enough that your chest aches all over again.

“You’re so capable,” he says quietly. “You handle everything on your own. You never ask for help. You never ask for anything.”

His fingers flex against his knee.

“I thought… giving you space was the right thing.”

He lets out a shaky breath.

“I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

The confession sits between you.

Tender. Painful. Honest.

“I didn’t realize,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “that staying back was hurting you.”

His gaze drops to your trembling hands, and something in his expression shifts.

Guilt.

“I never wanted you to feel alone,” he says.

He hesitates.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches toward you Not suddenly. Not assuming; offering.

His fingers hover near yours. Waiting.

You stare at his hand. Hovering there. Not touching you. Not yet.

It makes your chest ache for an entirely different reason. You let your fingers uncurl slowly. Just enough. He notices immediately.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

The words are quiet.

Not defensive. Not rushed. Just real.

“I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head instinctively. “It’s not just you.”

“It is,” he says softly. “Part of it is.”

He doesn’t squeeze your hand tighter. Doesn’t trap you there. He just holds it.

“I should’ve asked more. I should’ve reached for you first. I should’ve made it obvious that I wanted to be close to you.”

His voice falters slightly.

“I thought I was respecting you.”

You swallow.

“I thought I was protecting you from feeling suffocated.”

The word makes your stomach twist.

You’ve both been trying to protect each other from things that were never there.

“I didn’t realize,” he continues, “that I was creating distance instead.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“I didn’t realize I was creating it too.”

He looks up at you.

You force yourself not to look away.

“I don’t tell you what I need,” you admit. “I expect you to just… know.”

Your fingers tighten slightly in his.

“That’s not fair to you.”

His brows pull together immediately. “You needing things isn’t unfair.”

“But not telling you is,” you whisper.

Silence settles again. Not empty. Just full.

Full of things finally being seen.

He shifts closer to you slightly, not pulling you, just reducing the space.

“I want to do better,” he says.

Simple. Certain.

“I want to be someone you don’t have to question.”

Your throat tightens.

“I want that too,” you whisper.

You hesitate before adding, “I just… need you to meet me halfway.”

“I will.”

No hesitation. No doubt.

“And you have to let me,” he adds gently.

The words don’t hurt. They heal. You nod slowly.

“I’ll try.”

It’s the only promise you can make. Not perfection. Just effort.

He lifts your joined hands slightly, pressing his forehead briefly against your knuckles. The gesture is small. Quiet. But it feels heavier than anything else tonight.

“I do choose you,” he whispers.

Your chest breaks open. Not painfully, just enough to let something new in.

Later, the room feels different.

Lighter.

Not fixed. Not magically perfect. But softer. Easier to breathe in.

The empty wine glasses sit abandoned on the table. The bowl of cherries rests beside them, a few stems scattered like evidence of something shared.

You stand from the couch slowly, your fingers slipping from his.

He watches you immediately. Not confused. Just attentive.

You move toward your shelf, toward the one thing you’ve kept untouched since he gave it to you.

The vinyl. Cherry red. Custom.

Your birthday gift from him.

Inside, the protective inner sleeve crinkles softly as you pull the record free.

The small note is still there. You remember every word of it.

‘For all the versions of you I’ll get to love.’

Your chest tightens gently. You set the record onto the player with careful hands.

Behind you, you hear him stand. You don’t turn around. Not yet.

The needle lowers. A soft crackle fills the room.

And then—

Cherry Wine begins to play.

You close your eyes briefly. When you turn back around, he’s already watching you.

Not distant. Not somewhere else. Here. With you.

He doesn’t say anything. He just steps closer.

Slow. Careful.

Like the moment might break if he moves too fast. His hands find yours again, more certain this time. Still gentle. Still asking. You let him pull you closer.

Your bodies fit together in that familiar way, his arms settling around you, yours resting against him, your cheek brushing the soft fabric of his shirt.

You sway together. Not really dancing. Just moving. Breathing.

Existing in the same space again. Properly.

His hand rests at your back, warm and steady.

“I’ll try harder,” he murmurs quietly.

You nod against him.

“So will I.”

The music plays on. The cherry-red vinyl spins beneath the needle.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of you are waiting for the other to reach first.

You already have.

@ breakmeonce

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