camaraderie!

[liliovouz]

user ﹫liliovouz LILY ꜝ masterlist 19 SEASIAN

📻💤 req?closed recents..﹪ coming soon guidelines

GIRLS ON GIRLS I like the girls that do drugs (Dr*gs) Girls with cigarettes in the back of the club (Club) Girls that hate cops and buy guns (G*ns) Girls with no buns, girls that's mean just for fun I like girls who make love, but I love girls who like to fuck

[eldrith]

˗ˏˋ Honeyed ˎˊ˗ Jacaerys Velaryon

jacaerys velaryon x queen's advisor!fem!reader words: 4.6k synopsis: “After we heard news of your success in the rebellion, Her Grace was eager to have you sit council with us. She seems to remember you quite fondly.” He says honestly, “She believed we would get along quite well.”  notes: switching povs; can be a oneshot, or perhaps i'll make it a short series. follows a non-canon timeline/events; Jacaerys is not betrothed to Baela. characters aged-up to 20/21. warnings: canon-typical mentions of war, kissing, allusions to smut. Jace is kinda horny and very flirty. unedited. that's all. feedback is appreciated <3 requests open. masterlist

JACAERYS VELARYON IS WELL ACCUSTOMED TO RECEPTION FEASTS.

In fact, this is the first time in several moons where he has yet to feel slightly taxed at the experience of one; roasted meats, glazed fruits, vegetables with garnish, ale… 

People, too - always fluttering around benches outstretched before some great hall, he and his family perched at the forefront, as if on display for those to gawk at. 

Of course, this time, he is alone. 

The great hearth that sputters and licks in the corner of the hall casts long shadows upon the chalky walls; no great beauty, perhaps, but this castle is indeed very alluring. He can imagine many fond memories could be made having grown up in a place like this. 

Jacaerys watches the girl in his peripheral pour another goblet of ale; a servant offers to pour it for her, but she waves them off with a shake of her hand, smiling nearly as warm as the fire which eats away at her backlit shadow. A girl he’s known since he was just a boy. 

You. 

Your name rings in his head; He’s always found you quite interesting. 

Jacaerys remains unsure as to why; was it the way your ankle sometimes wobbled when you curtseyed in front of his mother or his grandsire the King, back in your youth? Or the way that smile only seemed to grow under the dim lights of the Red Keep - your hair, done quite elegantly by one of the many ladies who had once tended to you, torn away from its restraints and ribbons as you ran down the halls with trickling laughter, dogs at your ankles and Lucerys trailing after you. 

Perhaps the way you spent hours, sitting quietly with his Aunt Helaena, threading needles through fabric and listening to her bizarre cadence dance in the breeze. The day you hit his Uncle Aemond, striking his cheek with a wooden toy and receiving twelve lashings as punishment? 

You and your brother grew up in the Red Keep just as the others - not as frequent as he and his Aunt and Uncles, but still, you remained - with your Lord father as a member of the King’s council, your laughter oft echoed through the hallways of his youth. 

 The quirk of a lip, the flicker of an eye. 

When Jacaerys was just one and ten, he met you for the first time. It had been on an eve cold and miserable - the summer storms in the crownlands could be confusing and harsh, boasting days of rolling thunder and a torrential pour from the heavens that would have windows boarded and children gathered round the hearths. 

You had three brothers; two younger, plump things that would squirm in the ladies’ arms and couldn’t yet speak - and then the other one, the eldest; the heir to your Lord father. He had a laugh much like yours, though was much more reserved. 

Jacaerys found him easy to converse with, showing him Vermax and hiding a huff of laughter when the boy’s eyes widened in poorly-concealed fear. 

You, if ever having a lick of that same fear, never dared show it on your face. Though you were but a mere girl, barely one and ten yourself, there had been no trace of a quiver when Jacaerys had taken your palm and led it towards the huffing, roving snout of Vermax; indeed, there had instead been some honeyed warmth in your eyes, alight with interest.

That day was quite long ago. From what he understands, your Lord father relocated back to your ancestral home just shortly after Jacaerys’ mother returned them to Dragonstone - your father died shortly after, and your brother has ruled Lord since he was fourteen. 

But it has been nearly seven years since Jacaerys last saw you, he supposes - as he is now one and twenty; and now, in just three days’ time, you will return with him to Dragonstone. 

His arrival was swift this evening - less chilly than the day you’d first met all those years ago, Jace wasn’t nearly shivering - but Vermax was tired and hungry, and he’d found himself feeling quite similar. 

They, of course, knew the reason for his visit: You grew into quite the strategist when your family fought a resurgence just last year against a rival House; his Queen mother desires your mind and your presence in her council in the days leading to war. 

It was your brother, the Lord, with his wife who’d accepted Jacaerys; you’d been there, too, standing beside him with the rest of your siblings and your mother. He'd been struck by the woman you've grown to be - not only the curves of your hips, nor the graceful smile, nor the spark in your eyes - but the mind so valuable his mother sent the Prince to deliver you to the council. You’d been proud, dressed elegantly in an intricate gown, bowing graciously with a grin that grew when he kissed your knuckles, the wind whipping your hair the same way it did in your youth.

Yet you’re no child now. 

Jace chances a glance down the table again, seeking you once more. Your body is turned, conversing with the young girl who pours your brother’s ale beside Jace; A laugh echoes through the hall at some murmured joke you tell her. 

He’s once again astounded by your beauty.

Your hair is braided away from your face, skin reflecting gently in the firelight - the gown you’ve donned is intricate, with your family’s sigil sewn into the breastpiece; the hemline of which dips low enough for a fierce heat to grow over his cheeks as he takes in the supple and forgiving skin that shines gently when you laugh. 

Jacaerys forces himself to take a large gulp of ale, relishing the chilled beverage as it slides down his throat - a brief respite from the heat that has begun to gather in his abdomen as you tilt your head, catching his gaze from the other side of your Lord brother. 

He could swear his heart stops when one of your eyes, alight with some misbehavior, drops in a slow wink - a color upon your cheeks that he is unsure is from the heat, the ale, or something else entirely. 

He surely knows what his own blush is from. 

Nails dig into the carved wooden chair below him - how must he be expected to endure such sweet torture for days with you on dragonback? Never mind, the subsequent days in which you will reside with them on Dragonstone as a new member of his Queen mother’s council? 

“My Prince,” you call from your seat, gathering the attention of your brother as well - Jace’s attention is given to you fully and immediately as you tilt your head, “are you enjoying yourself?” 

He nods curtly, swallowing as though caught. "My apologies, I seem to have been lost in thought," Jacaerys replies, thankful that his voice remains smooth and measured despite the momentary distraction. He sets down his goblet, eyes lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary; such beauty has always captivated him, and it makes his cheeks impossibly warmer when your brow lifts tauntingly.

"Indeed, the feast is quite wonderful.” He adds, “Your House’s hospitality is renowned, as always."

The Lord’s eyes twinkle some mixture of pride and amusement as he nods, "It is our duty to ensure our Royal guest feels welcome.” He turns to you, then, “As my Lady wife is quite sick at the moment, I might ask my dear sister here to show you the grounds and your quarters after our meal - if it is not too much.” 

You glance at your brother with a mock sternness. "Too much? You speak as if I'm prone to causing trouble, dear brother."

It is with irony you say this: Jace remembers all the troubles of your youth; the Pink Dread, the toads under pillows, the hide-and-go-seek games you played (one-sided as always) with the kingsguard. 

The jest in your eyes brings a smile to both Jacaerys and your brother. The man beside him chuckles, his demeanor lightening; "On the contrary - trouble seems to follow you like a faithful hound, doesn't it?” 

Your eyes, in a bashful glance towards Jace, reveal the honeyed state of your eyes; they seem to melt, with some steely devotion holding you upright. He can see why his mother is fond of you.

“But Prince Jacaerys is more than capable of handling it - in fact, I’m worried to recall in our youth, he may have been the one to encourage it." A jest - well-meaning, good natured; Jace laughs, shaking his head as the Lord claps his shoulder. 

He is not the boy he once was; duty matters, now. You and Jace are to be joint members of Queen Rhaenyra’s council - you must act like it. A lingering voice whispers in his mind, persuading as your eyes land on his - perhaps duty can wait until you land in Dragonstone.

You bite your lip when Jacaerys offers his arm to you; taking it delicately, you smile graciously as he bids the members of the feast a farewell and lets you guide him softly into the castle’s halls. 

PRINCE JACAERYS VELARYON IS MUCH TALLER THAN YOU REMEMBER.

Granted, you were merely a young girl when you last laid eyes on him - then, still a scrawny boy who poked and prodded those blonde-haired beasts in the halls of the Red Keep; but now, as you gaze up at his strong jaw, the curls of dark hair that move in the gentle wind, you have to school the warmth that grows in your abdomen.

There is a silence that swallows your footsteps through the dimly lit corridors; the familiar scents of your castle – a mixture of old stone, polished wood, and the faintest hint of lavender – envelop you, reminding you of your childhood days in the Red Keep. It makes you smile, fingers itching to flex over the bicep that lies under your palm. 

“Much has changed since we were children,” you say softly, glancing up at Jacaerys in the quiet - his face is partially obscured by the shadows, but you can see the faint smile that plays on his lips. There is something in his face - the quirk of lips, the slope of his nose - that reminds you of his mother. 

“Indeed,” Jacaerys replies, his voice warm and low, “But some things remain the same.” He looks down at you, and for a moment, you feel as if he can see right through you – past the years and the changes, to the girl you once were.

It makes your cheeks redden, turning to look out at the walls of portraits, ignoring your very own face, stern and nearly regal, staring down at you as you end the hall. 

Your smile is soft as you catch his eye, "It seems you know, flattery will get you everywhere, Prince Jacaerys.” You tease, shaking your head. “I can see why your mother chose you to carry her diplomatic wishes.” 

“After we heard news of your success in the rebellion, she was eager to have you sit council with us. She seems to remember you quite fondly.” He says honestly, “She believed we would get along quite well.” 

It is an incredibly large compliment, one that you struggle to accept with grace. It makes you smile stupidly at the stone, carrying on through the castle with polite conversation on the local history. 

Eventually, you stop at a large wooden door, intricately carved with the sigil of your House. “These will be your quarters, my Prince,” you say, opening the door to reveal a spacious, elegantly furnished room. “It’s quite late; If you’d prefer, I can show you the gardens in the morrow.” You offer, itching for a chance to rid yourself of his company, if only to ignore the heat and desire that has begun to spin you into its web. The youthful crush and giddiness has returned with so much force it’s taken you in a whiplash, flushing cheeks and racing heartbeat - a girlish smile that cannot wipe itself from your face under his handsome stare.

A fire crackles in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room.

Jacaerys takes in the room appreciatively. “Your family’s hospitality is truly remarkable,” he says, turning to face you. “Thank you.” His voice is much deeper than you remember, of course, and it lights you with something near desire. Hunger, perhaps; in its peculiar ways. “If it isn’t a bother to you, my Lady,” he says, voice somehow soft under the glow of fire. “I’d like to continue. I’m feeling rather restless.” 

You smile, feeling a heat once again rise to your cheeks. “It would be my honor, my Prince.” You agree, torn between nerves and flattery, relief that he wishes to remain in your company for the evening. 

He steps closer, his eyes searching yours, as if hesitating for a moment, before speaking. “And please, call me Jacaerys. We’ve known each other far too long for such formalities.”

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest. “Very well… Jacaerys.”

You resume your stroll through the castle - you tell him all you know of its history, as he has proven a keenly curious and attentive listener; though your mind begins to stray as you make your way into the castle gardens. 

In a few days, you will leave this castle. You will leave the Riverlands, to return with the Prince to Dragonstone - a sense of dread begins to settle in the pit of your stomach. The excitement of seeing Jacaerys again is tempered by the daunting task that lies ahead - joining Queen Rhaenyra's council is the greatest honor of your life, yes, but it is also a tremendous responsibility.

You glance at Jacaerys, who seems so confident and composed in the moonlight, and a wave of insecurity washes over you. Though you gained valuable experience during your House's war last year – strategizing, negotiating, and leading men into battle – this is different.

This is no war over plots of land and trade routes - this is a war that will determine the fate of the realm.

"What troubles you?" Jace asks suddenly, his voice gentle; as if he sensed your unease. You trail through a row of hedges shrubbery, and you notice how well the green agrees with him. The observation feels sacrilegious.

You force a smile, not wanting to burden him with your doubts - "It's nothing," you say, but he stops and turns to face you, his expression earnest.

"I can see something is weighing on you." He’s cordial, concerned as you meet his eyes once again, jaw clenched slightly. 

It feels odd, this connection - this mood, more somber and serious, is a sharp contrast to the jesting you’d delivered in the great hall nearly an hour ago. 

"I... I suppose I'm worried," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "I've had some experience, yes, but… I fear I might not be prepared for what lies ahead."

Jacaerys looks out to the white flowers that climb along the hedgeline. One ethereal hand, glowing in the moonlight, graces its petals softly.  "I understand," he says. "But Her Grace values loyalty and competence above all else. Traits you have grown to more than embody, my Lady.” 

The compliment is nearly too much; so you insist, with a soft voice, that he calls you by your name as well. 

He repeats your name with a small smile and a nod, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary before he looks away, a faint blush coloring his cheeks as you continue down the stone path. 

"You must have seen many changes here over the years," Jacaerys considers minutes later, looking along the fine herbs and beautiful plants which sprout from the earth; you nod. "Indeed," you agree, grateful for the shift in focus. "Though this castle has a unique way of honoring its forebears." You gesture to a line of statues along the right of the path; your brother, the most recent and less attended by the degradation of time - vines with purple flowers curl around his chest like armor and you smile fondly. 

“A statue for the past,” you say quietly, eyes roving over your brother’s stoned face, flickering over to your late father’s, where a yellow flowered vine spreads over his own chest, “and a plant for the future.” 

Jacaerys looks rather touched at this. “And who chooses the flowers?” 

You smile smally, “Their wives. As a tribute to their heirs.” 

Jace stares, taking in the row of statues - the castle stony and large in the distance - just far enough to miss the music that fills the hall. A flicker of a breeze kicks a curl up from his temple; torn, your fingers nearly reach out to brush it off his horehead. Bizarrely, you can’t draw your eyes from his lips. 

“And you?” He asks after a moment; you freeze, heat clouding your cheeks. He clarifies after your look, clearing his throat and remaining facing the statue. “Are you… spoken for?” His voice is barely above a whisper, his gaze flickering uncertainly to yours.

Oh.

Your breath catches at the question, surprised by its directness yet unable to deny the thrill it sends through you. You hesitate, considering your response carefully - the tension you feel, that pull - it cannot be one-sided, you know that. But there are duties, there are diplomatic barriers. You wish you could tear them down without risking reputations. 

“I have not yet found someone to…” you clear your throat, cheeks heating. “No.” You gesture to the line of stone men, “Only the Lords and their Ladies remain in our garden, anyways,” you shrug with a small smile, willing your heart to stop racing over his attention. "Maybe I'll plant a vine elsewhere before I leave."

You begin to walk again, down the row of stony men who watch over you. In the silence, your burning curiosity gets the best of you. “And you?” you ask as you find yourselves in the center of the garden, besides the intricate fountain which trickles with water. 

It seems your question has caught him off guard - he blinks, lips parted as he stares at you. For a moment, you’re unsure if you’ve crossed a line - your heartbeat echoes loudly in the stillness of the courtyard.

"I... haven't made any such arrangements," Jacaerys admits, shaking his head with a small smile, voice low. Some heat - relief, or interest - blooms in your chest and you nod at him, pressing your lips in a small smile. 

He hums, seemingly turning the conversation away from the tense air around you. “I believe you will enjoy Dragonstone, though it must be hard to leave.” 

You swallow, considering - looking over the view, the wild grass, the flowers that peek up through the splits of ancient stone. It’s quiet in the dark, the moonlight glittering your gown as you smile wearily, “I suppose I’ll miss this castle very much. Though surely one day, I might return.” 

He hums, considering the view himself, illuminated in a holy light that has your cheeks hot. “I’d miss it, too.” He agrees, looking to the warm hall that still flickers with the lights of the feast. “This castle is nearly welcoming enough to forget the impending responsibilities."

You chuckle softly, your eyes meeting him with a spark of mischief, "Nearly? My Prince, I'd hate to think we're only 'nearly' at impeccable hospitality."

He smiles, a glint of amusement in his eyes though his cheeks glow a rosy hue at his slip-up. "Yes. It would be a shame if that were true," he concedes, his tone light, "But I remember all of your secrets in our youth, and your brother seems to believe you carry some of that tenacity still."

You flush, cursing your brother's teasing in front of the Prince.

"He enjoys embarrassing me, I'm afraid." You sigh, biting your lip. Prince Jacaerys quirks his own smile, tilting his head - a less regal, more boyish look that makes your heart flutter. "Still," He starts coyly, "there must be some hidden treasures you reserve here, my lady."

Your heart skips a beat at the suggestive undertone in his words; the Prince, Jacaerys Velaryon - bold, none the boy he used to be. Back straight, chin tilted as if there was already a crown upon his head, yet he speaks so freely about such private matters. It sparks your coyness. 

Thankfully, your brother is right; you do indeed dance with trouble quite well - especially when trouble comes in the form of a handsome, curly-haired prince. You lift a brow, matching his playful demeanor, "Oh, undoubtedly," you reply with a mischievous smile. Gently, you reach out, running the tip of your finger over his black doublet; his eyes stay on you as you trace the dragons inlaid in red over his chest. His breath catches gently at your motion and you can't help the surge of satisfaction. "But revealing all the secrets too soon would ruin the fun, don't you think?" You all but whisper. "Especially when our guest is so noble as yourself."

His eyes dance at your words, alive with some kind of desire. You wonder if it is repeated in your own gaze. Jacaerys dares lean closer, his voice a velvet whisper. "And if I'm a very impatient noble guest?” 

You swallow around your heart-thundering throat, shaking your head gently, as you close the small gap between you even more, until you can see the few freckles bore on the bridge of his nose, the slight plush of his lips. “It’s a good thing you are here for several days, then, my Prince.” You whisper.

He shakes his head gently back at you, a light mockery, but you’re stuck on the hook of his eyes that bore into your lips, stuck on how you can feel his breath against your forehead. “Jacaerys.” He corrects, watching you wetten your bottom lip. 

You hum, “Prince Jacaerys.” You mend, hiding a smirk as he licks his own lip, eyes cast down at you as if he cannot look away. You worry you cannot, either.

He shakes his head again as if stuck in a loop, curled strands of hair moving with the motion. “Jace.” He insists, brows furrowed gently. You watch his face in the moonlight, beautiful and regal. 

You smile coyly, “Prince J-” 

He shakes his head, leaning in closer until he is flush against your ear; shivers rove over your spine and you can no longer blame it on the chilly breeze of night. You cannot escape the smell of him - amber, some hint of smoke, leather, and distinctly Jacaerys.

His lips brush against the shell of your ear, “I thought I asked you to call me by my name, my Lady.” 

A deep heat of desire coaxes a sharp breath into your lungs at the sensation of his lips. You can almost feel his smile that grows against your skin as he feels your skin raise in small bumps of desire. "You know me well enough, don't you?" He asks once again.

You let out a stuttered breath; do you know him well enough? You certainly wish to. You are doused with the thought of your brother, of the Queen, of Dragonstone, of the war - you should not be acting like children, playing such games with each other. 

“Jace.” You relent, cursing how his name falls from your lips like sweet, molten honey; how you sigh out; how you take a step towards him to breathe in his scent once more. "We shouldn't," you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper, the words laden with both desire and caution. 

Leaning back, his gaze locks with yours; dark and intense. "I know," Jacaerys replies, low and filled with longing, his hand brushing against yours as his palm slides up your forearm. You swallow thickly, unwilling to be the one to pull away first; Though, what would people say? The Prince with you, neither betrothed or courting - about to depart to join a war for his own family's claim to the Iron Throne?

Such worries soon melt away when arousal swirls in your lower abdomen - his eyes take in your figure, roving slowly over your curves, eyes hungry with want and breath thick with desire.  

"We have…" you begin, voice trailing off with a gasp as you struggle to find the right words amidst the overwhelming pull you felt towards him; how his hand slides over your shoulder and moves to grasp your cheek gently.

A thumb, slightly calloused, graces over your skin with some kind of desperation, his eyes searching yours. "Duties?" he finishes for you, echoing that very diplomatic reason that binds you both.

"Yes," you agree softly, your heart racing as the magnetic attraction starts to suffocate you. He nods along with you, and you cannot help but let your head tilt up - towards those very pink and full lips, towards his whisper. “Yes.” He repeats, agreeing with you. “Responsibilities,” he whispers, and it is with a complete jolt to your system that you feel his words brushed gently against your lips. "We shouldn't." He agrees with you.

“We must keep level heads if I am to be a consultant to the Queen.” you say gently, your own hands landing on his chest, not pushing away but tugging, nearly shaking with desperation, to pull him closer. He lets you as he nods, “Your… devotion is admirable.” He agrees against your lips, “But...”

His words trail off as his hand moves from your cheek to the base of your neck, tugging your hair until your breath is tilted just against his lips, his other hand falling to your hip, pulling you closer. Heat thrums in the chill air, your bodies now a breath apart - the shrubbery and plants cease their rustling, the courtyard around you seemingly holding its breath.

"-But?" you whisper, barely able to contain the eagerness in your voice. One hand, adorned with jewelry, snakes towards the nape of the Prince’s neck, his curls thick at the nape - you cannot help the bout of curiosity.

You are rewarded plentifully when his eyes roll back and close momentarily as you tug impatiently on his curls, waiting for his words. A small groan that makes your heart pound and your legs weak. 

"-But," he murmurs, his voice suddenly much more husky with desire, "I find it…difficult to resist you."

His lips hover near yours, a magnetic pull, a scream of defiance against your shared words. You silently sigh in relief at the acknowledgement that most of the castle remains in the great hall still, nobody to witness the sins you might just commit.

"And I, you.” You admit, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, “We shouldn't," you murmur against his lips, even as your fingers curl into his hair, pulling him closer.

"I know," he breathes, his voice strained again with the circle game you play. You hold back a whine of satisfaction as his hand slides up to cradle your face, looking into your eyes. There, amidst the burning fire of his Targaryen blood - you find some molten, honeyed desire. It burns for you. “We won’t.” He affirms, your lips missing the warmth of him so close. 

You nod, unsure how the gap is once again closing between you; do you pull him by your grasp on his hair, his doublet? Or does he, hands strong and capable, tug you against him? 

“We aren’t.” You whisper, eyes flickering to the lips that you so desire. He shakes his head microscopically as he repeats against your own, “We aren’t.” 

But you are. 

Jacaerys’ lips are warm and insistent against yours; heated, in that way your desire has spurred you, but still shy - a glimpse of the boy he is, who likely has had very few romantic trysts just as you haven’t. Your arms wrap around him as you press up onto your toes, his embrace tightening against yours as he deepens the kiss.

The brush of a tongue, the sharp curbing of a short moan of desire. Your stomach does circles within you as his thumb soothes over your jaw, his large hands encasing your face. 

There is a shout elsewhere on the castle grounds, but it provides the jolt of reality that had disappeared from your minds. Still the kiss lingers, a blend of urgency and restraint against your lips and Jace’s, small smiles and bashful chuckles. 

If you’re not back to your quarters soon, there might be some questions - and as much as you love a small bit of gossip, you wouldn’t dare admit what you’ve just done with the heir to the Iron Throne. 

The thought makes you flush once more. 

With practiced grace, you look down; his forehead falls to yours as he takes a breath. You smile smally, “It is getting late; I believe the feast has finished.” You say, trying to ignore the rush of chill that finds you when his body slides a small distance away from your own. 

“Indeed.” He agrees, slipping back into his own gracefulness; chin up, eyes strong. You try not to let yourself go giddy at the memory of his hands on yours, or how he offers his arm to you with a small, knowing grin. “Thank you, for…” He clears his throat and you cannot fight the flush on your cheeks. “Showing me around.” He finishes, eyes glancing once more at the statue of your Lord brother across the hedges. 

You nod, grateful for the momentary reprieve from the charged atmosphere between you; a pleasant respite from the anxiety that has, admittedly, lessened after your conversation with Jace. "It was my pleasure, Prince Jacaerys," you reply with a hint of playful formality; His cheeks still blush that same pretty pink as when you were children. 

And as you begin to walk back towards the main hall, if you catch him sparing several glances at your visage, then so be it. 

After all, you will indeed be spending much more time with him in the coming months.

requests open. taglist open.

[alierecss]

I said "I love you". You say nothing back | John Logan

summary: the arrangement was simple: keep it casual, don't catch feelings, don't ask for more than what's on the table. 338 days later, you're starting to think simple was never really an option with john logan.

notes: hii, i'm back!! i was genuinely so overwhelmed by the response to my first one shot. you guys are so kind and it inspired me to keep writing. so here we are, back with more yearning, more angst, and more logan being an idiot about his feelings. my requests are open if you have any ideas or characters you want to see i'd love to hear from you. thank you so much for reading and enjoy ❤️❤️

warnings: swearing, alcohol, light angst, situationships, a puck bunny accusation and a confession in the rain.

word count: 8k

The thing with Logan had started exactly 338 days ago. Almost one year. One full lap around the sun. You knew because you had been counting, the days and the hours and even the minutes since this situationship from hell, as your dear friends had taken to calling it, had installed itself in your life like an antivirus app you hadn't downloaded and couldn't figure out how to delete.

It had started on Halloween, and at the time it hadn't seemed like a bad idea. It was just past eleven and the house off campus that your friends had dragged you to smelled like dry ice and weed, and you were tired and ready to leave, which was an anomaly. You were usually the last one standing, your friends had given you the nickname ending antagonist for a reason. In hindsight, that probably should have been a warning sign. The one night you wanted to go home early was the night everything started.

Though to be fair, things with Logan are not bad. That's the thing people don't understand when they hear situationship from hell. On the contrary, things with Logan are very good. Too good. Too good to look at directly without feeling something inconvenient shift behind your ribs, which is precisely why it's bad. Because he had been so genuinely, almost aggressively nice about the whole thing. He had found you at the edge of that party and sat next to you and talked to you for hours like you were the most interesting thing in the room, and he had made a real effort not to look at your boobs while you were talking, which in that particular environment was either extremely respectful or a sign that he was raised correctly, and either way it had done something to you.

And then you had woken up on his chest the next morning. His warm skin and steady heartbeat, the sort of light that meant it was too early to be awake, and done the awkward post-hookup shuffle of words, and heard: I'm not really looking for anything serious.

A bucket of cold water dropped directly on your head would have been less effective. More merciful, probably.

What else could you have done except agree? For god's sake, he was sitting there in black boxers holding a cup of coffee, extending it toward you like a peace offering, brown eyes looking at you with an expression that was genuinely, unfairly soft for seven in the morning. You took the cup. He readjusted against the headboard and looked at you with those eyes and said, simply: "So?"

So. So what? What were you supposed to say?

"Sure," you heard yourself say. "I'm interested in that too."

Sure. I'm interested in that too. Your internal voice repeated it back to you with the tone of a younger sibling trying to get a rise out of you. That was, objectively, the least true thing you had ever said out loud. You had been raised on Bridget Jones and every famous rom-com ever committed to film. You believed in love, in its inconvenience and its necessity and its complete refusal to be reasoned with. Casual did not cut it for you. It never had.

But god. If Bridget could have seen John Logan in that particular light, with that particular bed head, she would have understood completely.

So you agreed. And after that came the encounters.

At first they were private, almost secretive, you telling your friends you were going for a run and then actually running, just in the wrong direction entirely. Logan telling his that he was going to study somewhere, which was technically true, depending on your definition of anatomy. It gave everything a specific kind of thrill, the pleasant urgency of something that existed slightly outside the normal rules, and for a while that was enough.

But time has a way of dissolving things like that. Gradually, without either of you deciding to, you stopped hiding. And that was when the real problem arrived.

You and Logan became friends.

Not the convenient, surface-level kind, the real kind, the kind that builds without you noticing until one day you look around and realize that this person has become load-bearing in your life. You were always at the house. You knew the full taxonomy of Dean's recent romantic encounters, the specificity of Garrett's current problems, the ongoing narrative of Tucker's various endeavors. You didn't just know about them, you helped. You were involved. You had opinions and history and context, and they knew it, and they came to you with things.

And it went the other way too. Logan had gotten so close to your friends that he would voluntarily drive Marissa to her therapy appointments in Boston without being asked, would send Benny reels about topics they'd talked about the week before, remembered details that even you sometimes forgot. He had threaded himself into the fabric of your life so completely and so quietly that you could no longer locate the seam.

And finally, finally, things had started to feel like they were moving in the right direction. The direction they probably should have been heading since the morning after Halloween. Maybe the casual arrangement had just been a detour — a scenic route to the same destination. All's well that ends well.

And then you and Logan would go to Malone's, and a waitress would glance between you with a smile and say what a nice couple you made, and Logan would laugh in that easy, noncommittal way of his and say: we're just friends.

And there it was. Bucket of cold water. Every time, without fail, like a reset button neither of you had agreed to keep pressing.

Every single time.

Which brings you to now.

You are sitting on Logan's couch, draped over him, legs intertwined, peppering kisses down his neck while he makes a valiant and increasingly unsuccessful effort to tell you about the new episode of some reality show he has gotten inexplicably invested in. Something about traitors in a castle. Who cares. Not you. Not when Logan smelled like that and the house was quiet and his hands were doing that thing where they moved without him seeming to notice.

You sank further into him. The kisses started to linger. His words got sparse.

"Are you even listening to me?" Logan murmured, his voice coming out considerably less steady than he had probably intended.

You hummed against his pulse point by way of answer.

The front door opened.

You both startled, pulling apart with the practiced efficiency of people who had been interrupted before, but the moment you registered it was Dean you settled back into exactly the position you'd been in. Dean didn't care about PDA. He actively encouraged it.

He dropped onto the opposite couch, looked at the ceiling briefly, then at you.

"Okay, I have a question," he said. "Logan, dude, this is for science, please don't be weird about it."

At this point you were sitting upright, Logan's arms still looped around you, his chin finding your shoulder, using you as a very comfortable shield against whatever Dean was about to say.

"Shoot," you said.

Dean took a breath with the energy of someone preparing to say something they had already decided to say regardless of the response. "Do you think I should buy a vibrator for a friend of mine?"

Logan laughed against your neck. You shivered slightly at the warmth of his breath.

"Are you the friend?" you asked. "Are you buying a vibrator for yourself?"

"What? No. I'm a man."

"That doesn't mean anything. Men are allowed to have vibrators."

"I know that. It's not for me."

"I really think you should get one though. For yourself. If you want to be the Samantha of the group you have to commit to the bit."

"I am the Samantha," Dean said, with genuine offense. "And it's not for me."

"Have you even watched Sex and the City?"

"Yes. I'm from New York, for god's sake and you're being such a Carrie right now."

You settled back against Logan's chest, his arms tightening around you automatically, like a reflex, like something he did without thinking about it anymore.

Yes, you thought. And my own Mr. Big is currently holding me on this couch.

Garrett and Hannah came down the stairs in what you assumed were their stay-at-home outfits: sweatpants, hockey jersey, the specific comfort of two people who had stopped performing around each other. The moment they came into view you felt Logan's hand still. Not move away just still. And then he shifted from behind you to sitting beside you, technically still touching but the warmth of it had changed completely. It was less person you are tangled up with and more person you happen to be sitting next to on public transport.

You knew that shift. You had felt it before.

The first time, you had told yourself you were imagining things.

It was a Tuesday, nothing special about it, the kind of evening that had become completely ordinary, you at the house, Logan beside you on the couch, his thumb making absent circles on your knee while Dean argued with Tucker about something that didn't matter. Hannah had stopped by to pick up something she'd left there the week before, and the moment the door opened Logan's hand had stilled. Not moved away. Just stilled. Like an animal that had heard something.

You hadn't said anything. You'd filed it away in the part of your brain reserved for things you weren't ready to look at yet.

The second time was at one of Garrett's games. You had been standing with Logan at the edge of the rink afterward, his jacket half around your shoulders the way it always ended up, and Hannah had appeared through the crowd. Logan had straightened. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it the slight shift in his posture, the way his jacket had slipped back off your shoulders without him seeming to notice he'd let it go.

You'd picked it up off the floor and handed it back to him without a word.

The third time you stopped counting.

Malone's on a Friday night had a particular energy loud enough to feel festive, familiar enough to feel like home. Your usual table was in the corner, the big one that fit all of you without anyone having to pull up an extra chair, and the evening had been good. Genuinely good, the kind that reminded you why you had agreed to this arrangement in the first place, Logan's knee against yours under the table, his arm finding the back of your chair sometime around the second round of drinks, the easy warmth of being somewhere you belonged.

You were mid-story , a good one, the kind that had the whole table leaning in and you could feel it landing, the timing was right, and Garrett was already laughing before you got to the punchline and Dean had that look on his face that meant he was going to steal this story and tell it as his own later, and Tucker was—

You glanced at Logan.

He wasn't laughing.

He was looking across the table at Hannah with an expression you recognized because you had spent the better part of a year learning every single detail of his face, and what was on it right now was something soft and slightly helpless the expression of someone watching something they had decided they couldn't have.

The story finished without you. Somewhere far away, the table laughed.

You picked up your drink. Set it down. Picked it up again.

"I'm going to step outside," you said. "Just — smoke a bit."

"You don't even smoke, (Y/N)!" Tucker replied, laughing, and it killed you because all of Logan's friends had come to know you so well.

"You okay?" Garrett asked.

"Fine. Just air."

You were already standing. Already reaching for your jacket. Logan was on his feet before you made it two steps.

"I'll come with you," he said.

The parking lot outside Malone's was cold and poorly lit. You got about twenty feet from the door before you stopped walking. The noise from inside filtered out muffled and distant, everyone still laughing, completely unaware.

Logan stopped beside you. Waited. He had always been good at waiting, which was one of the things you had loved about him and one of the things that had slowly, quietly driven you insane.

"Don't," you said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't do the thing where you stand there and wait for me to calm down." You turned to face him. The cold air hit your face and you were glad for it. "I'm not going to calm down. So just talk to me. Tell me the truth. Please. Don't bullshit me right now, Logan, I am asking you to not bullshit me right now."

"Baby—"

"Don't baby me, Logan. Not right now"

He looked at you with that steady, unhurried patience of his, which tonight felt less like a quality and more like a weapon.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"I want you to tell me if you have a crush on Hannah." The word crush felt absurdly small for the moment but you couldn't bear the weight of the more accurate alternatives.

Something shifted in his face. Not guilt exactly, something deeper than that. The specific expression of someone who had been quietly hoping a question wouldn't arrive and had known, somewhere underneath the hoping, that it always was going to.

"It's not—" he started.

"Logan."

He exhaled. Looked at the ground briefly. Looked back at you.

"It's not serious," he said. "It's nothing. She's with Garrett. It's not like I would ever—"

"Oh my god." The laugh that came out of you had nothing to do with anything being funny. "Oh my god, you actually do. You actually have a crush on her."

"It's not a big deal—"

"You have a crush on your best friend's girlfriend and it's not a big deal." You repeated it back to him slowly. "I have been right here, Logan. For almost a year I have been right here, and you have a crush on Hannah."

"It's just a feeling. It doesn't mean anything." His voice had an edge to it now, something defensive sharpening underneath the calm. "And you don't get to be mad at me for it."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't get to be mad at me for having feelings." The words were coming faster now, the composure cracking in a way you almost never saw from him. "We said casual. That was the agreement. I can't be accountable to you for things I feel when you are not my girlfriend."

The word landed like a slap.

Girlfriend.

"Right," you said. Your voice had gone very quiet. "I'm not your girlfriend."

"That's not what I—"

"No, you're right. I'm not." You looked at him. Really looked at him — this person whose coffee order you knew by heart, whose nightmares you had talked him through at two in the morning, whose hand had reached for yours in his sleep so many times you had stopped counting. "Can I ask you something? And I need you to actually answer me. Not just wait until I stop talking."

He said nothing, which you took as a yes.

"What did you think this was?" Your voice was still quiet. Controlled. "Not what we agreed on in the beginning. What did you think it was last week? Last month? What did you think it was tonight when you had your arm around me at that table? When you picked me up from my house and kissed me in your truck?" You took a breath. "Because I need to understand how you look at what we have been doing and see something casual. I genuinely need you to explain that to me."

"It's complicated—"

"It's not complicated. It's actually very simple. I just need you to say it out loud."

"You knew what this was when we started—"

"I know what it was when we started. I'm asking what it is now." You crossed your arms against the cold. "Because from where I'm standing it looks a lot like a relationship. It looks like you drive my friends places and remember things about them they never told you twice, and I know every single thing about your life, and we spend more nights together than apart, and you reach for me when you're asleep like I'm something you don't want to lose." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "So you'll have to forgive me for being confused about the casual part."

"I can't—" He stopped. Started again. "It's not about not wanting to. It's about what I can actually give right now. Hockey takes everything. My family, my mother, I don't have money, I don't have stability, I don't have any of the things that—"

"I'm not asking you for stability. I'm not asking you for money." Something in your chest had cracked open and you were past the point of closing it. "I'm asking you to admit what this already is. That's all."

"I am being honest—"

"Then be more honest." Your voice broke on the last word and you kept going anyway. "Because I'm in love with you."

The parking lot went completely silent.

Logan stared at you. The words sat between you in the cold air like something that had changed the temperature.

"What?" His voice came out barely above a breath.

"I'm in love with you." Steadier the second time. "I have been for a long time. And I know that's not what we agreed on. But I can't stand here and pretend I don't while you tell me it's not a big deal that you have feelings for someone else." You looked at him. "We are already a couple, Logan. In every single way that actually matters, we already are. The only thing missing is you admitting it."

Something moved across his face — something large and unguarded and almost frightened.

"It's not that simple," he said, quieter now, the defensiveness gone out of it.

"I know it's not simple. I know about hockey. I know about your mom. I know all of it, Logan, because you told me, because that's what we do. But none of that changes what I just said." You took a breath. "So just tell me. Do you have feelings for me? Yes or no. That's all I'm asking."

Logan looked at you.

And said nothing.

The silence stretched between you, long and terrible. His jaw was tight. His eyes moved across your face like he was looking for something he either couldn't find or couldn't say, and the longer the silence went on the more clearly you understood that the silence was itself an answer.

"Wow," you said finally. Very quietly. "Okay."

You picked up your bag. Straightened your jacket. Looked at him one more time this person you had spent 338 days loving in whatever form he would accept.

"Don't follow me," you said.

He didn't.

You walked back toward the warm light spilling out of Malone's windows, past your friends still laughing, past the table that an hour ago had felt like home, and you kept walking. Past the door, past the window, down the street, into the cold.

Too angry to cry. Too tired to pretend. Too done to look back.

Behind you, in the parking lot, Logan stood very still and said nothing which was the thing he was best at, and the thing that had finally cost him everything.

It had been a hard couple of days. But the upside of a not-breakup in college was that you didn't get to wallow, no watching rom-coms until the wee hours, no doing the Bella, watching the months pass from your bedroom window. Life was as it had always been, minus the space Logan had occupied in your weekly schedule. Not a metaphysical space, a literal one. When you opened your Google Calendar you found his game days still blocked out in blue, his training days still marked, everything still there like a calendar that hadn't gotten the news yet.

Pathetic, you thought, and deleted them.

Your days now belonged entirely to yourself, which should have felt like freedom and mostly felt like a lot of unscheduled Tuesday afternoons. No more disappearing in the middle of the day, no more make-out sessions in the library during lunch break. Just you and your own company and the slow, unglamorous work of being fine.

You weren't fine. You were something adjacent to fine that required daily maintenance and the careful avoidance of certain songs.

Marissa had noticed, she called it being under the weather, which was such a specific and old-fashioned way of putting it that in the beginning you had found it strange and now found it completely endearing. Your own personal nanna, showing up with iced coffee and terrible ideas at exactly the right moments.

The terrible idea this time was an underground bar in Boston she had found, which was a surprise since Marissa was fundamentally a sports bar person. You had a strong suspicion the entire excursion was engineered entirely for your benefit and the benefit of your appetite for expensive, colorful drinks, and you loved her for it and didn't say so.

The drive took exactly long enough to hype yourself up.

I'm pretty. I'm smart. I'm a catch.

The bar was dimly lit in a way that felt intentional rather than neglected, all low ceilings and good music and the general atmosphere of a place that didn't need to try. You, Marissa and Benny settled into a corner booth and approximately ninety seconds later Benny's elbow was in your ribs.

"Cute guy. Nine o'clock," he said, in what he apparently believed was a whisper.

You glanced toward the bar. Tall, white jacket, the kind of easy posture that meant he wasn't thinking about his posture at all.

"I'm not really looking for anything," you said.

"You're single. He's cute. The bar has drinks. What exactly is the problem?" Benny tilted his head. "Go order our drinks and make some poor decisions. You've earned it."

"I didn't bring my ID."

Benny stared at you. "You came to a bar without your ID?"

"I forgot." You shrugged.

"(Y/N)." His voice had the specific tone of someone choosing their words carefully. "What is wrong with you. Go. Drinks. Now. The ID thing is a you problem, figure it out."

You slid out of the booth before he could say anything else.

The guy at the bar was, up close, even more irritatingly attractive than he had been from across the room. He glanced over when you appeared beside him, and then glanced again in a way that was not subtle and didn't try to be.

"You look like you're deciding something," he said.

"Whether to admit I forgot my ID at a bar."

He looked at you for a moment. Then he smiled easy and genuine. "Hunter," he said, and held out his hand.

"((Y/N))."

"I'll vouch for you," he said. "If you tell me what you're drinking."

You told him. He ordered both without being asked, which was either presumptuous or exactly right, and you decided it was exactly right.

By the time you made it back to the booth with four drinks and Hunter's number in your phone, Benny was looking at you with the expression of someone who had orchestrated something and was very pleased about it.

You didn't tell him he was right. But you didn't have to.

The thing about Hunter Davenport was that he was genuinely, irritatingly likeable.

You had not been thinking about Logan when you said yes to Hunter's suggestion of getting coffee. You had not been thinking about Logan when the coffee turned into a walk, and the walk turned into two hours of easy conversation that asked nothing from you and gave something back.

That was the point.

You had gotten very good at not thinking about Logan in the weeks since Malone's. It was a skill, like any other, it required practice and the occasional forcible redirection of your own brain, but you were nothing if not disciplined when the situation called for it. You had been showing up to things. Laughing at the right moments. Sleeping through the night, mostly.

You were fine. You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it, and right now you weren't examining the difference too closely.

Hunter was easy. That was the thing about him. He was warm and uncomplicated and he looked at you like you were worth looking at, which was something you had apparently needed more than you realized.

It was nothing serious. You had been very clear about that with yourself. You were not ready for serious. But his hand was warm when it found yours walking back from the coffee place, and you let it stay there.

You were almost believing it.

The team was at the rink for an open practice, one of the informal ones that sometimes drew a small crowd of friends and the generally affiliated. You had come with Marissa, which gave you plausible deniability about why you were there, and you had sat in the third row and watched without watching, which was a skill you had also been practicing.

Hunter had waved at you from the ice. You had waved back.

You had not looked at Logan. You had been extremely disciplined about not looking at Logan, which meant you were also extremely aware of exactly where he was at every moment without technically looking at him, which was its own kind of exhausting.

After practice, Hunter had come off the ice still in half his gear and found you immediately, easy and unhurried, and said something that made you laugh. Your hand had gone to his arm the way hands do when you're laughing at something someone said, and it had stayed there for approximately four seconds.

Four seconds.

You knew it was four seconds because you had counted them, which meant some part of you had been paying attention to something you were pretending not to pay attention to.

The locker room door swung shut behind Logan without him looking back.

You found a quiet corner of the rink lobby while Hunter went to get his bag. You were looking at your phone, not reading anything on it, when you heard footsteps and looked up.

Logan.

He had changed out of his gear. His jaw was doing the thing: the tight, controlled thing that meant something was happening underneath the composure that the composure was working very hard to contain. His eyes moved from your face to the door Hunter had gone through and back.

"Hey," you said carefully.

"You and Hunter," he said. Not a question.

"That's not really your business."

"You're spending a lot of time with him."

"Logan—"

"I'm just making an observation." His voice was very even. The voice he used when he was the least controlled.

"Make it somewhere else."

He laughed short and humorless. "Right. Okay." He looked at the floor. Looked back at you. "I just didn't think you were the type."

You went very still. "The type to?"

"To go after a guy because of who he plays for." Quiet. Measured. Like he had chosen this version of the sentence carefully. "I didn't think that was your thing."

The lobby was very quiet.

You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to make sure you had heard what you thought you'd heard. Long enough to see something flicker in his expression, the immediate, unmistakable recognition that he had gone too far.

"Say that again," you said softly.

"I didn't mean—"

"No." Your voice was calm in a way that had nothing to do with being calm. "Say it again. I want to make sure I understood you. Are you calling me a puck bunny?"

Logan said nothing. The flicker had become something closer to horror.

"Because that's what you just said." You tilted your head slightly. "After everything. That's what you went with."

"I didn't — that's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean?" You took a step toward him. "Because I have been patient, Logan. I have been so patient with you. I said the most honest thing I have ever said to anyone in that parking lot and you said nothing back, which I am trying. I am actively trying to make my peace with. But you do not get to say that to me. You don't get to do that."

"I know." His voice had lost all its evenness. "I shouldn't have—"

"Why did you say it?"

He looked at you.

"Tell me why." Your voice cracked slightly and you kept going. "Because it wasn't an observation. So tell me why."

Something moved across his face the composure fracturing in a way you had only seen once or twice in all the time you had known him.

"Because I can't—" He stopped.

"Can't what?"

"Because I can't watch you with him and not—" He stopped again. Pressed his mouth shut. Looked at the ceiling briefly.

"Not what?" Your voice was barely above a whisper.

He looked at you. Right at you. And for one unguarded, terrible second you could see everything, all of it, the whole enormous weight of everything he hadn't said in the parking lot outside Malone's, sitting right there on his face with nowhere left to hide.

And then he looked away.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It was wrong."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"Yeah," you said. "It was."

You picked up your bag. Hunter had reappeared at the far end of the lobby, jacket on, easy smile, completely unaware of the wreckage he had wandered back into. You walked toward him and did not look back at Logan.

But you heard him the sharp exhale of someone who had just watched something leave that they weren't sure was coming back.

Good, you thought.

And hated that you thought it.

Here was the thing about being called a puck bunny: it wasn't the word itself that got to you.

Puck bunnies weren't the worst thing a person could be.

Men were allowed their types, allowed to prefer blondes or brunettes or redheads, to have spent their teenage years watching anime and grown up to exclusively pursue Asian women, to want someone tall or short or with a specific laugh, or say things like "I have never been with a Brazilian before". They were allowed to say these things out loud, to Tinder-filter by height, and if it was possible they would do by weight too, to have opinions about bodies that they shared freely and without apology.

But god forbid a woman had a type. God forbid a woman found hockey players attractive or musicians, or academics, or anyone with a specific quality she was drawn to. Then she was something to be named and categorized and looked down upon. Then she was a bunny.

You were not offended by the word.

You were offended that Logan, who had been silent while you poured your heart out in a cold parking lot, who had said nothing when you asked him the most direct question you had ever asked another human being , had found his voice again specifically to say that. That of all the things he could have finally said to you, after all the silence, this was the one he chose.

That was what got to you.

Not the word. The timing. The source. The specific, devastating irony of a man who couldn't say I have feelings for you finding it very easy to say something that small.

You didn't tell anyone what he said.

That was the first decision you made, walking out of that rink lobby with Hunter's hand in yours and Logan's exhale still somewhere in your chest. You were not going to tell Dean, who would say something devastatingly accurate about it. You were not going to tell Marissa, who would want to talk about it for three hours. You were not going to tell anyone, because telling someone meant turning it over, examining it, and you were not ready to examine the specific shape of what Logan had said to you and what it meant that he had said it.

You knew what it meant. That was the problem.

You had known the moment you saw his face, that flicker of something before the composure reassembled itself, the way his eyes had moved to Hunter and back to you with an expression that had nothing casual about it. You had spent 338 days learning the map of Logan's face and you knew exactly what that look was. You had just also heard what came out of his mouth immediately afterward, which meant that what Logan felt and what Logan was willing to do about it were, as always, two completely different countries.

You were done trying to travel between them.

The week that followed was quiet and it felt different from the other times you had gone quiet. Before, the silence had always been temporary, a held breath. This felt more like an exhale. Like something had finally, after a very long time, finished.

You went to class. You had coffee with Hunter on Tuesday, which was easy and warm and asked nothing from you. You went to Marissa's on Thursday and watched something forgettable on her laptop and fell asleep on her couch, and she put a blanket over you without waking you up, which was the kindest thing anyone had done for you in recent memory.

You did not go to the house off campus. You did not text Logan. You did not check if he had texted you, which required leaving your phone face-down on your desk for approximately four days straight, which was its own kind of discipline.

You were fine. You were getting finer.

You were also absolutely not fine.

Dean found you on a Wednesday.

Not dramatically, he just appeared at the coffee shop near your building where you went on Wednesday mornings, which you had mentioned to him exactly once four months ago, which meant he had remembered it and filed it away and was now using it, which was such a Dean thing to do that you almost smiled.

He sat down across from you without asking if it was okay and stole a sip of your coffee before saying anything.

"He told me what he said," Dean said, without preamble.

You looked at your coffee. "Okay."

"He feels terrible."

"Good."

"I mean genuinely terrible. Like, I've known Logan for three years and I've never seen him—" Dean stopped. Seemed to decide something. "He's not sleeping. He's barely eating. He showed up to practice yesterday and coach pulled him aside after because his head wasn't in it, which has never happened, not once in three years."

"Dean." You looked up at him. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you deserve to know that it cost him something." His voice was straightforward, without manipulation. "I'm not asking you to forgive him. What he said was awful and he knows it. I'm just, you spent a long time showing up for him and I don't want you to think that none of it landed. It all landed. It's landing right now. It's just landing a little late."

You were quiet for a moment.

"A little late," you repeated.

"Okay, very late."

"Dean." You wrapped your hands around your cup. "He called me a puck bunny."

"I know." Dean had the grace to look genuinely pained. "He said it because he was jealous and scared and he handled it in the worst possible way and there is no defense for it. I'm not here to defend it."

"Then what are you here for?"

Dean looked at you across the table, this person who had been in your corner since before you had any idea how much you would need someone in your corner, and his expression was very honest.

"I'm here because he's my best friend and he's falling apart," he said. "And you're also my friend. And I hate watching both of you be miserable when I know exactly why you're miserable." He paused. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just wanted you to know."

You looked out the window. The street outside was grey and unremarkable, the specific flatness of a Wednesday in November.

"How long has he known?" you asked quietly. "That he has feelings for me. How long has he actually known?"

Dean was quiet for a moment.

"A while," he said carefully.

"How long is a while, Dean."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Since pretty much the beginning," he said.

You closed your eyes briefly. Opened them.

"Okay," you said.

"(Y/N)—"

"I'm not angry." And you weren't, which was almost surprising. You were something quieter and more tired than angry. "I just needed to know." You picked up your coffee. "Tell him I said he needs to sleep."

Dean looked at you. "That's it?"

"That's it." You met his eyes. "I'm not ready for anything else right now. But tell him to sleep."

Dean nodded slowly. He finished stealing your coffee and stood up and put his jacket on, and then he stopped with his hand on the back of the chair.

"For what it's worth," he said. "The Hannah thing. It was never real. He told me that too. He said he thinks he latched onto it because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening."

You didn't say anything.

"Okay," Dean said. "I'll see you around."

He left. You sat there with your cold coffee and the grey Wednesday street outside and the specific, exhausting weight of loving someone who had known the whole time and chosen, over and over, to say nothing.

Since pretty much the beginning.

338 days. And he had known since pretty much the beginning.

You sat with that for a long time.

It had been raining since noon.

Not the dramatic, cinematic kind of rain that arrived with thunder and purpose, just the steady, grey, unrelenting kind that soaked through your jacket in the first thirty seconds and didn't apologize for it.

You were on your way back from the library, hood up, head down, thinking about nothing in particular, which you had gotten very good at recently. The art of thinking about nothing. Occupying your own brain with the immediate and the logistical the paper due Thursday, the coffee you were going to make when you got home, the question of whether you had remembered to charge your phone.

You had not been thinking about Logan.

You were almost at your building when you heard him.

"(Y/N)."

You stopped walking.

He was standing at the bottom of your building's front steps, which meant he had been waiting in the rain for some amount of time, which was evident from the state of him soaked through, hair flat, jacket dark with water. He looked like someone who had arrived with a plan and abandoned it somewhere on the walk over and was now operating on something more basic and less manageable.

He looked, for the first time in all the time you had known him, completely unguarded.

"Logan." Your voice came out carefully. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you."

"It's raining."

"I know."

"You're soaked."

"I know." He took a step toward you. "I've been standing here for forty minutes trying to figure out what to say and I still don't know, so I'm just going to say it badly and hope that counts for something."

You looked at him. The rain came down steadily between you.

"You have two minutes," you said.

He exhaled. Ran a hand through his wet hair. Looked at you with the expression of someone stepping off a ledge they had been standing on for a very long time.

"I have been in love with you," he said, "since pretty much the beginning."

The rain was very loud suddenly.

"I knew it when we agreed to casual. I knew it when we stopped hiding. I knew it every time I reached for you in my sleep and every time a stranger called us a couple and I laughed it off, and I knew it in that parking lot outside Malone's when you told me the truth and I stood there and said nothing back." His voice was steady but only barely, the steadiness of someone gripping something very hard. "I said nothing because I was terrified. Not of you. Never of you. Of what it meant. Of what I would owe you if I said it out loud. Hockey takes everything I have and my family situation is a disaster and I don't have money or stability or any of the things that a person is supposed to have before they ask someone to—" He stopped. "But Dean said something to me last week. He said that I was losing you anyway. That all my careful management of the situation had achieved was losing you slowly instead of all at once, and somehow I had convinced myself that was the better outcome."

You said nothing. The rain soaked through your hood and you didn't move.

"And then I said what I said to you at the rink." His jaw tightened. "I have replayed that moment every day since it happened. There is no version of it that I can make okay. I said it because I saw you with Hunter and something in me just broke. Not a good break. Not the kind that leads anywhere useful. Just — I broke, and I said the cruelest thing I could think of, and I aimed it at you, and I have hated myself for it every single day since." He looked at you. "I'm not telling you that to make you feel sorry for me. I'm telling you because you deserve to know that it was never about you. It was never about who you are. It was about me being terrified and handling it in the worst possible way, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry."

The rain fell between you, steady and indifferent.

"You knew since the beginning," you said finally. Your voice came out quieter than you intended.

"Yes."

"A year."

"Yes."

"And you said nothing."

"Yes." He didn't flinch from it. "I said nothing, and I let you carry it alone, and I told myself I was protecting you from the complications of my life, but I think I was just protecting myself. From having to be as brave as you were in that parking lot." Something moved across his face. "You were so brave. You said the true thing and I just stood there. And I have thought about that every day since. About what it cost you to say it and what it cost me to say nothing back."

You looked at him. This person. Soaked through and unguarded and finally, finally saying the thing he had been not saying for 338 days.

"The Hannah thing," you said.

"Wasn't real." Immediate. Certain. "I think I needed it to be real because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening. She has what you and I have, what you and I were and I think I confused wanting that with wanting her. It was never her." He held your gaze. "It was always you. It has only ever been you."

The rain had soaked through your jacket completely now. You were cold in a way that had stopped being uncomfortable and become simply the condition of the moment.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me tonight," Logan said. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just needed you to know that I heard you in that parking lot. I heard every word. And I should have said this then, and I'm sorry that I didn't, and I'm saying it now because Dean was right, I am losing you anyway, and I would rather lose you having finally told the truth than keep you at a distance by staying silent." He paused. "I love you. I have loved you for a long time. And I'm sorry it took me this long to be brave enough to say it."

The street was very quiet under the rain.

You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to turn it over. Long enough to feel the full weight of 338 days, of every almost-conversation and loaded silence and reset button and bucket of cold water. Long enough to remember his hand going still when Hannah walked in, and the parking lot, and the rink lobby, and the specific sound of his exhale when you walked away.

Long enough to remember, underneath all of it, a Halloween party and a wall and two people waiting out the night from the edges of it, talking like they had nothing to prove to each other.

The beginning, before it got complicated. Before it got careful.

"You're an idiot," you said.

Something shifted in his expression. Not quite hope. Something more tentative than hope.

"I know," he said.

"You made everything so much harder than it needed to be."

"I know."

"I carried that alone for a very long time, Logan."

"I know." His voice broke slightly on it. "I know you did. I'm sorry."

The rain came down. You looked at him this soaked, unguarded, finally honest person standing at the bottom of your steps and felt something in your chest that had been braced for a very long time slowly, carefully release.

"You should have just said it," you said. "In the beginning. You should have just said it."

"I know." He took a step closer. Close enough that you could see the rain on his face, the wet dark of his hair, the expression underneath all the composure that had finally run out of places to hide. "I know. I'm saying it now."

You looked at him.

"Say it again," you said quietly.

"I love you." No hesitation. No composure. Just Logan, standing in the rain, finally saying the true thing. "I love you. I have loved you since pretty much the beginning and I am done pretending I don't."

The rain fell between you and neither of you moved and the street was quiet and everything was very still.

Then you closed the distance.

You kissed him in the rain, which was cold and slightly impractical and nothing like the careful, managed version of Logan you had spent 338 days trying to navigate. This was different. This was him kissing you back with both hands and no hesitation and none of the holding back, and it felt finally, finally like the true thing. Like the version of this that had been waiting underneath all the other versions the whole time.

When you pulled back you were both soaked and breathing slightly unsteadily and his forehead dropped to yours in the rain.

"I'm still mad at you," you said.

"I know." His arms tightened around you. "I know you are."

"The puck bunny thing is going to take a while."

"I know. Whatever it takes."

"And you have to tell me things." Your voice was muffled against his jacket. "When you're scared, when it gets complicated, when your brain does the thing where it decides silence is the safe option. You have to tell me instead."

"I will." He said it simply, without qualification, which was how you knew he meant it. "I will."

You stood there in the rain outside your building, soaked through and slightly ridiculous, and you thought about Halloween and 338 days and parking lots and rink lobbies and all the long, complicated distance between the beginning and right now.

Worth it, you thought.

Embarrassingly, completely, entirely worth it.

[words-in-purple]

ᥫ᭡.ִֶ misguided | choi soobin | part IV

synopsis: the girl soobin has wanted since forever is dating the campus resident playboy. desperate, hopeless, and out of ideas, he comes to you—a shaman who supposedly specialises in love rituals and spiritual compatibility. only problem? you’re a total fraud.

on this night and in this light, i think i'm falling for you

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| fallingforyou — the 1975

ᥫ᭡ pairing: yearner!choi soobin x scammer shaman!reader

ᥫ᭡ genre/warnings: college au, romcom, coming of age, crack, e2l, spin-off, explicit language, sexual humour & crude jokes, drug use, alcohol use, manipulation/deception, emotional distress, bit of angst, pining, slow burn, jealousy, plotting against your fav freaky couple, 18+ mdni, second-hand embarrassment, so unhinged turn your brain off

ᥫ᭡ status: completed

ᥫ᭡ wc: 12.1k

ᥫ᭡ playlist | series masterlist | main masterlist | prequel | banner

part four | the phony ᥫ᭡

Soobin just stares at the phone. Stares at the minutes. Stares at the waveforms. Stares as if the right shape of sound might suddenly change the story.

You sit there behind your folding table with rice stuck to your sleeve and salt still on your fingertips, feeling oddly offended by how silent he is. Your flat is not built for this kind of quiet. Your flat is built for chaos and swearing and you making jokes until you don’t have to feel anything.

“So,” you say, forcing a tone that tries to sound casual and fails. “Good news—we didn’t get arrested.”

Soobin doesn’t react.

You try again. “Better news. Yeonjun’s not haunted. I mean he is, spiritually, probably—but not haunted-haunted.”

Nothing. He’s still staring at the phone, thumb hovering over the stop button, not pressing it, then pressing it halfway, then pulling away as if he’s scared to end it.

You clear your throat. “Okay. Great chat.”

Soobin finally lifts his head. His expression is unreadable. His eyes look like they’ve gone somewhere else entirely and left his body behind.

Your stomach tightens. “Soobin,” you say, quieter, and you hate that you’re saying his name like that. “Say something.”

He blinks slowly. Then he presses stop on the recording. The red dot disappears.

The silence hits harder.

He sets the phone down on the table with a careful little movement, as if his hands have forgotten how to be normal. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks. “We’re done,” he says.

You stare. “Done?”

He nods once, jaw tight. “We’re done here.”

You open your mouth to argue, close it, then open it again since your mouth loves being a nuisance even when your heart wants to shut down. “Right,” you say, voice sharp because you don’t know how to be gentle. “So you’re just quitting.”

Soobin’s eyes flick up briefly, then away. “I’m not quitting.”

“You’re quitting,” you insist. “That’s literally what done means.”

He lets out a slow breath that sounds too controlled, the kind of breath people take when they’re trying not to crack in front of witnesses. “I can’t break them up.”

The words land heavy.

You swallow. “You don’t know that.”

He looks at you now. His eyes are bright and flat at the same time, and it makes your chest ache in a way you hate. “We heard him,” Soobin says, voice low. “He meant it.”

You want to say people lie all the time. You want to say fuckboys are convincing. You want to say I can still find a way. Your brain runs through options like a scammer’s reflex—twist it, turn it, spin a narrative.

Your mouth doesn’t move. Because you heard Yeonjun too. You hated him for it—that’s how honest it sounded.

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “This was stupid from the start.”

You flinch at that, even though you’ve been saying it for days. “It wasn’t stupid,” you snap automatically.

Soobin’s brows lift, a humourless twitch. “It wasn’t?”

You gesture wildly at your rice bowl, your table, the sheet on the floor. “You crawled under my table. You hid under a bedsheet. We threw rice at a man and told him his dick was spiritually unstable. That’s commitment. That’s not stupid.”

Soobin’s mouth tightens. For half a second you think he’s going to laugh. He doesn’t.

He drags a hand down his face slowly, like he’s trying to wipe the whole week off his skin. “I convinced myself he’d be a bad g-guy,” he admits, and his voice cracks slightly on the last word. “I needed him to be a bad guy.”

Your throat tightens.

There it is. The real thing. The thing underneath the plan. It was easy to believe he’d have another chance if Yeonjun was a villain. It was easy to tell himself he was saving her. It was easy to be righteous.

Finding out Yeonjun isn’t… shatters that whole structure. It turns Soobin’s love into what it really is—longing with no place to go.

Your chest aches. Your eyes sting. You look down immediately, biting your lip hard enough to hurt, because you refuse to cry and make this about you. You refuse to be another burden on him. You refuse to be the girl who cries at him again—especially now, especially when he looks like he’s barely holding himself together.

So you do the only thing you know how to do when you want to comfort someone. You insult him. “So what?” you say, voice rough. “You’re just giving up?”

Soobin’s gaze flicks to you again, sharper this time. “Stop saying that.”

“Stop what?” you shoot back.

“Stop acting like this is something you can fix with a plan,” he says, and it’s not even angry. It’s tired. It’s resignation. “You can’t.”

You blink. It stings because it’s true. Your throat tightens anyway. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he says, simply.

Silence stretches.

Mangy flicks his tail on the windowsill once, bored. A car passes outside. Life keeps going.

Soobin stands up. The movement is slow, as if his body is too heavy. He smooths his shirt down—habit returning, neatness trying to save him. He looks out of place in your studio again. Too clean for your chaos. Too polite for your mess.

He picks up his phone.

You watch his hands, the careful movements, the way he won’t look at you, and something in your chest twists sharp. “Are you leaving?” you ask, and you hate how small it sounds.

Soobin pauses at the door.

He doesn’t turn fully. He just stands there, shoulders squared, voice quiet. “Yeah.”

You want to stop him. You want to say something comforting. Something human. Something that doesn’t come out as a joke or an insult.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Because you know very well that whatever you say won’t help. You can’t give him his dream girl. You can’t rewrite reality. You can’t unhear Yeonjun.

So you do nothing.

Soobin steps out. The door closes behind him with a soft click, and the sound feels louder than the slam did earlier.

You stand there in your studio, staring at the sheet on the floor, the rice still scattered on the table, the salt on your fingers, the chair slightly off-centre. Everything looks stupid now.

You sink into your chair slowly and let your head drop forward—it hurts.

And you don’t know if it hurts for Soobin, because watching someone lose like that is brutal. Or if it hurts for you, because somewhere between the ghost lies and the threats and the screaming and the fucked-up closeness in a cupboard, you finally admitted something you’ve been avoiding.

You fucking like him. And now he’s gone. And he won’t look at you twice.

Mangy jumps down from the windowsill, pads over, and sits on your notebook again.

You stare at him, throat tight. “If you judge me,” you whisper, “I’ll sell you.”

Mangy blinks slowly, then he starts purring—which is the closest thing you get to comfort. And you hate that it makes your eyes sting again anyway.

A few weeks pass and you pretend you’re normal.

You pretend you didn’t spend days stalking a man with a rich boy under your table. You pretend you didn’t throw rice at someone’s chest and called it cleansing. You pretend you didn’t like Soobin’s stupid earnest face when he listened to you talk about your life. You pretend you didn’t watch him leave your studio and feel your chest cave in.

You pretend a lot. It’s your core skill set.

Sometimes you think about texting him. Just one message. Something casual that doesn’t scream I miss you, since you have self-respect and also fear. You even typed out what you would text once or twice.

you: u alive you: hi. hope you’re not under a table anymore you: don’t die. that would be inconvenient for my conscience

You deleted it every time.

Your business is done. He’s done. You did the job—even if it didn’t go how he wanted. Seeing him again would just reopen the wound, and you’re not into self-harm. You already have student debt for that.

You haven’t seen Kang Taehyun much either—not since you told him to fuck off and he actually listened for once. Which is the worst part—Taehyun listening. It’s like a dog suddenly gaining free will. Terrifying.

Your weeks get quieter—a sad-quiet. Your studio feels emptier without the drama, and that pisses you off. You hate that you miss the chaos. You hate that you miss Soobin. You hate that you miss both.

Then Friday comes, and you finally cave. You text Taehyun first, since you’re not a masochist.

you: fcf? you: don’t be weird you: i’m hungry and i’m not apologising

He replies in under a minute.

plug: shift finishes in 20 plug: u better not throw a drink at me again plug: also ur buying the first round. emotional damages

You snort, grab your coat, and go. The bar is almost closing when you walk in. The lights are dimmed. Half the stools are flipped. The place smells of citrus cleaner, old beer, and poor life choices. You expect it to be empty.

It isn’t.

Choi Soobin is sat at the bar. Your stomach drops so hard it feels like a physical thing.

He’s not hunched, broken or wrecked how you expected. He’s sitting straight, shoulders squared, coat neat, hair done, looking expensive and composed in an infuriating way that makes it seem like he’s already moved on and you’re the only idiot still carrying it.

There’s a glass in front of him that looks like whisky—untouched.

He’s staring at it as if he’s waiting for it to give him answers. His hands rest on the bar, fingers relaxed. His face is blank like he’s trying not to feel.

You pause in the doorway for half a second, brain screaming turn around. Your legs don’t listen.

Taehyun is behind the counter, wiping down the same spot in slow circles. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. He just lifts his chin in greeting, then goes back to wiping like you never had a fight and you never stormed out and you never blocked him for two days like a dramatic teenager.

That’s the thing about you and Taehyun. You’ve known each other too long for apologies. You either talk or you don’t. You either show up or you don’t. The rest is noise.

You walk to the bar and slide onto the stool next to Soobin without asking permission. He doesn’t react at first.

Then you say, “Hi.”

His head turns slowly. Surprise flickers across his face. A brief crack in his composure like he didn’t expect to see you here, right beside him, acting normal. “Hi,” he replies, voice level.

You stare at the untouched whisky. “Are you drinking?”

He glances at the glass. “No.”

You nod. “Why is it there then?”

“So I can look at it,” he says, deadpan.

You blink. “That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

He exhales through his nose, almost amused. “It’s been a depressing few weeks.”

You don’t know what to do with that, so you do the only thing you know how to do—you make it worse. “Congratulations,” you say. “You’ve finally caught up to my lifestyle.”

Soobin’s mouth twitches. It doesn’t become a smile. It tries.

You look at his face properly now. He looks… okay. Not okay in the sense of healed. Okay as in functioning—clean, put together, no visible spiral, no haunted eyes, no table grapes trauma written across his forehead.

That’s what hits you. You expected him to look ruined. You expected drunk Soobin, wrecked Soobin, I haven’t slept Soobin. Instead he looks like a man wearing composure because composure is the only thing he can hold onto without falling apart.

It makes something in your chest go heavy. You hate that too. You clear your throat. “So. What have you been up to?”

Soobin’s gaze stays forward for a second, then he turns to you again. “Lectures.”

“Fun,” you say.

“Assignments,” he adds.

“Even better.”

He glances at you sideways. “You?”

You shrug. “Scams. Rent. Cat. Depression.”

Soobin blinks. “That’s… an interesting list.”

“It’s a CV,” you reply. “I’m employable.”

Taehyun makes a sound behind the bar that might be a laugh. He doesn’t look over. He keeps wiping.

Soobin’s eyes flick to Taehyun. “You waiting for him to finish working?”

“Sadly,” you say. “He belongs here. This is his habitat.”

Taehyun finally looks up, eyes flat. “I can hear you.”

“Good,” you reply. “Develop shame.”

Taehyun points at the whisky in front of Soobin. “You actually going to drink that or are you just torturing yourself?”

Soobin’s jaw tightens slightly. “I’m fine.”

Taehyun hums. “Sure.”

You turn to Soobin. “You look fine.”

Soobin’s eyes flick to you, sharp for half a second. “I am fine.”

“You’re so good at that sentence,” you say. “You should get it printed on a t-shirt.”

He doesn’t answer. He looks back at the glass instead.

The silence stretches, loaded.

Taehyun finishes wiping, checks the clock, then starts pulling his apron off with an end-of-shift relief. He hooks it over his arm, grabs his coat from under the counter, then looks at you like this was always the plan.

“Ready for FCF?” you ask, nodding toward him.

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. “FCF.”

Soobin’s head turns slightly. “What’s FCF?”

You and Taehyun look at each other. It’s quick, wordless, the kind of shared glance that comes from history—the kind that says should we?

Taehyun’s smile turns devilish. “Fried Chicken Friday.”

Soobin blinks. “That’s a… thing?”

“It’s a tradition,” you say.

“It’s a coping mechanism,” Taehyun adds.

“It’s grease and booze and bitching,” you finish.

Soobin looks between you both, something faintly curious in his eyes. “You do it every Friday?”

“Religiously,” Taehyun says.

Soobin hesitates. “And you’re going now?”

You lift a brow. “Yeah. Wanna come? Unless you want to sit here and stare at your whisky like it’s going to apologise to you.”

Taehyun tugs his coat on. “We’re going,” he says, then looks at Soobin. “You coming or not?”

Soobin pauses. He looks at his untouched glass. He looks at the bar. He looks at you. Something shifts in his expression—tiny, reluctant, tired. Then he nods once. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll come.”

Taehyun’s eyes brighten. “Good.”

You slide off your stool, tug your coat tighter, then glance at Soobin as he stands. “Don’t be weird,” you warn.

Soobin looks at you, deadpan. “You’re the weird one.”

You snort. “Fair.”

Taehyun pushes open the door to the cold night and gestures out. “Come on then. FCF.”

And somehow—against all your logic, and all your stubbornness, and all the ways you told yourself you’d never see him again—Choi Soobin follows you both out into the dark.

Choi Soobin doesn’t mean to come.

He means to say no, thanks, he’s got an early lecture, he’s tired, he’s fine—he’s always fine, he doesn’t need fried chicken and whatever stupid ritual you and Taehyun have built. He means to leave the bar and go home and stare at his ceiling in peace, the way he’s been doing for weeks.

Then you look at him and say, “Don’t be weird,” and Taehyun says, “FCF,” and Soobin hears himself say, “Alright.”

And now he’s outside in the cold night with both of you. The air bites his cheeks, and he realises that he’s already made the first bad decision.

He follows you to the off-licence where you buy too much beer—not even the nice kind, just stacks of cans that clink in the carrier bag. Taehyun holds them like he’s carrying groceries for his mum. You hold them like you’ve done this before. Soobin holds them like he’s about to be caught by campus security and expelled on the spot.

“This is already too much,” he says, watching Taehyun grab another four-pack.

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. “You’ve never been to a proper FCF.”

“I’ve had fried chicken before,” Soobin replies.

You look at him, deadpan. “Not spiritually.”

Soobin blinks. “What does that mean?”

“It means shut up and walk,” you say, then you lift the bag of beer higher. “Also you’re carrying this, Rich Boy.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “I’m not—”

You stare at his coat. At his shoes. At the way his bank card would probably work on the first tap. “Yeah. Sure.”

He opens his mouth to argue. Taehyun cuts in. “Mate, don’t fight it. She calls everyone rich. It’s her hobby.”

“It is not my hobby,” you say. “It’s my coping mechanism.”

Soobin doesn’t know what to do with that sentence, so he just carries the beer and tries to behave.

Then you take him to the chicken shop and buy too many boxes of chicken and chips. The smell of hot grease and spice hits him immediately, making his stomach lurch in either hunger or anxiety. You both eat chips out of the box while you walk, since apparently you’re feral and civilisation doesn’t apply to you.

Soobin holds his box carefully, hands clean, posture polite. He takes one bite and tries not to react.

You clock him anyway. “You don’t like it.”

“I like it,” he says.

“You’re lying,” you reply. “Your face is doing something.”

Soobin chews, then swallows. “It’s—spicy.”

Taehyun laughs. “Spicy. He says spicy like he’s reviewing a dish on a cooking show.”

You point at Soobin. “You’re not allowed to have a sensitive palate. You’re a man.”

Soobin looks horrified. “That’s not how—”

“It is how,” you cut in. “If you can threaten to report us to our universities, you can handle seasoning.”

Soobin shuts his mouth, chewing slowly, and wonders how the hell he ended up here again—outside, carrying beer, eating fried chicken in the street, following two scammers into whatever criminal activity they’ve decided is self-care.

Taehyun turns down a side road.

Soobin follows, since he has no spine when it comes to leaving situations. The streetlights get fewer. The pavement gets quieter. The air gets colder. The buildings start looking older, emptier, half-renovated and abandoned, windows boarded, brickwork stained.

Soobin slows. “Where are we going?”

“Our spot,” you say.

“So you don’t have a spot,” he replies, and it comes out sharper than he means it to. “You have a crime scene.”

Taehyun grins. “Welcome.”

You stop in front of a building with a metal gate half bent, a warning sign that says NO ENTRY hanging crooked.

Soobin stares at it. “That says no entry.”

You tilt your head. “So you can read.”

He looks at you. “This is trespassing.”

Taehyun nods. “Yeah.”

Soobin’s voice tightens. “Why are you saying that so calmly?”

You shrug. “Vibes.”

Soobin blinks. “Vibes?”

“Vibes,” you repeat.

Taehyun slips through the gate first, ducking under a broken chain with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times. You follow without hesitation. Soobin falters, then steps through after you, clutching the beer bag like it’s a hostage.

The inside smells of damp, dust and old concrete. The kind of place where a horror movie would start and people would die in the first ten minutes.

Soobin whispers, “This is insane.”

“You’re the one who ate grapes under tables for eleven nights,” you whisper back, and the reminder hits him right in the shame.

He shuts up.

You find the emergency staircase and start climbing. The steps are metal and cold, echoing under your shoes. You take them fast. Taehyun takes them faster. Soobin takes them carefully, since he’d rather not break his neck in a building he’s not meant to be in.

Halfway up, he asks, breathing a little harder, “How did you even find this?”

Taehyun calls back without turning around, “We grew up in the countryside. When we get bored, we climb shit.”

Soobin thinks about his own adolescence—quiet, structured and safe. He thinks about you and Taehyun—younger, climbing abandoned buildings for entertainment because your town had nothing else. Something in his chest shifts, uncomfortable.

He reaches the rooftop and stops dead. The view is breathtakingly stupid.

The city spreads out under him, lights scattered, roads cutting through, buildings rising, the horizon soft with the hint of spring. The air up here is cleaner, colder, and the breeze hits his face in a way that makes him feel awake.

You walk to the edge and lean on the railing like you belong here.

Taehyun drops the carrier bags and starts unloading cans and chicken boxes, setting everything out with a weird level of organisation.

Soobin stands there for a beat, taking it in, then he realises he’s smiling.

He wipes it off his face immediately.

You notice anyway. You always notice. “You’re impressed,” you say.

“I’m not impressed,” he replies.

“You are,” you insist. “Your eyes are doing the thing.”

Soobin frowns. “What thing?”

“The thing where they don’t look miserable,” you say.

Taehyun cracks a can and tosses one to Soobin. He catches it awkwardly. The metal is cold against his palm.

“You drink,” Taehyun says, like it’s a command.

Soobin hesitates. “I don’t usually—”

You cut in. “Don’t start. You smoked in my living room.”

Soobin’s ears go hot. “That was an accident.”

“That was a choice,” you correct.

Taehyun lifts his can. “To bad choices.”

You lift yours. “To crimes.”

Soobin stares at both of you, then lifts his can slowly. “To—vibes,” he says, and he hates that he’s doing this, and he hates that you both burst out laughing.

He drinks. It tastes of bitter piss. He coughs. You laugh harder.

“Jesus,” he mutters, wiping his mouth. “How do you drink this?”

Taehyun shrugs. “Practice.”

You add, “Trauma.”

Soobin takes another sip, determined to survive the night without being the boring one. The bitterness eases slightly. Or his tongue gives up.

Cans open. Chicken boxes get demolished. The rooftop becomes a messy little party of three, the city below ignoring you completely.

Somehow, without him fully clocking when it happens, Soobin stops thinking about Yeonjun for a while. He stops thinking about the girl. He stops thinking about the ache in his chest.

He starts thinking about the way you laugh when Taehyun says something stupid. The way Taehyun looks softer when you’re not fighting. The way the wind hits his face and makes him feel alive.

It annoys him. It also feels good.

“This is illegal,” Soobin says at some point, holding a can and staring at the edge.

You nod. “Obviously.”

Taehyun shrugs. “Allegedly.”

Soobin looks at you. “You’re not scared.”

You glance at him, then point at the view. “Why would I be scared? Nobody’s up here except us.”

“So you do this often?” he says.

You smirk. “We used to. When we first moved here. When the city felt too big and we felt too small. We’d come up here and pretend we owned it.”

Soobin’s throat tightens at that sentence, even though it’s casual.

He takes another drink. Then another. And another.

At some point, his body starts getting warm. The wind feels less cold. His face feels loose. His thoughts get slower. His mouth starts feeling brave.

He hates that too.

You lean on the railing and point out toward the horizon. “In a few hours, the sun comes up,” you say. “It’ll hit the buildings first, then everything goes gold. Makes the whole place look… softer.”

Soobin blinks at you. “You stay up here until sunrise?”

You glance back at him, unimpressed. “Vibes.”

Taehyun laughs, already a little slurred. “She says vibes for everything.”

“So it’s just vibes,” Soobin repeats, and he’s half laughing now, half baffled.

“Yes,” you say. “Drink.”

Soobin drinks.

The cans pile up. The chicken boxes get flattened. Taehyun gets quieter, his laughter fading into tiredness. For a man who works behind a bar, he’s a lightweight. It’s embarrassing. He slumps against the wall, head tipping back, eyelids heavy.

“You alright?” you ask him.

Taehyun waves a hand. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just—” He stops. His eyes close. His chin dips. Five cans and he’s out cold, mouth slightly open, hoodie bunched around his neck. He’s snoring within minutes, soft and pathetic.

You stare at him. “Wow.”

Soobin stares too, then mutters, “He’s the bartender.”

“He’s also a liar,” you reply. “He pretends he’s built for it. He’s not.”

Soobin laughs under his breath. It surprises him.

You glance at him. “You’re laughing again.”

He clears his throat, tries to straighten his face. “I’m not.”

You lift a brow. “You are.”

Soobin takes another drink and doesn’t argue.

The rooftop quiets down without Taehyun’s voice, leaving just the city hum below, the wind, and the occasional car far away. You and Soobin sit with your backs against the railing, legs stretched out, a plastic bag beside you where you’ve stacked the empty boxes and cans with weird neatness.

Soobin watches you do it. “You’re tidying your trash.”

You glare. “I’m not leaving it up here. I’m a criminal, not a cunt.”

He nods slowly, amused. “Right.” He takes another drink. The warm buzz in his body grows heavier. His limbs feel loose. His mouth feels honest in a way he doesn’t trust.

He glances at you and thinks, against his will—he likes this version of you. The one that isn’t screaming. The one that isn’t lying. The one that’s just here, pointing at the skyline like it’s yours.

He immediately hates himself for thinking it. He takes another drink anyway. 

Choi Soobin is drunk enough that his thoughts have stopped sprinting. They’re still messy and loud. They’ve just slowed down from panic slideshow to sad documentary with occasional adverts for regret. He clears his throat. His voice comes out quieter than he intends. “You and Taehyun… are you a we?” 

You glance at him, eyes sharp even through alcohol. “Yeah.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. He hates that the answer hits. He hates that it stings. He also hates that he wants to ask anyway, since asking means he cares.

Soobin nods, then his chest tightens again, that heavy feeling he’s been trying to ignore all night. It’s been there since you walked into the bar and sat beside him like you belonged there. It’s been there when you and Taehyun bickered and moved around each other with an easy familiarity. It’s been there every time you said we, and the we didn’t include him.

He didn’t understand it at first. He thought it was just jealousy. He thought it was just him being pathetic again. Now, sitting up here with Taehyun snoring and you staring at the skyline, he realises it’s simpler than that.

It’s exclusion—history he wasn’t part of.

“Right,” he says.

You snort softly. “What? You jealous?”

Soobin immediately reacts. “No.”

You lift a brow. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he insists, voice too stiff.

You lean your head back against the railing, looking pleased with yourself. “You are. It’s fine. Everyone’s jealous of me and my annoying brother.”

Soobin blinks. “Your what?”

You turn your head toward him. “Taehyun.”

Soobin glances at the sleeping figure by the wall. Taehyun’s face is turned to the side, hair in his eyes, mouth slightly open, completely gone. If he was anyone else, Soobin would find it pathetic. Since it’s Taehyun, it’s just irritating.

“Brother,” Soobin repeats.

“Not biological,” you add quickly, waving a hand. “Before your good-boy brain starts doing a family tree.”

Soobin’s mouth tightens. “You’re not related?”

“No,” you say, deadpan. “He’s just been in my life long enough to qualify as a lifelong infection.”

Soobin’s chest loosens slightly. It’s subtle. He notices it anyway, and it annoys him. Relief should not feel this good. “You’ve known him that long?” he says.

You nod once. “Since we were kids.”

He looks back at the city, the lights, the buildings, the roads. “So you moved here together?”

“We moved for uni,” you say. “Same year. Same broke energy. Same the city will fix us delusion.”

Soobin watches Taehyun snore and feels that heavy feeling shift again—less sharp now. He says, quieter, “You two are close.”

You shrug. “He’s all I’ve got up here.”

Soobin’s throat tightens slightly. He hates that sentence. It makes him think of the way you said it’s just you and your grandma. It makes him think of your shitty father and how you should have received more love while you were growing up. 

He doesn’t say any of that. He takes another sip instead.

“You’re not close with your family, are you?” you say, out of nowhere.

Soobin turns his head toward you. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” you reply. “You talk about your dad the way people talk about a bank.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “He’s fine.”

You stare at him. “That’s your favourite sentence.”

Soobin exhales through his nose. “He bought me a car.”

“You keep saying that,” you say. “As if that’s a hug.”

Soobin looks away. His voice comes out quieter. “It’s what he does.”

You tilt your head. “He buys instead of speaks.”

Soobin’s fingers tighten around the can. He can feel the cold metal biting his skin. He nods once, slow. “When he’s proud,” he admits, “he gives money. When he’s sorry, he gives money. When he doesn’t know what to say, he gives money.”

You snort. “So he’s emotionally illiterate with a wallet.”

Soobin almost laughs. He almost defends his dad—he doesn’t, since both of those things feel exhausting.

You continue, voice casual, as if you’re not digging into his ribs. “Does he ever just—talk to you?”

Soobin’s mouth tightens. He swallows. “Not really.”

You go quiet for a beat.

Soobin hears it in the silence. The way you understand that sentence too well.

He takes another sip and stares at the city, thinking of how strange it is that he’s up on a rooftop with two people who don’t fit into his life at all, and yet something about it feels… easier than the weeks he spent being fine.

You shift beside him. Your shoulder brushes his lightly.

Soobin stiffens out of habit, then relaxes again when nothing bad happens. He hates that his body is learning you. He hates that he doesn’t hate it.

You nod toward the horizon. Soobin follows your gaze. The sky starts changing colour so slowly that he almost misses it.

You shift beside Soobin, restless, eyes on the horizon. You’ve got that look again—the one you get when you’re about to be delighted by something simple, like you can still be surprised by beauty even though your life is a bin fire.

Soobin watches you instead of the sky, and he tells himself it’s just habit, he’s just keeping track of the situation. He tells himself he’s being aware.

He’s lying.

You sit up suddenly. “Oh my God.”

Soobin flinches slightly. “What?”

“It’s starting,” you say, already scrambling to your feet.

“What’s starting?” he asks, slow, since his brain is running on beer and confusion.

You point with the kind of urgency people reserve for fires. “The sunrise, you idiot.”

Soobin blinks, then pushes himself up too, joints stiff, head light, stomach warm. He joins you at the railing, elbows resting on cold metal.

The horizon has softened. There’s a thin band of pale colour spreading across it, faint at first, then stronger—like the sky is rubbing sleep out of its eyes. You make a small squeal and press your hands to the railing, leaning forward as if the city needs you to witness it properly.

Soobin doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.

Because you look ridiculous right now—excited over a sunrise on an illegal rooftop, eyes bright, mouth open in awe, body leaning into the moment. You’re not pretending to be tough. You’re not swearing. You’re not performing I don’t care. You’re just… here, unguarded.

The sun starts creeping up, and the city changes with it. The buildings go from grey to soft gold. The windows catch light and throw it back. The whole place looks cleaner than it actually is, like daylight is a filter.

You breathe out, and the sound is quiet and reverent.

Soobin realises he’s holding his own breath.

Something shifts in his chest. It’s not the heavy ache he’s been living with. It’s not the jealousy. It’s not the sadness. It’s something warmer and more confusing, something that makes his stomach flutter like he’s fourteen again and stupid.

He should be miserable. He should be thinking about her. He should be thinking about how he lost. He should be thinking about how Yeonjun meant it when he said he loves her.

Instead, he’s watching you get lit up by sunrise and feeling something that doesn’t belong in his body right now.

You glance sideways and catch him staring. Your brows lift slightly. “What?”

Soobin blinks, caught. He looks away too fast, then hates himself for it. “Nothing.”

“You’re doing the nothing thing,” you say, amused. “Your face is loud.”

Soobin’s ears warm. He forces himself to look back at the skyline, jaw tight. “I’m just… looking.”

“At the city?” you say.

He pauses. Then, honest and quiet, “At you.” The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

He freezes immediately after, heart kicking.

You go still too. Then your mouth twitches. “That was almost romantic,” you say, and your tone is light, but there’s something fragile under it.

Soobin swallows hard. He wants to make it a joke—he can’t find one, too drunk for clever.

You turn back to the sunrise, and he sees it—your eyes are shiny. Not the glossy, drunk kind. The kind that comes with wonder. The kind you had when you talked about your grandma. The kind you had when you pointed out the horizon like it was proof the world can still do something nice.

A tear slips out. You wipe at it quickly, irritated at yourself. “Ugh. Don’t.”

Soobin’s body moves before his brain catches up. He leans in, reaches out, and wipes the tear away with his thumb.

The touch is gentle. His thumb brushes your cheekbone. Your skin is warm from the cold air and alcohol and whatever you are inside.

You go still under his hand.

Soobin goes still too, thumb lingering for half a beat too long.

He can smell beer on your breath when you exhale, and something sweet—gum, maybe. He can feel your pulse in your cheek through his thumb. He can feel how close you are, close enough that if he leans another inch—

He does—just a fraction, unthinking, drawn in.

Your face tilts up slightly, instinctive, as if your body understands something his brain is still trying to deny. Your lips are close—too close.

Soobin’s stomach flips hard.

For one breath, he almost kisses you.

And then his brain finally catches up and punches him in the head with shame. What the fuck is he doing?

Is he really about to do this right now? On a rooftop? With you? After everything?

Is he using you as a rebound? Is he turning you into a comfort object? Is he making you a replacement for the girl he can’t have? 

The thought hits him so violently that his whole body recoils. He flinches away as if you’ve burned him, his hand dropping from your cheek too fast.

The air between you snaps cold.

You blink at him, expression shifting in real time. For half a second there’s hurt there—small, quick, honest—then it slides away as if you’ve watched it shut itself down.

Your mouth flattens. Your eyes harden. You turn back to the city, shoulders squaring. “I understand,” you say, voice calm.

Soobin’s chest tightens. He knows you don’t. He doesn’t even understand.

He opens his mouth anyway, desperate to fix it, desperate to explain, desperate to stop that look from settling on your face. “I—”

You lift a hand slightly, cutting him off without even looking at him. “It’s fine.”

It isn’t fine. It feels like a door closing.

Soobin stands there, heart hammering, shame crawling up his throat. He wants to say the right thing. He wants to say I’m sorry, but he’s already said sorry a thousand times in his life and it’s never saved anything.

He wants to say I wasn’t trying to use you. He wants to say I don’t know what I’m doing. He wants to say I think I’m starting to like you and it terrifies me.

His mouth stays empty.

Because that’s what Choi Soobin does. He’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. He’s afraid of saying the right thing and changing the trajectory of his life.

So he does the only thing his body knows how to do when it’s overwhelmed.

He nods.

And the sunrise keeps happening without him, gold spreading across the city while the space between you turns sharp and silent.

Your studio looks like a natural disaster happened in it and then decided to take a second pass just to be petty.

Suitcase open on the floor. Clothes piled half in, half out. Socks everywhere. Toiletries rolling around. Your notebook is on the bed with the page still open where you scribbled DO NOT CRY AGAIN in block capitals, as if a reminder has ever stopped your face from betraying you.

Mangy is sat on top of a folded jumper, watching you pack with the offended expression of a creature who just found out his staff is going on holiday without clearing it with him first.

You’re halfway through deciding whether to take your good hoodie or your I don’t care if I die in this hoodie when your front door opens—Taehyun letting himself in like he pays rent.

“Hello?” you shout.

“It’s me,” Taehyun calls back, already walking down the hall.

He steps into your studio and stops dead.

The suitcase. The piles. The chaos. The fact you’re sat on the floor with your hair up and your eyes slightly puffy, trying to pack your life into a rectangle of fabric.

Taehyun’s brows lift slowly. “What, you get rejected and decide to flee the country?”

You grab the nearest object—book, hoodie, whatever—and throw it at his face.

He catches it without looking, smug bastard, and tosses it back onto your bed as if you’ve just thrown him a pillow. “That was rude,” he says.

“So was you coming in without knocking,” you snap.

He walks forward anyway and flops onto your bed like it’s his, legs stretched out, hands behind his head—completely unbothered by the fact there’s a suitcase on the floor and your sanity is hanging by a thread. “Are we doing drama,” he asks, eyes flicking over you. “Or are we doing logistics?”

“We’re doing neither,” you say, shoving a bundle of clothes into the suitcase with too much force. “We’re doing mind your fucking business.”

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. “That means drama.”

You glare. “It means I’m packing.”

“And why are you packing?” he presses, since he loves being annoying.

You pause, hands still on the suitcase. Your throat tightens thinking of rooftops and sunrises and a hand on your cheek and then the immediate flinch. The rejection wasn’t even a rejection—which is somehow worse, since you can’t even be mad properly.

You force your voice flat. “Because my grandma’s birthday is next week.”

Taehyun’s brows lift. “You’re going to the countryside?”

“Yes.”

“Voluntarily?”

“Yes.”

He sits up a bit, studying you now. “That’s not a normal reaction to a man almost kissing you and then immediately panicking.”

You pick up another book and throw it again.

Taehyun catches it again, still annoying. “Okay, alright. Violence. Noted.”

“You’re so fucking irritating,” you snap.

He shrugs, unapologetic. “You love me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“That’s love,” he says.

You shove a pair of trousers into the suitcase, then sit back on your heels and stare at the mess. Your suitcase looks like it’s losing. Your brain feels the same.

Taehyun’s voice softens slightly. “So. Rooftop.”

You don’t answer immediately.

He doesn’t push right away, which is how you know he’s being serious. When Taehyun is serious, he gets quieter—less jokes and more eyes.

You keep your gaze on the suitcase. “Getting rejected was something I expected,” you say. “I’m surprisingly good at handling it.”

Taehyun hums. “Are you?”

“Yes,” you lie.

He stares at you.

You glare back. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve already decided I’m a liar,” you snap.

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. “I have already decided.”

You roll your eyes. “Anyways, me and Soobin don’t even make sense. It was stupid. It was just… vibes.” You say it like it’s nothing. You say it like you didn’t feel your whole body lean into him for that half second before he flinched away. “A few days and I’ll get over it.”

Taehyun’s expression stays flat.

You add, louder, defensive now. “I will.”

Taehyun nods slowly. “Sure.”

You hate him.

You look down and shove a toothbrush into the suitcase just to have something to do with your hands. You can’t sit still. Sitting still makes you think. Thinking makes you feel. Feeling is embarrassing.

Taehyun reaches out and kicks the suitcase gently with his foot. “You’re going for your grandma?” he says, changing topic in a way that still feels like he’s talking about you without saying it.

You nod. “I don’t want her spending it alone.”

Taehyun’s face softens. He looks less like a bartender and more like the boy you grew up with, the one who used to get fed at your grandma’s house and then pretend he didn’t love it. “Tell her I said happy birthday,” he says.

You snort. “She’ll ask why you’re not coming.”

Taehyun groans. “Don’t tell her that.”

“She’ll ask,” you insist. “She loves you.”

Taehyun rolls his eyes. “She loves everyone. She even loves Mangy and he’s a terrorist.”

Mangy flicks his tail at the mention of his name, then shifts his weight and sits directly on your folded clothes again, as if to prove the point.

Taehyun points at him. “See. Look at him. No remorse.”

You sigh. “She made tangerine jam last time. The good one.”

Taehyun’s eyes light up like you’ve offered him money. “Bring me tangerine jam.”

You stare. “That’s what you took from this conversation?”

“Tangerine jam is sacred,” he says, dead serious. “Tell her I need it. Tell her it’s medically necessary.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll bring it.”

“Good,” Taehyun says, satisfied, then he glances at the suitcase again. “So how long are you gone?

“A week,” you reply.

Taehyun nods. “Right.”

You hesitate, then glance at Mangy, who is now grooming himself with the arrogance of a cat who thinks he’s immortal. You swallow. This is the part you’ve been avoiding, since it makes everything real. “Can you take Mangy?” you ask, trying to sound casual and failing.

Taehyun stares. “Take him?”

“Just for the week,” you say quickly. “He’ll be fine. He knows you. He likes you.”

Taehyun’s brows lift. “He doesn’t like me. He tolerates me the way you tolerate me.”

“That’s love,” you mutter, then you sigh. “Please.”

Taehyun looks at Mangy, then back at you, then back at Mangy. Mangy looks away, offended at being discussed without consent.

Taehyun exhales. “Fine. I’ll take your demon cat.”

You feel your shoulders drop slightly, relief slipping in before you can stop it.

Taehyun clocks it immediately. “Don’t,” he warns.

“Don’t what.”

“Don’t look relieved,” he says. “It makes me feel feelings.”

You snort. “You have feelings?”

“Barely,” he replies. “Mostly just hunger and judgement.”

You laugh once, small and tired.

Taehyun stands up and grabs your second suitcase—the one you haven’t even started filling—and kicks it gently toward you with his foot. “Pack properly,” he says. “Don’t forget chargers. Don’t forget meds. Don’t forget your ID.”

You glare. “You’re acting like my mum.”

Taehyun points at you. “You need mothering.”

“Fuck off.”

He smiles. “Gladly.”

He bends, scoops Mangy up before the cat can escape—Mangy immediately goes stiff in his arms, eyes wide, offended at being handled. Taehyun holds him tighter. “Stop acting like you’re being kidnapped. You live rent-free.”

Mangy makes a small, angry noise.

Taehyun looks at you. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow,” you reply.

Taehyun nods once, then pauses at the doorway. His voice goes quieter. “You’ll be okay?”

You roll your eyes fast, sharp. “Obviously.”

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. He doesn’t argue. He just shifts Mangy in his arms and leaves your studio.

The door clicks shut.

You sit on the floor surrounded by clothes and half-packed bags and the faint ache in your chest you’ve been trying not to name.

You tell yourself, again, that it’ll be fine—even though you don’t believe it.

Choi Soobin attends his lecture as normal.

He does the whole routine—ironed shirt, bag packed the night before, water bottle filled, laptop charged. The expected version of himself. The one people like. The one people praise. The one that functions even when his head is full of you.

He tells himself you didn’t happen. 

He tells himself the rooftop didn’t happen. The sunrise didn’t happen. The almost-kiss didn’t happen. The way you said I understand—with a face that clearly didn’t understand—didn’t happen.

He sits through the lecture anyway, staring at slides and pretending he’s absorbing information when really his brain is doing a slow, miserable replay of your mouth saying fuck off and also your hand wiping tears you wouldn’t admit were tears.

When the lecture ends, he packs up with his usual careful movements, shoving pens into the right pocket, zipping things neatly—as if neatness can keep his life under control.

He walks out of the lecture hall and he sees them. Yeonjun and her.

Right there in the corridor, leaning into each other like they belong together, laughing at something on a phone screen, heads close, bodies angled. She’s smiling in the soft way Soobin used to fantasise about. Yeonjun looks smug without even trying.

Soobin stops walking.

His stomach should drop. His chest should ache. He should feel the usual jealousy, the usual sharp pang of that should have been me, the usual humiliation.

Instead—nothing.

It’s so strange that it startles him. It’s like reaching for a familiar wound and finding skin there instead. He stands there, watching, and the absence of pain feels louder than pain ever did.

Yeonjun spots him. He lifts his hand and waves, grinning as if they’re mates and not enemies. “Soobin!”

Soobin’s first instinct is to pretend he didn’t hear. That’s what he’s done for weeks. That’s what his pride likes—but his pride feels tired lately. His pride feels pointless.

So he walks over. He doesn’t even think about it. He just moves.

Yeonjun’s smile widens as Soobin approaches. “Hey, man!” he says, clapping Soobin’s shoulder with the confidence of a man who thinks he’s charming. “How are you?”

Soobin hears himself answer with the expected response. “Fine.”

Yeonjun nods like he believes him, which is annoying. “Good, good.”

Her eyes flick to Soobin. She smiles politely. She says his name gently, like he’s an old acquaintance and not a boy she once left mid-date. “Hi, Soobin.”

Soobin nods back, voice steady. “Hey.”

She’s pretty. She’s always been pretty. That used to be the whole point. That used to be the reason he clung to her like she was destiny.

Now he looks at her and the first thought that comes to him is not awe.

It’s comparison.

She doesn’t have your eyes when you’re about to cry and trying to hide it. She doesn’t have your mouth when you’re about to swear and hold it back for half a second, then decide fuck it. She doesn’t have your nose when you huff angrily as if you’re personally offended by the existence of men.

Soobin almost flinches at his own thoughts. He’s never thought about anyone’s nose like that in his life.

Yeonjun’s voice cuts through it, casual as anything. “By the way,” he says, grinning, “how’s your girlfriend?”

Soobin’s brain stutters. Girlfriend. The word lands like a brick.

He blinks once, then forces his face to stay neutral.

Yeonjun continues, still smiling. “Tell her thanks again for that free session, man. My shoulders have been feeling so much lighter since.”

Soobin’s body goes cold. He feels a stab under the ribs. The first real ache all day.

Not jealousy or heartbreak—just you. Your studio. Your rice bowl. Your bullshit voice. Your hands throwing salt at Yeonjun’s chest. The way you shut the door on him. The way you looked tired and mean and alive.

The way you’re not here.

Yeonjun nudges his girlfriend with his elbow. “Babe, you should totally go see her too.”

Soobin’s stomach turns.

Her brows lift. “Seriously?”

Yeonjun nods, still grinning. “Yeah. She’s scary but she’s legit. I swear I’ve been sleeping better.”

Soobin hears you in his head, deadpan—Men will do anything except therapy.

He clenches his jaw so hard his teeth ache. He looks at her again—at his “dream girl”—and realises, with frightening clarity, that she isn’t his dream anymore.

Maybe she never was. Maybe she was just the safe ending he could rehearse for years without risking anything. The neat story. The predictable choice. The girl everyone would clap him for getting.

And maybe she left him that night because she was sick of safe too.

The thought is so sharp it makes him dizzy.

He watches her lean slightly closer to Yeonjun and laugh again, and he feels… nothing—no possessive ache, no fury, no panic.

Just understanding—a quiet, humiliating understanding.

Soobin lifts his hand and smacks his own forehead, hard enough to wake himself up. “Ah,” he says out loud. “I’m such an idiot.”

Yeonjun’s grin falters. “What?”

His girlfriend blinks. “Soobin?”

Soobin doesn’t answer. He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t apologise. He doesn’t even do his normal polite smile. He turns around and walks away. For the first time in his life, he skips a lecture. He doesn’t even look back.

He just goes.

His legs move faster. His breath comes quicker. His heart pounds for a reason that isn’t heartbreak. It’s urgency. It’s the sick realisation that he’s been chasing the wrong person because it was easier than admitting the truth.

He runs straight out of campus. He runs straight through the cold air. He runs straight to your studio.

The only thing he can think is, Fuck. I have to tell her.

Choi Soobin runs to your studio the way he has never run to anything.

He doesn’t run to lectures. He doesn’t run to trains. He doesn’t run to catch up with people. He plans. He arrives early. He waits. He is polite about time. He is polite about everything.

Right now, he’s not polite. Right now, he’s just desperate.

His bag thumps against his side. His breath comes too loud in his ears. His shirt clings to his back. His hair keeps falling into his eyes and he keeps pushing it away with the same irritated swipe, as if he can physically shove his own panic out of his face.

He can’t. His brain won’t stop replaying the corridor outside the lecture hall.

Because the second Yeonjun talked about you, something inside Soobin finally clicked into place. The girl he built into a dream stops feeling like a dream. She turns into a person he can’t reach anymore. And you—somehow—you become the only person he can picture clearly.

He hates it. He hates that it took him this long. He hates that he’s only brave when it’s already too late.

So he runs.

He takes your building stairs two at a time, because his legs are long and he’s angry at them for always being late to the point. He rings your doorbell.

Once. Twice.

Then switches to knocking, because the silence feels unbearable. He knocks six times before he realises he’s doing it.

There’s still nothing. No footsteps. No muffled fuck off. No sound of your curtain brushing against the washing machine. No Mangy meowing like he’s calling the police.

Just a locked door and Soobin’s own breathing, too loud in the corridor. He stands there, chest heaving, staring at the peephole as if you’re watching him through it and choosing not to open out of spite.

His throat goes tight. He pulls his phone out and calls you. It rings. It keeps ringing. No answer.

He texts.

soobin: are you home soobin: please answer soobin: it’s important

He stares at the screen until his eyes sting. He refreshes, even though refresh won’t make a person appear.

Nothing. He calls again. Nothing.

His stomach twists, and panic starts crawling up his throat in an ugly, physical way. He can feel it in his hands—his fingers won’t stay still, tapping the phone case, gripping it, loosening, gripping again. He can feel it in his chest, tight and hot.

A swear slips out of him before he can stop it. “Fuck.” He freezes immediately.

He looks down the corridor as if someone’s mum might appear and scold him for it. Nobody does. He hates that he swore. He hates that he needed to. He hates that his body is acting like this is life or death.

It shouldn’t be life or death. It feels like it anyway.

He slides down the wall and sits on the floor outside your studio, legs stretched out awkwardly, phone in his hand, bag on his lap. He tells himself he’ll wait five minutes.

Five minutes becomes twenty.

Twenty becomes an hour.

People walk past him. A girl with headphones glances at him and speeds up, as if he’s a hazard. A guy steps around him without acknowledging him. Someone opens their door, looks at him, then closes it again, deciding he’s not their business.

Soobin stays put.

He checks your door again, like it might soften out of pity. It doesn’t.

By midday, his back aches from the wall. His stomach growls. He ignores it. By afternoon, his phone battery is low and he turns the brightness down like that’s the solution to everything.

By evening, he feels stupid.

Stupid in a quiet way. Stupid in the way that makes him want to laugh, except laughing would make it real and he doesn’t want real.

He finally stands up on legs that feel numb and useless. He brushes dust off his trousers, adjusts his bag strap, and looks at your door one last time.

Still nothing. He doesn’t know what to do. He knows one person who will know where you are.

He walks to Taehyun’s bar.

It’s busy and loud. It smells of beer, citrus cleaner and bodies—the kind of place where people come to forget their problems. Soobin walks in carrying his problem on his chest like a weight.

Taehyun’s behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, wiping glasses with the usual bored, efficient rhythm he does when he’s pretending he’s not listening to everyone’s private disasters.

Soobin doesn’t sit.

He goes straight to the bar and stands there until Taehyun looks up.

Taehyun’s eyes flick over him—his creased shirt, his damp hair, the fact he looks… unpolished. Taehyun’s brows lift a fraction. “Mate,” he says.

Soobin doesn’t bother with hello. “Where is she?”

Taehyun blinks once. “What?”

Soobin leans forward, voice tight. “I went to her studio and camped outside, called her a bunch of times and nothing. Where can I find her? I—I need to talk to her.”

Taehyun’s rag pauses mid-wipe. His mouth twitches like he wants to make a joke and decides not to. He sets the glass down slowly. “She’s gone,” he says.

Soobin’s chest drops. “Gone?”

Taehyun nods. “Gone.”

Soobin’s voice shakes slightly despite his effort. “Where?”

Taehyun holds his gaze for a long beat, too long. Then he says, calm, “Her hometown.”

Soobin swallows hard. “For how long?”

Taehyun’s answer is immediate. “Forever.”

The word hits Soobin straight in the ribs.

Forever?

His ears ring. His vision blurs for half a second. He blinks hard and forces it back into focus. He cannot cry here. Not in a bar. Not in front of Taehyun. Not with people laughing behind him like they aren’t all one bad day away from sitting where he’s sitting.

“She’s not coming back?” Soobin says, voice thin.

Taehyun doesn’t flinch. He nods once.

Soobin’s throat tightens so hard he feels sick. His shoulders slump. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

He missed his chance again. He said the wrong thing again. He did the Soobin thing—overthought, hesitated, tried to be good and correct and safe—until the moment passed.

Now you’re gone.

“So—” His voice cracks. He swallows and tries again. “Is it because of me?”

Taehyun nods.

Soobin feels heat behind his eyes immediately. He looks down fast, jaw clenched, blinking too hard. A horrible thought punches through him—She left because you couldn’t even kiss her when you wanted to.

He hates himself.

Then something else rises under the shame—stubbornness. The same stubbornness that made him crawl under tables for grapes, the same stubbornness that made him keep believing when he should’ve stopped. He lifts his head, voice rough. “Where?

Taehyun’s brows lift. “Mate.”

“Where?” Soobin repeats, sharper now. “Tell me where she is.”

Taehyun watches him. Something in Taehyun’s face shifts—annoyance, maybe, or reluctant respect. Then he sighs, reaches under the bar, and pulls out a scrap of paper and a pen.

Soobin blinks. “What are you doing?”

“Drawing you a map,” Taehyun says, deadpan. “Since you look like the type to trust GPS and end up crying in a hedge.”

“I’m not going to cry,” Soobin mutters automatically.

Taehyun doesn’t even look up. “Sure.”

He scribbles quick. Roads. Arrows. Notes. A petrol station. A roundabout. A warning about hills and bad signal. It’s annoyingly detailed.

Taehyun slides the paper over the bar. “Don’t take the shorter road,” he adds. “It’s a lie. You’ll end up on a farm.”

Soobin grabs the map like it’s a lifeline. His hands shake slightly. He hates that too. “Thanks,” he says, quieter.

Taehyun shrugs. “Whatever.”

Soobin turns to leave.

Then Taehyun calls after him, casual. “Oi. One more thing.”

Soobin turns back.

Taehyun is smiling—it looks like a wicked kind of smile. The kind Soobin has seen once before—when he first told Soobin about a shaman and slid a business card across the bar like he was handing over fate.

Taehyun’s eyes gleam with it now. “Good luck,” he says.

Soobin’s stomach twists. He doesn’t wait to ask why. He walks out with the map in his hand, panic in his chest, and one clear thought pounding through him louder than everything else—he’s not letting you disappear.

The countryside is irritatingly good for you.

You hate admitting it, because you didn’t drag yourself to the city for fun. You dragged yourself there for uni, for freedom, for the feeling that your life wasn’t going to be confined to hills and gossip and neighbours who know your business before you do.

And yet.

Up here, the air feels cleaner. Your head feels quieter. Your chest feels less tight. Your grandma keeps feeding you like she’s trying to fix every bad thing that ever happened to you with food and love and an aggressive amount of tea. Your jeans are already fitting a bit tighter and you’re pretending you’re annoyed when you’re secretly grateful, because being taken care of is a drug you don’t know how to quit.

Tonight, your grandma’s asleep early, blanket tucked up under her chin. You should be asleep too.

Instead you’re outside in the garden with a torch in one hand and garden shears in the other, crouched by the lettuce patch. Grandma asked for lettuce. You don’t ask questions. When an old woman wants lettuce, you get her lettuce. That’s the hierarchy.

The grass is damp. The air is sharp. Somewhere in the dark, water is running. You shine the torch over the rows and snip a head of lettuce, muttering to yourself, “If I die for lettuce, I’m haunting everyone. Including the lettuce.”

Something rustles to your left.

You pause.

The shears hover mid-air. The torch beam shakes slightly, landing on soil and leaves and nothing else. Your brain immediately supplies fox, because that’s what everyone blames in the countryside. Fox. Ghost. Wind.

Another sound. Footsteps—not the light scuttle of an animal. Real footsteps. Uneven. Coming closer.

Your stomach drops.

You straighten slowly, torch lifting, heart thudding in your throat. You scan the darkness, trying to make shapes out of it. A shadow moves. A figure shifts near the hedge line.

A man. Tall. In a coat. In your grandma’s garden. At night. Your brain doesn’t even finish the thought. Your body reacts first.

You grab the shovel propped up by the shed and hold it with both hands, knuckles white, because you are not about to get murdered. You have student debt. You don’t get to die until you’ve at least bullied the government into forgiving it.

“WHO’S THERE?” you scream, voice cracking. “GET THE FUCK OUT.”

The figure freezes.

You don’t. You march forward, shovel raised, torch beam swinging wildly as you close the distance, adrenaline making your whole body hot.

“SHOW YOURSELF,” you shout again. “I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL—”

“It’s me!” the man blurts, panicked. “It’s me!”

You don’t stop. “I DON’T CARE WHO YOU ARE—”

“It’s Soobin!” he yells, louder now, like he’s trying to stop a car. “CHOI SOOBIN!”

You stop so abruptly your boots slip in the damp dirt. The shovel stops mid-air. Your chest heaves. Your brain stalls. “… Soobin?” you say, breathless.

You point the torch straight at his face.

And there he is.

Hair a mess. Leaves stuck in it. Coat dusty. Jeans smeared with mud. Cheeks flushed from cold and panic, eyes wide like he genuinely thought you were about to crack his skull open. He looks nothing like the clean, pressed, controlled boy from campus.

He looks like he got dragged here by the universe and regret.

You blink once, slow. Then again. “Choi Soobin?” you repeat, louder this time, still not believing it.

He swallows. “Yes.”

You tighten your grip on the shovel, offended on principle. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He opens his mouth.

You don’t let him speak yet. You tilt the torch up and down him, as if you’re scanning for proof he’s real. “Why do you look like you fought a bush?”

His ears go pink even in the torchlight. “I—”

“You’re in my grandma’s garden,” you cut in, voice sharp. “At night. You nearly got concussed for lettuce.”

Soobin stares at the shovel. Then at you. Then at the lettuce in your other hand. His face does something that might be disbelief. “… Lettuce,” he repeats, weak.

You glare. “Don’t judge me. Old people want salad at stupid hours.”

His mouth twitches, then flattens again, like he’s trying not to laugh and doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

You stare at him for a beat longer, shovel still raised, torch still blinding him, your pulse still raging. “Say something,” you demand. “Before I decide this is a hallucination and hit you anyway.”

Soobin inhales, chest rising.

Choi Soobin has never been chased with a shovel before.

He thinks that’s a reasonable sentence to be able to say at twenty-one, yet here he is in your grandma’s garden—cheeks burning, lungs aching, leaves stuck in his hair—staring down the metal edge of a shovel while you point a torch at his face and ask what the fuck he’s doing here.

He tries to swallow and his throat feels glued shut.

You’re still holding the lettuce in your other hand, which makes the whole thing even more ridiculous. He doesn’t know whether to be terrified or offended or impressed. Probably all three.

He lifts his hands slowly, palms out, the way you do when a dog looks ready to bite. “Okay,” he says, voice strained. “Can you—can you put that down?”

“Give me a reason,” you snap.

His eyes flick from the shovel to your face. Your hair’s messy. Your hoodie is oversized. Your cheeks are flushed from cold and adrenaline. You look fierce and feral and alive in a way he can’t stop noticing. “I have something to say,” he blurts. “And I need to say it now.”

You blink. “Can’t you come inside and say it there?”

Soobin shakes his head. He’s still breathing too hard. His legs feel untrustworthy. His stomach feels hollow. “If I go inside I might pass out.”

Your face stalls. Then, annoyingly, a laugh threatens at the corner of your mouth. “You might pass out?”

“I’m serious,” he insists.

“I’m not,” you reply. “You’re stood in my grandma’s garden looking like you fought a hedge, and you’re telling me you’re about to faint.”

Soobin’s ears go warm. “I didn’t fight a hedge.”

“You absolutely did.”

He exhales, then tries to push through it, since you will derail this conversation into insults if he gives you an inch. “I don’t want you gone,” he says.

Your brows lift. “Gone?”

“Forever,” he says, voice tight.

You stare at him for a beat. Then your expression changes into something sharp and incredulous. “What?”

Soobin nods once, miserable. “Taehyun told me.”

Your face does something violent. You smack your own forehead with your free hand, torch wobbling. “That liar.”

Soobin blinks. “So you’re—”

“I’m here for my grandma’s birthday,” you cut in, still pissed. “There’s no signal up here. My phone’s been dead. I’m not gone forever.”

Soobin’s whole body loosens so hard it’s almost painful. Relief hits him like a wave, then instantly turns into rage at the next thought—Taehyun drew him a map. A literal map. In pen. With roundabouts. He brought him into the hills for a prank. Soobin exhales through his nose. “I’m going to kill him.”

You nod, satisfied. “Good.”

Then your eyes flick back to the shovel. “So. Why are you here?”

Soobin’s chest tightens again. Right. The point. The reason he ran. The reason he sat outside your studio for hours. The reason he skipped a lecture for the first time in his life and didn’t even care.

His mouth opens. Closes. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.

You stare. “Is that… a script?”

Soobin’s ears burn. “Yes.”

You lift a brow. “You wrote a script.”

“I thought it would help,” he says, defensive.

“You’re a freak,” you mutter, but your voice isn’t as sharp as it could be.

Soobin unfolds it with shaking fingers and clears his throat, trying to read. He gets through two lines before he realises he can’t do it. The words look wrong. Too tidy. Too rehearsed. Too polite. He’s sick of polite.

He stops mid-sentence, jaw clenched, then just tears the paper in half. Then tears it again. Then again, because he’s committed now and if he’s going to be dramatic, he’s going to do it properly. “Okay,” he says, voice rough. “That sounded stupid.”

You stare at the shredded paper in his hands. “You came here, in the dark, into my grandma’s garden, to rip up a script?”

Soobin exhales. “Yes.”

You shake your head slowly. “You’re actually insane.”

Soobin nods once. “Probably.”

The torch beam wobbles as your hand shakes slightly. You steady it. Your face is still hard, still defensive, but your eyes are listening now.

Soobin takes a breath. He forces himself to meet your eyes, properly. “You’re annoying,” he says.

Your brows shoot up. “Excuse you?”

“You’re loud,” he continues, and he can hear the tremor in his voice now, the honesty fighting through. “You swear at everything.”

“That’s a skill,” you snap.

“And you cry at everything,” he adds, and he regrets the wording immediately when your expression sharpens—then softens into confusion, because you know it’s true.

“I don’t cry,” you say.

“You do,” Soobin says, firm. “You just pretend it’s anger.”

Your throat tightens. You look away for half a second and he hates himself for hitting something real.

He pushes on anyway, since he didn’t come all this way to shut up now. “You’re the biggest liar I’ve ever met,” he says, and your mouth opens to protest, but he doesn’t let you. “And you’re also the most earnest person I’ve ever met.”

You go still.

“And I don’t—I don’t understand how that works,” Soobin admits, voice cracking slightly. “But it does.”

You stare at him, torchlight catching the wet shine in your eyes. He knows that shine now. It terrifies him. He keeps going anyway.

“I don’t know when it happened,” he says. “I thought it was just desperation. I thought it was just me being pathetic again. I thought I was clinging to anything that made me feel like I had control.”

He swallows hard. The words feel too big in the cold night air.

“But somewhere between you scamming me,” he continues, “and me blackmailing you—” He winces at himself. “—I fell for you.”

Your breath catches.

Soobin’s chest tightens. He forces himself to say it clean. “I like you. A lot.”

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

Soobin’s stomach flips in panic. He’s said it now. He can’t unsay it. He can’t dress it up. He can’t hide behind politeness. He’s just stood here in mud with leaves in his hair confessing feelings to a girl holding lettuce and a shovel.

He tries to keep his voice steady. “I’m an idiot,” he says. “I don’t know how to be honest about my feelings. I only know how to be—good. Get good grades. Be the kid everyone expects. Say the right thing. Do the right thing.” He looks at you, eyes burning. “But with you, I don’t have to do that.”

Your grip on the shovel loosens slightly, the metal dipping a fraction.

Soobin steps closer without thinking, careful and slow—as if you might bolt. “I don’t have to perform politeness,” he says, quieter now. “Or goodness. I can just be.”

Your throat works. Your lips part.

Soobin’s heart slams. “You make me feel… free,” he says, and the word comes out like a confession and a plea. “You liberate me in ways no one has, and I hate that I didn’t realise it sooner, and I hate that I almost kissed you and then flinched away because I thought I was using you, and I—”

He stops himself, breathing hard.

He’s said too much. He’s said the wrong things and the right things. He’s changed the trajectory of his life. He’s done the thing he’s been terrified of doing since he was thirteen and feelings first started ruining his sleep.

He tries to finish anyway, because he came here to say it. He came here to finally stop being a coward. “What I’m trying to say,” he murmurs, voice shaking, “is that I—”

You drop the shovel.

It lands in the grass with a dull thud. The torch slips from your hand and swings down, light bouncing off the ground and his shoes and the lettuce abandoned by your feet.

You step forward, grab his collar with both hands, rise up on your toes, and crash your mouth against his.

Soobin freezes for half a heartbeat. Shock flashes through him so hard it feels like electricity.

Then instinct takes over. His hands lift, find your waist, pull you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. He kisses you back—hard, urgent, real. No script. No manners. No pretending.

Your mouth fits against his in a way that makes his whole body stop fighting itself.

When you finally pull back for air, you’re still gripping his collar, eyes bright and breathing hard.

Soobin stares at you, dazed, then lets out a shaky laugh that sounds like a sob he swallowed. His thumbs brush your sides, grounding himself. “Right,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Okay.”

You blink, lips swollen. “Okay?”

He nods once, still holding you, still stunned. “Yeah,” he says. 

His brain shuts up, even his guilt shuts up. It’s just you and the taste of you. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t feel like he has to be good to be chosen.

(the end)

ᥫ᭡ prev | series masterlist | main masterlist

a/n: hi my loves! a/n from past imzy (the one still editing the last chapter and having so many emotions lmao, the one posting is usually too lazy to do an in depth a/n). i’m literally tearing up while editing. i can’t believe the vpb and misguided journey have come to an end. i cannot thank you guys for all the love shown to both me and my characters. i hope there is a lesson we all learnt while reading (and writing for me haha). DO NOT LIE!! or crawl under tables with grapes lmao. i hope you all also enjoyed. please let me know your thoughts in the comments, reblogs and asks. what part was your favourite? what made you laugh the most? what made you cry (if you cried because i did a little lol)? who will you miss the most?

although the vpb and misguided journey ends here, mine does not!! so i hope to see you all at my next fic, the art of defeat!! pls show it as much love as you have shown misguided and vpb. much much love and see you all again soon <3

review your experience, thoughts, or unhinged feelings here

[kurosaaki]

SUBBY NERD!JO — doing the pillow trick?!

WARNINGS: NSFW — smut; p in v sex, creampie, subby gojo (whimpering gojo again wohoo), pussywhipped!gojo, implied first time, praise, pillow under hips trick, slight overstim, shy nerd satoru, dirty talk, a little humor, slight playful r!jealousy.

A/N: like i did with frat!jo, this is my take on nerd!jo. might not be much different lmaoo.

the room was dim, just the soft blue glow from satoru’s monitor still on, in the corner because he’d forgotten to turn it off.

his glasses were slightly crooked, white hair a complete mess from your fingers earlier. you were already — obviously — naked under him, legs hooked loosely around his hips, still trying to catch your breath from the way he’d eaten you out like it was a final exam he refused to fail.

he’d been so nervous at first. fumbling with the condom wrapper, mumbling apologies when the lube bottle slipped from his long fingers and rolled under the bed. you’d laughed, kissed him stupid, told him to relax and to simply enjoy.

now?

now he was buried inside you, rolling his hips slowly in a way that made your toes curl against his lower back. every drag of his cock felt devastatingly good, like he’d mapped every sensitive inch of you.

“fuck—satoru-,” you gasped when he changed the angle just slightly, nudging that spongy spot that made you babble incoherent things.

he let out a shaky laugh against your throat. “y-yeah? there?”

you could only nod, nails digging into the backs of his shoulders.

then he did it.

without warning he reached over, grabbed the spare pillow beside your head, and— all while still fucking into you with that same maddening rhythm —slid it under your hips.

that new tilt changed everything.

your back arched involuntarily as the head of his cock pressed harder, deeper, right against that swollen, needy place inside. your next moan came out broken, voice breathy with pleasure.

“oh my god!—”

he moaned low in response, hips stuttering for half a second like your reaction had punched the air out of him.

“b-better?” he whispered, voice wrecked, pupils blown so wide you could barely see the baby blue in his eyes shielded by his crooked glasses.

you stared up at him, dazed, thighs trembling. “how—how the fuck do you even know that?”

satoru froze mid-thrust, and you felt his cock twitch hard inside you. it made you whimper a little.

“eh?” he asked, cheeks flushed red.

your walls tightened around him on purpose, watched his lashes flutter. “the pillow thing. with who, ‘toru? who did you do this with first? did you lie to me?-“

his face went scarlet from his neck to the tips of his ears even more. poor boy who swore you were his first hook up now was deemed a traitor.

“i—i didn’t—” he tried to hide against your shoulder but you grabbed his jaw, forced him to look at you.

“tell me.” you mumbled, pouting a little, moving your hips slightly.

he swallowed hard, cock pulsing so violently you felt it in your stomach, as he slowly began to rock his hips again, not fully on the rhythm of before.

“i… watched. a-a lot.” he stammered. then, he dropped his head on your shoulder as he began to lose his composture. “like. hours. a-and read- forums— damnit, re-reddit threads! reddit! descriptive ones! y-yeah, i-“

you giggled, arms around him again.

“you studied how to fuck me?”

he sounded like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

“i didn’t want to be bad,” he mumbled. “n-not for you. i- i just— made notes… oh, fuck” he cursed softly when you pressed him tighter against you.

“you're so cute" you smiled against his lips, rolling your hips up to meet his next thrust. “i bet you got hard even thinking about this"

“i- y-yeah, i did" he nodded, blue eyes glassy with pleasure, "a-and ‘m not sorry,” he panted, starting to move again faster , like your teasing had flipped a switch. “i jus' wanted to be good for you- oh my god”

"are you close, 'toru?" you whispered, nails softly raking down his back as he kept thrusting into you. "yeah-" he nodded eagerly, breathing hard, "you're- just, ah, squeezin' me so good, shit, m'sorry, m'sorry-"

He loses rhythm for a second, hips jerking erratically before he finds it again—faster, deeper, pillow keeping you perfectly elevated so he can bully that spot over and over, making you moan alongside the creaks of the bed and the bedframe against the wall.

"sa-satoru!" you cried his name, back bowing, nails leaving red lines down his back as you clenched so tight he choked on a curse, feeling the first spasms of your orgasm.

“fuck—fuck, that’s it, that’s it—” he fucked you through it, pace turning sloppy, desperate. “i'm gonna come, baby, p-please-"

“yes—yes, inside, 'toru, please—”

his rhythm fractured; hips stuttering, thighs shaking, glasses sliding further down his sweaty nose. he looked and was wrecked. his hips kept jerking forward in tiny, helpless little thrusts like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to, filling you up while he gasped your name over and over like a prayer.

“shit—shit, ‘m sorry—‘m still—still coming—”

you threaded your fingers through his white hair, tugging gently until he lifted his face. his glasses were completely fogged now. you kissed him slow and sweet, tasting salt and desperation on his tongue.

he whimpered into your mouth when you deliberately fluttered your walls around his oversensitive length.

“f-fuck—wait—wait, baby, ‘s too much—” he whined, but didn’t pull out. if anything, he sank a little deeper, like he couldn’t bear to leave.

you smiled against his lips. “you studied… just for me?”

he buried his burning face in your neck again, voice muffled and small. “i…made a whole google doc,” he admitted miserably. "cleared my browser history twice."

[liliovouz]

good heavens

[petalpaye]

𐔌 ৻( •̀ ᗜ •́ ৻) ࣪ ˖ REAL MAN ⸝⸝ ✿ ( follo x fem!reader ) ◟ さん ━ ꒰ fluff, unlabeled relationship ꒱ 注記 : reader wears boots and a hair clip

You’re a strong girl.

That’s what Follo thinks.

You’ve always handled everything on your own. He’s seen it.

You fight like it’s second nature — trash beasts fall before you like it’s a hobby. You finish every stack of paperwork Semiu or the boss throws at you without a single complaint. You may be shy, but you never let anyone talk down to you. Even when fear creeps in about what the future might hold, you still keep moving forward with that brave little smile.

You’re so adorable.

That’s what he thinks.

The cute little pout he adores so much appears whenever you finish one mission only to be assigned with another — he had to bite back a smile for it. You squeal in delight every time the food you’re craving makes its way to your tastebuds. It’s adorable how you get so shy when someone compliments you for your hard work; he could watch it all day.

You don’t need anyone.

He knows that.

And yet — despite every thought reminding him how capable you are, his actions speak the opposite.

He opens doors before you can touch the handle.

He pulls out your chair at breakfast without even asking.

He hands you your favorite drink before you can reach for it, already chilled, already opened.

Once, you tried to carry a crate of supplies across HQ, insisting you had it handled. He silently lifted it from your arms with one hand and walked away like it weighed nothing.

You chased after him, flustered. “Follo, I can do it—”

“I know but..” he said, not looking back. “let me do it for you.”

You never know what to do with yourself when he says things like that.

The moment that really broke you, however, happened when you were assigned to assist his team on a task in another town. Hours of walking, scouting, navigating uneven roads — your feet were killing you. You tried not to show it, but the unevenness in your steps gave you away. A faint limp. A wince when you thought no one was looking.

Follo noticed.

Of course he did.

You were halfway through assuring yourself you could endure when a hand wrapped firmly around your wrist.

“Hey—”

He didn’t say a word. Just tugged you gently but undeniably toward a nearby bench. You frowned, confused, as he sat down and patted his thigh.

You blinked. “…What?”

“Sit,” he said flatly.

A moment of silence.

WHAT.

Stunned, you looked left and right to make sure the others weren’t nearby witnessing this. Thank goodness they were not on sight.

Your cheeks burned. “On you?”

He gave you a look that clearly said do I need to say it again?

Too shocked to process what was happening in front of you, you tried to distract yourself from reality for a short minute. Oh, look at that cloud! It’s shaped like a bunny!

You sputtered. “Follo, I’m fine—”

“No, you’re not,” he said, voice calm as ever. His eyes softened. “I can see you struggling to walk properly.”

Your heartbeat went ballistic.

Checking again if the others were nearby, you cautiously took a step forward.

Slowly and awkwardly, you sat sideways across his lap, stiff and unsure of where to put your hands. He adjusted his hold automatically — one arm around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world — the other reaching down to tug off your boot.

“H-Hey—!”

“Relax.”

He inspected your socked foot with silent precision before pressing his thumb into your arch. You nearly squeaked.

He paused, glancing up at you. “Too much?”

“N-No,” you squeaked.

He hummed, pleased and continued massaging, firm strokes that melted tension you hadn’t even realized you’d been carrying.

Your face was on fire. Your hands curled into his broad shoulders.

“Follo…” you whispered, heart racing. “You don’t have to do all this.”

He didn’t stop.

“Yeah, I know, but…” A pause. His right hand kept massaging your foot, the other still holding your waist, his thumb drawing circles against the fabric of your uniform for comfort, making your heart run laps in your chest.

Then he looked straight into your eyes, voice unwavering. “I want to.”

It wasn’t long before the others took notice of his behavior toward you.

They took the opportunity to tease him about it at lunch.

“Real gentleman, huh?” Enjin mocked. “What are you, her bodyguard?”

“Bodyguard?” Gris snorted, nudging him. “More like househusband.”

Even Rudo chimed in from his chair across the table. “You gonna start wearing an apron too?”

Zanka threw his arms over his head dramatically. “Follo, blink twice if she’s got you in a spell.”

Follo just shrugged and drank from his cup, unfazed.

“Call it whatever you want.”

Because honestly? He likes it.

He likes being the one who carries your bags even when you insist you can handle them. He likes being the one who reaches the high shelves for you, even though he’s seen you jump five meters in the air before. He likes watching you pretend to be annoyed when he fixes your uniform or straightens your hair clip.

You let him take care of you.

Even though you don’t have to.

And that — that makes his chest warm in a way that fighting never has.

He’s not sure what this is between you two. Friends? Partners Something unnamed, something fragile but precious?

But he knows one thing for sure:

If being a “real man” means treating you like the princess you are..

— Then he’ll do it every damn day, without shame.

Without hesitation.

Without stopping until you finally look at him and realize.

He’s not doing it because you’re weak.

He’s doing it because he adores you.

著者 : Follo and the boys once he finally wins the fine shyt’s heart:

@ 2025 PETALPAYE ✿ ━ do not plagiarize, copy, modify, translate my works !

[medusas-daughter]

Reminder:

Sam participated in an attempted genocide, and while he was being pushed by Cate, he asked her to do it because he believed the guilt was the problem, not his actions.

Cate brainwashed her friends and participated in an attempted genocide and fucked with her boyfriend's head so much he ended up killing himself.

Andre, may he rest in peace, fucked his best friend's girl for months before he died.

Jordan saw Luke be mistreated, abused, drugged, and brainwashed and didn't say anything for who knows how long and was ready to do anything for that number one spot.

Yes they changed, yes they evolved, but they did do these things. And that's what we call a complex character and good writing.

Marie used her powers on her friends not to attempt a genocide, but in an attempt to save them. She made mistakes. She's a complex character. Anyone coming into my posts or going to the tags and being weird about her will either get blocked if I'm in a good mood or cussed out if I'm in a bad mood.

We can't keep asking for complex characters and turning on them the second said complex characters are black. We also can't keep celebrating straight white boys for being morally complex and taking queer black girls down for being morally complex. And interesting. And hot. And having the best powers I've ever seen in a fantasy story ever. And hot. And amazing. And she can't do no wrong actually she made zero mistake argue with the wall. If anything she should have gone harder. And I stand by her. Fuck anyone who disagrees.

[pages-and-spines]

Marie immediately clocking that it wasn’t Jordan during the fight and then immediately recognizing when Jordan was in control of their body again meanwhile Hughie’s useless ass went like half a season not realizing Annie was missing.

[liliovouz]

this is probably a joke but such a weird take.. cipher directly quoted something he told marie earlier that day, he wasn't trying to hide that fact that it was him. not only did hughie JUST lose his dad but was also sa'd a few episodes prior, not to mention sa'd again by the shapeshifter.

[liliovouz]

jordan li lovers we are so back limoroeau lovers are so back

[veejiez]

satoru is terrible at making breakfast.

and yet there he is, in your kitchen, scurrying around with the eggs and beating them like they owe him money while flitting his eyes between the eggs and the youtube video playing on his cracked phone that he's watching for instructions — MAKE IT LIKE A CHEF: easiest french toast tutorial!!!

then oh no the bacon burns, and oh no he nudged the egg carton off the counter top along with the milk because he turned around too fast.

"ah shit. ah fuck. god damn!" he's cursing and frantically trying to clean up the disaster.

"toruuu? what's goin' on?" you mumble groggily, creeping out from around the corner of the wall into the kitchen and giving him such a fright that he almost drops the egg carton that just fell.

"oh fuck good morning baby hi, 'm making breakfast for my hot girlfriend. see?"

you look at the warzone that is the kitchen, see an egg cracked on the floor, see bacon ranging from edible to ominous black substance, and then crack into a worried smile.

"wow... it looks so..."

"don't thank me yet, it's not done. now kiss the chef and sit your cute ass down while i finish the french toast — trust me, i watched a tutorial on how to do it."

[vemathie]

thinking deeply and heavily about clark being all desperate and messy when you're just making out...

warnings: smut (mdni), pwp, sub!clark, dry humping, ruined orgasm, dirty talk.

like, that man is SO down bad. you put your lips on his, and he's already leaning back on the couch, closing his eyes and grabbing your hips. pulling you down with him, chest to chest. and the kisses at first are soft, but he still can't help the little groans that come out of his mouth into yours as your hands run down his neck and start unbuttoning his shirt.

but his brain's short-circuiting because he's hard already—goddamn, he's fucking Superman and the only thing he can't do is take control of his body when you're on top of him. (embarrassing. so fucking embarrassing.) that's his constant thought until you roll your hips down against his bulge, and any image in his mind just vanishes.

he grips your hips harder, fingers digging in and bucking up against you. the whimper falling out of him so easy. “baby, shit,” he gasps. it's so cute how he loses his mind every time.

“i know, i know,” yes, of course, you know. you feel his dick through his pants, feel it pressing, like it’s actually trying to force its way inside you already. but you would be lying if you said that you don't love this version of clark. this mess of groans and pleads and full-body shivers, like he wasn't saving the goddamn world just a few hours ago.

it's something that should be honestly studied. how the fuck does this man turns into such a puddle? his head's back on the cushion as you speed up the roll of your hips. and his voice cracks. “hah, no— stop, please,” the only thing you're able to do with that answer is smirk and kiss him harder. this time he opens his mouth like some starved chick waiting to be fed, and the second your tongue touches his—

he grabs the back of your neck, making you gasp and let out a little laugh. he's always so fucking greedy. won't even let you pull back to breathe. “you're— evil, so, so— fuck, evil,” he chokes out, hips snapping up again.

you know him like the back of your hand, you know how he sounds when he's close, how his body gets tense but his eyes go all glassy like his brain’s buffering. you know he doesn’t wanna cum in his pants like this and make a mess of them—but god, the way you’re rocking against him, moaning into his mouth, licking his tongue, tugging at his curls is just purely and innately evil. and when you press your lips to his cheek, licking a stripe down his jaw, trailing lower to his neck??

he can't take it anymore.

he gets one hand down your pants, fingers kneading your ass, pulling you harder against him. “you really love—”

you shut him up. shoving your fingers into his mouth, and he moans around them instantly. “clark,” you murmur, teeth scraping the skin of his neck. “just cum, baby,” that earns you a groan, his hips jerking like he’s trying to get away from his own orgasm, but it’s pointless now. you watch him—eyes squeezed shut, panting, sucking on your fingers like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

and then you hear it. that sound. the soft rip at the seam of his pants.

“nnghh,” he chokes on your fingers, and he's cumming hard in his boxers. ugh, again, why did i do it again? he thinks. you feel the warmth of it through the fabric, sticky, soaking his underwear, white ropes gluing him down as he throws his head back, gasping. his free hand’s clinging to the cushion until you hear the fabric tear.

“sweetheart,” he rasps, voice half-gone. “you keep making me cum like this, i’m gonna go fucking crazy.”

but you know he's not done.

because next thing you know, you’re flipped onto your back. he’s yanking his pants and ruined boxers off, his dick still semi-hard, glistening, still fucking leaking like his body doesn’t understand it’s supposed to stop.

and then—he shows you the mess. holds up his boxers like evidence.

“this is a humiliation ritual,” he deadpans. or tries to. the corner of his mouth betrays him first. even more when you laugh and blush about it, because fuck, you love this man.

his boxers are, indeed, all stained white, soaked through. “no one's gonna take me seriously if they find my boxers like this, are they?” he asks, dropping his voice, leaning closer to you as he pulls the rest of your clothes off.

you grin. “i guess not.”

“oh, you're feeling bold now?” he smiles. kissing down your stomach and tugging your panties down with greedy, shaky fingers. “wanna see how bold you feel after this.”

[satoruined]

geto used to kiss you after missions. deeply.

greedy, almost juvenile in his fervour—palms cupping your face, mouth on yours before you even had time to say hello. your lips, your breath, your skin: his reward. like a child choking down bitter medicine, then chasing it with something sweet.

but something changed. he’d press a hand to the nape of your neck, lean in like he meant to kiss you—and then, at the last second, his lips would skim past yours. a chaste peck to your temple or cheek. the corner of your mouth, if anything. anywhere but where you wanted him most.

ingesting curses had always been part of his technique. but lately, it had become unbearable. the aftertaste coated his tongue like bile-soaked gauze. but what he feared most was the association—some sort of fucked-up pavlovian response; classical aversion. what once brought him comfort—you—could be irrevocably rewired into revulsion.

no, he wouldn’t allow something so foul to embed itself in the memory of you. that would be desecration.

kisses became rare. only when he was sure the aftertaste was gone, when he’d cleansed his mouth with tea or menthol rinse, waited hours. only then did he allow himself the indulgence.

you were so sweet and understanding about it, too. never once complained, though he could see the hurt in your eyes each time he shied away.

years later, standing alone in his temple, he presses two fingers to his lips and realises with a pang of regret:

he should’ve kissed you more.

[withlovemark]

“SORRY, HEART”

pairing: fwb! mark lee x tutor! reader | genre: rom-com | words: 29k+

synopsis -> sex helps him focus. focus he needs for your tutoring sessions. it was a win-win for mark lee when you proposed to add a stress-relief session to the schedule. the favorite fuckboy and the girl who doesn’t believe in love equals the ultimate friends with benefits set-up. it’s the perfect dream team! but uh oh…it seems like mark has been shot by cupid’s arrow. will mark survive all of your attempts at pushing him away?

warnings -> grab the tissues! (can be used for multiple reasons) pet name unlocked: kitten, so much dialogue, they’re both yappers, mentions of: periods, reader has avoidant-attachment issues, a little toxic, a lot broken, mark is so down bad it hurts me, angst, +18, crude language, fuckboys, a party, alcohol, starts off with a lot of smut! edging!!!, mark whines and whimpers and cries, oral (m+f), he loves eating pussy, nipple-play, fingering, blow-job, sex on the desk, rough sex, soft sex, unprotected sex, reader is on the pill, sensory play, overstimulation, a fake orgasm, mentions of: period sex, masturbation (m).

an -> third installment of the loverboy series is yours! i did so much research for this holy shit (shoutout to quizlet, friends with benefits, prom-pact and ariana grandes: eternal sunshine album). i don’t know anything about advanced music theory or history please i got it all off quizlet. if it’s wrong, do not come for me! important things to note -> you do not have to read stupid cupid or flying kiss to understand this story but 1) mark is the favorite fuckboy. he’s very upfront. tells you what he wants from the beginning, never leaving you doubting his actions. 2) jeno and bunny’s story is simultaneously happening 3) jaemin and his gf, angel, are happily together. have fun reading! with love, c.

“i don’t feel it,” your voice bites through the night air, cold and detached.

“i don’t love you.” you add with absolutely no remorse, just the tired truth of someone who stopped believing in happy endings a long time ago.

mark can’t help but think back to how exactly he got here — watching you walk away with the heart you shattered into a million pieces, drowning in the silence, wondering how he ever thought he could be the one to change your mind.

ᓚᘏᗢ one month ago. april 2. wednesday.

mark bursts into the study room like he was being chased, slightly out of breath and as usual, thirty minutes late to your tutoring sessions. you didn’t even bother looking up from your notes.

“you’re late. again.” you said flatly, highlighting a passage in the textbook as if his presence didn’t affect your mood at all. it did. the wasted time makes your irritation grow sharper. it was only three days of the week and he still couldn't show up on time.

“sorry, was busy,” he said, running a hand through his mess of dark hair, lipstick stain on his neck, smelling like cheap perfume and sex.

you arched your eyebrow, “that’s the third time, mark.”

he offers an apologetic smile, dropping into the chair across from you, pulling out his notebook, “i know, i know, she just…took longer to finish.”

you slammed your highlighter down, “just because i’m your friend doesn’t mean you can completely act unprofessional,” you roll your eyes, “this is my time you’re wasting too.”

he looked at you, your signature eyeliner and maroon lips making you look sharper, meaner, ready to pounce at any minute.

a mixture of guilt and fear flickers briefly across his features before he sighed and slumped forward, “y/n, i’m sorry. really. it just helps with the stress you know? clears my head so i can focus.”

“mark,” you leaned in “is your sex life really more important than your three failing classes?,” you remind him of the reason why you were here in the first place. he doesn’t respond and the silence was answer enough. you look at him, brain already calculating ways to solve this problem, until you got to one conclusion — it’s a ridiculous idea but it would be the most effective.

“fine,” you said, tapping your pen against the table, “we can have sex,” you propose.

mark whipped his head towards you like you’ve just grown two heads, “what?!”

you shrugged like it was the most normal suggestion in the world, “i can’t have you missing another session, you need to pass these classes,” you reason. “i have a 100% success rate mark, i’m not letting you ruin that because you need to get your dick wet…so show up earlier, we add a stress relief session then start tutoring right away,” you explain like you’ve been thinking about this the whole week.

mark chuckles, an eyebrow raised. sounds like a pretty great plan to him — too great…actually.

“what’s the catch?,” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously, elbow on the table as he leaned towards you.

“no catch, i just have one rule” you smirk, pointing a finger up. he nods, urging you to go on.

“you can’t sleep with anyone else,” you say simply.

this makes him laugh.

“i don’t go exclusive, y/n.”

“please,” you scoff, “i don’t want to date you mark,” you say clearly, “i just don’t want to catch a disease.”

you were very aware of mark’s title — everyone’s favorite fuckboy, leader of the dream fraternity, co-captain of the university’s basketball team and can play guitar. everyone wants a piece of him. and almost everyone has gotten a piece of him.

“i’m clean!,” he argued, looking offended.

“yeah? for how long?,” you shot back, a teasing smirk on your face.

he exhaled, raking a hand through his hair, “fine…then i get to add a rule too.”

“that’s fair, what’s your rule?,” you ask.

“you can’t fall in love with me.” a smirk on his lips.

this makes you laugh.

“well, isn’t your lucky day, mark lee,” you say with a sly smile, “i don’t believe in love.”

he studied you for a moment, confusion flickering behind his eyes, a subtle memory from freshman year playing in his mind until the smile on his face faded into something quieter, “i’m serious, y/n,” he says with conviction.

you raise a brow, “and i’m serious too mark…the day i fall in love is the day money starts raining from the sky.”

he watches you then lets out a short laugh, “okay, just wanted to be clear,” he nods, a grin creeping in, “so…friends with benefits then?”

“exactly,” you hold your hand, “deal?”

mark laughs before accepting it, sealing the deal with a firm handshake, “deal.”

without warning, you yank him towards you, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that steals his breath — it’s quick, sharp, deliberate. before he can respond, before he can even think about deepening it, you’ve already pulled away, a smirk on your lips as you start packing your things in your bag.

“this room’s only reserved for an hour and you just wasted it,” you say over your shoulder.

“my apartment. friday. 6PM. if you’re late we’re going straight to studying.” you warn him before leaving him there feeling like he just won the lottery.

it was the perfect situation for him — he’ll pass his classes and get to have sex without having to do all the extra work of chatting up a girl and trying to impress them just to get in their pants. it hasn’t even started yet and he already felt like a winner.

ᓚᘏᗢ april 4. friday.

mark knocks on your door at exactly 6:00 pm on friday evening. his backpack hung on his shoulder.

“huh…so you can arrive on time,” you tease, leaning on your apartment’s door.

“what can i say? i’m stressed and i need to be relieved,” he shrugs, a childish grin on his lips.

“alright, come on,” you grab his arm, dragging him past your living room and straight to your room.

“so…how do we do this?,” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck as he steps inside, standing in your room awkwardly, backpack still on his shoulder. he looks around, noticing your bare walls and how everything seemed to be neat and organized.

“what? sex? aren’t you supposed to be the expert?,” you quip, raising an eyebrow in amusement, snapping his attention back to you.

he rolls his eyes, “well usually, i flirt with the girl first before i get in their pants,” he reasons.

“nu-uh, we don’t have time for that,” you cut in, pulling your shirt over your head, leaving you in your red lacy bra and the tiny black pajama shorts that hung low on your waist.

mark’s eyes widen slightly, glint with amusement, unabashedly checking you out, “dang dude, you’re fucking sexy.”

“is that how you talk to every girl you’re about to have sex with?,” you chuckle.

“that’s how i talk to my friends,” he smirks, earning a snort from you.

“are you gonna take off your clothes or are you just gonna keep gawking?,” you tease, lips curled into a smirk. mark rolls his eyes, finally setting his backpack down by the edge of your bed and removing both his t-shirt and sweats with ease, leaving him in his black boxers, still standing across from you — it was your turn to check him out. he’s lean, more toned than you expected, abs on display, the outline of his cock prominent through his boxers.

“nice,” you mutter, making him raise a brow in amusement. in one smooth motion, you slide down your shorts and unhook your bra, tossing it to the side somewhere as you stood proud and tall, in your red matching panties, not shying away from his gaze.

your confidence (tits) draws him in, stepping forward, closing the distance. both his hands come up immediately, cupping your breasts, thumbs grazing smoothly over your nipples with open fascination. you hitch your breath, the sensation of his fingertips making your pussy clench around nothing.

mark almost can’t believe what’s happening right now, “this is silly,” he breathes out, a light chuckle slipping past his lips, his hands still massaging your boobs.

“my boobs?,” you ask flatly, a little offended.

“no, your boobs are great, dude,” he says quickly, “i meant this situation is silly, i’ve never had sex with a friend before,” he says, still rolling your nipples in between his fingertips.

“you can always back out, we can skip this and go straight to tutoring,” you say, giving him a chance to change his mind.

he lets out a dry chuckle, eyes flicking down between you, “y/n, you’re kidding right? my dick is hard as shit and i’m playing with your boobs…we’re not going straight to fucking tutoring.”

you grin, biting back a laugh, “i’m very aware that you’re playing with my boobs and if you don’t plan on fucking the shit out of me in the next minute, i’m putting my clothes back on,” you warn him.

he doesn’t wait for a second warning. his boxers hit the floor and you follow suit, slipping your underwear to the ground. grabbing a condom out of his wallet, he rolls it on smoothly. then, with no hesitation, he makes his way back to you, lifting you off the ground. mark was a lot stronger than you thought he was, picking you up like you were as light as a feather. your back hits your mattress with a bounce as he hovers over you, eyes dark with intent, that devilish, childish grin sitting on his lips.

then his mouth crashes onto yours in an instant, messy and hungry. the kind of kiss that’s all teeth and heat and no hesitation. you tug on his hair, eliciting a groan from him, urging him closer as your tongue meets, battling for dominance. his hands are everywhere, gripping your thighs, hips, waist like he couldn’t get enough of the feeling of your skin.

“hurry up mark, you’re on the clock,” you pant, fire curling low in your belly.

“you said fuck the shit out of you right?,” he growls against your throat, voice low, barely restrained.

“if you can,” you tease, challenging him to pick up the pace.

he was tired of the mocking. mark aligns himself against your entrance and with no warning, no gentleness, he slams into you with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs — the stretch was delicious, filled with pain from the lack of foreplay, groans bouncing off of each other’s mouths, “fuuck y/n, you feel insane” he grunts as he thrusts with a rhythm that makes the bed squeak.

you wrapped your legs around him, forcing him in even deeper, harder, pussy sucking him perfectly as you calculatingly start clenching impossibly tight for him, “h-holy shit,” he groans, sweat dripping from his temple, “-quit doing that,” mark warns but doesn’t relent his unforgiving pace, chasing the edge like he’s starving for it.

all the while, you just wanted him to get there – the faster he finishes, the faster you can start tutoring. your hands wander throughout his body, leaving goosebumps all throughout his skin until they land on his nipples, you rub him until he was whining and groaning against your mouth, “fuck-mm close,” he manages to say in between his heavy pants, “me too,” you lie.

the pleasure in your stomach was building but you weren’t at all close to the finish line.

“yeah?,” he hisses, thrusts getting messier and messier as he fights back the urge to cum, waiting for you. his lips latch on to your neck, licking and kissing.

you decide to end his torment, “i’m cumming,” you announce, exaggeratedly, forcing yourself to clench around him as much as you can, watching him topple over. he grunts beside your ear, his release finally taking over as he spills into the condom.

“oooh, yeahh,” you moan, faking your orgasm as you push him off of you and into the bed beside you.

mark barely has a moment to catch his breath, chest still heaving from his orgasm, when he turns sharply toward you, narrowing his eyes, “wait…did you just fake it?,” he asks, feeling betrayed.

“uhh, no,” you mutter out, focusing on the ceiling, pretending to catch your breath.

mark shuffles beside you, clearly unconvinced, “that’s not how girls cum, y/n”

“that’s how i cum!,” you argue and mark shakes his head. he wasn’t stupid. he’s been with enough ladies to know that that was a fake orgasm.

he shakes his head, frowning, “no way, i feel like i just used you,” he says, the words leave a sour taste in his mouth — mark never leaves a lady unsatisfied, which is the reason why he kept on showing up late to the past three tutoring sessions. it doesn’t matter how long it takes, he’s not leaving the bed until they are done…until you are done. it’s a point of pride. call it ego or decency but either way, he doesn’t half-ass pleasure. how else do you think he got the title of the favorite?

“it’s fine mark, we need to start our session,” you say, sitting up. but before you could get further, mark tugs you back into the pillows.

your eyes widen in slight shock, “what are you doing?”

“pretty sure friends with benefits means were both benefiting,” he smirks, “i’m not moving on until you cum,” eyes glittering with playful determination, earning an eye roll from you.

“we don’t have time for this,” you scoff, trying to push him away. but he was a lot stronger than you, grabbing your hands and pinning you down the mattress.

“give me ten minutes,” he says, voice low. you look at him amused, “you think you can make me cum in ten minutes?,” you mock, an eyebrow going up.

“just shut up and reap the benefit,” he bites back as he starts trailing kisses down your neck, leaving no room for arguments.

“no hickeys, mark,” you warn him. he ignores you but doesn’t leave a mark anyways, lips trailing lower and lower, stopping for a moment to suck on your nipples, your back arching towards him. he takes a mental note of the way your body immediately responds every time he gets near your breasts.

that familiar pleasure starts to pool in your core again, unmistakable and creeping in fast. and when your hands go lax in his grip, he knew he won this time. he looks up at you with an amused glint in his eyes, hands slowly letting go of your wrists as he let them roam all over your body, mouth still worshipping your breasts, watching your every reaction, taking note of your satisfied little hums, the softs gasps and the way your lips part unconsciously.

he travels lower and lower, tongue leaving a warm, wet path behind. then, he pauses “hmm, what’s this?,” his fingers ghost over the tiny artwork placed on the right side of your hip, just above your underwear line.

“a cat.”

“cute,” he says with a grin, kissing over your tattoo, “why a cat?”

“i don’t know, i was drunk,” you were growing impatient, the frustration was getting to you. you’re pretty sure he’s already used up half of his ten minutes. now’s not the time for small talk.

“hurry up, mark,” you say, taking matters into your own hands and pushing his head lower – exactly where you needed him.

mark chuckles, the warmth of his breath making your thighs twitch, “feisty,” he teases, “the cat is fitting.” you’re ready to fire back with a smart remark but the words get caught in your throat when he slowly licks a strip between your folds.

“mmm, you taste so fucking sweet,” he praises, kitten-licking in between your folds before finally dragging his tongue up to your clit, swirling around the sensitive bud. a moan slips from your lips, all thoughts of tutoring and snarky comebacks dissolve, letting yourself enjoy the feeling of his tongue lapping against you.

you haven’t been eaten out in so long, your last and only boyfriend absolutely hated going down on you and the other one night stands you had never seemed like they knew what they were doing – always leaving you to finish what they started.

mark settles comfortably between your thighs, his eyes fluttering shut in pure bliss as he continues sucking, licking, spitting, completely consumed with the kind of hunger that makes it feel like he’s the one being pleasured. your hips instinctively move, grinding against his face as you tried to reach the high that was slowly but surely building inside you, “fuckk mark, f-feels so good,” you whine against his touch.

you feel him smirk against your clit before he slides two fingers in, following the curve of your pussy, learning the way your body molds. his mouth doesn’t stop, still locked onto your sensitive bud, sucking with relentless precision. and as soon as he found that spot, you can't help but shut your eyes in pleasure.

“oh goddd, mark,” you cry out, your body arching off the bed, head flat against your sheets as your fingers made it’s way to his hair, lightly tugging, making sure he stays exactly where he is. he lifts your legs over his shoulders, adjusting his angle, pushing his fingers in deeper as his mouth continues its worship. he eats you out like a man starved, the noises of your juices squelching filling up the room and it felt so, so good.

you can feel the heat rising through your body. mixtures of ragged pants and high-pitched moans tumbling out of your lips helplessly as the tension coils tighter and tighter inside you. then his free hand slides up to your torso, pinching your nipple just enough to tip you over the edge, completely at his mercy, “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, im cumming, im cumming,” you gasp, repeating it like a prayer, fingers digging into the sheets until you’re knuckles were white, trying to ground yourself on something. your orgasm completely washes over you, body trembling as you were left gasping for air, jaw slacked, eyes rolled back, toes curled.

mark doesn’t let up, drawing out every aftershock until you’re twitching, overstimulated. you push his head away and only then does he pull back – grinning, breathless, face decorated with your slick.

“now that’s how girl’s cum,” he says proudly, licking his fingers clean, looking smug as hell.

you roll your eyes, trying to snap out of the haze, “you said ten minutes, that was definitely longer.”

“whatever kitten, we still have twenty minutes left of the tutoring session,” he smirks.

“kitten?,” you repeat, confused.

“it’s fitting right?,” he shrugs. you shake your head, reaching for your clothes with a playful scoff, ignoring the way your legs still feel like jelly. twenty minutes was not enough time but you grabbed the flashcards you had meticulously prepared earlier anyway.

“fine…time for music theory,” you say as mark groans dramatically beside you.

ᓚᘏᗢ april 6. sunday.

mark: wyd? come to the dream fraternity party

kitten: can’t. busy.

mark: but i need to relieve stress…

kitten: mark, it’s only been two days.

mark: yeah two days too long 😩

kitten: we’re literally seeing each other tomorrow

mark: why are you blue balling me? 🤕💔

kitten: im not. you can still use your hand! 🤗

mark: it doesn’t feel as good ☹️ not warm enough ☹️

kitten: go heat up a sock and figure it out 🫶

mark: are you sure that rule of yours is final? a really hot girl just walked in and my dick is pointing towards her direction 👀🍆🥵

kitten: go ahead 🙂‍↕️

mark: bro, really???

kitten: yep! but don’t expect to get your dick anywhere near me tomorrow 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

mark: nvm 😑

kitten: see you tomorrow 😇

mark begrudgingly walks up the stairs, ignoring all the girls who were glancing his way. he can’t risk it, the deal had just started and yesterday was too fun to spoil — settling into his sheets, he pumped himself up and down until he was spilling into his hand.

ᓚᘏᗢ april 7. monday.

when mark walked into your apartment, he was ready to pounce, eyes already scanning you like you were his favorite dessert. but he stopped short, confusion flickering across his face – you were wearing layers upon layers, “uhmm, you do know it’s spring right?,” he says.

“i know,” you say, a playful smile on your lips as you lead him towards your bedroom.

“so what’s with all the extra layers?,” he trails behind you, suspicious.

“we’re gonna play a game,” you say simply.

“noo, y/n, the deal was i get here, we have mind blowing sex, then we study,” he groans.

“yeah, well that didn’t work out last time,” you point out, remembering the fact that it took the two of you almost the entire session just to finish, “so i decided, we’re gonna mix the two together,” you finish, a sly smile on your lips.

“what’s the game?,” he narrows his eyes, though he can’t deny the excitement bubbling in him.

“for every question you get right, i take off a piece of clothing,” you say, explaining the rules, “and for every question you get wrong, you remove one of yours.”

he perks up immediately, spark dancing in his eyes. mark loves a good game. loves it even more when he wins — he sits at the edge of your bed, already looking far too cocky for someone who’s about to get mentally grilled. you sat on your computer chair across from him, flashcards in hand and fully clothed.

“alright, i’ll start off easy,” you begin, flipping through the flashcards you barely used during the last session, “what’s a major key with 6 flats?”

he laughs, “please, a G flat.”

“correct,” you nod, peeling off the scarf around your neck and dropping it to the floor. mark smirks. if all of your questions were this easy, you were going to be naked in no time.

“next, what do you do to write an aeolian scale?.”

“you use the natural minor of the note given,” he says with ease, relaxed and confident.

“lucky guess,” you mutter, slowly removing your cardigan.

“i’m not that clueless,” he explains, finding it all amusing. his eyes dropping to the now visible thin tank top you were sporting.

“then why are you failing three of your classes?,” you shot back.

“because the assignments are dumb and i don’t have time to do them, i already know how to apply them in real life,” he shrugs, “why do i need to know all these terms?”

you study him for a second, “mark, you can’t expect to skip steps and magically pass all of your classes,” you say.

“yeah, i’m learning that the hard way,” he pauses, his shoulders tense, the stress catching up to him once again, “now ask the next one so i can suck on your tits,” he smirks.

you roll your eyes, asking the next question anyway, “in scale degrees, major scales, what are the augmented triads?”

“trick question,” he smirks, “there are none.”

“correct,” you smile at him, removing one sock.

“you’re taking off one sock?? that barely counts!,” he groans like a spoiled child.

you shrug innocently, “still clothing.”

he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “okay fine, give me the next one.”

you raise your eyebrow, “what’s a hemiola?”

mark frowns, racking his brain for an answer, “uhhh…”

you grin, tapping your foot.

“something about a repeating melodic phrase representing a theme?,” he asks, head turned like a curious puppy.

“wrong. thats a leitmotif,” you correct him, “shirt’s off, mark lee.” he groans but obeys, tugging it over his head. you do your best not to stare too hard at his abs but he catches you.

“define consonance and give an example,” you grin wickedly.

“seriously?” he asks. “this is cruel.”

“take off your pants if you can’t answer,” you tease him. he mutters under his breath about how unfair this was before his pants come sliding off, leaving him in his boxers.

“what is a long note divided into shorter, usually melodic, values?,” you continue, holding up the next card.

“oh! i know that one, it’s a diminution,” he says proudly. you remove your other sock.

he narrows his eyes, “you’re cheating.”

“nope. you’re just losing,” you tease.

you flash the next card, “alright, what is existing or occurring within the world of a narrative rather than as something external to that world?”

“...i hate you,” he mutters as he gives up on pretending to answer, accepting defeat and sliding off his boxers. his semi hard cock on display.

you laugh, fully dressed except for the missing cardigan and socks, “awee, look at you…all naked and we’re barely halfway.”

mark glares, though there’s a grin tugging at the corner of his lips, “this is the most academically humiliating foreplay i’ve ever experienced.”

you laugh, “where is the tenor clef sign located?,”you give him an easy one, knowing that he needs to have motivation to keep going.

“one space above the alto clef,” he says. you hum, pleased, stripping off your leggings, showing off the white lacy underwear you wore just for him. his eyes drop instantly to the undeniable wet spot of your arousal and you part your legs slightly, inviting him, teasing.

“you sick little, kitten,” he swallows, “this is actually turning you on?,” he asks, mildly confused and little turned on.

“what can i say? i love humiliating men,” you smirk, earning an eye roll from him, “what’s a cluster?”

“a chord consisting of at least three adjacent notes of a scale,” he answers, voice low, tense. more determined now to get the answers correct.

“good boy” you purr, lifting the tank top over your head, that little praise makes his mind go absolutely crazy, his cock twitching. your sheer white bra does nothing to hide your hardened nipples and mark fights back the urge to pull you into his lap and fuck you senseless, his boner getting harder within each passing second, restraint visibly cracking.

“define neoclassicism,” you ask, voice steady, brows raised.

mark blinks, then answers slowly, “uhh a general revival or interest in classical cultures and usage of themes and styles from ancient greece and rome?”

you look up at him, impressed, “can’t believe all it takes is wanting to see my tits to get you this focused,” you grin, unclasping your bra and tossing it right into his lap. he catches it midair, eyes instantly zeroing in on your now bare-chest. you roll your chair closer to him, spreading your legs and placing them on either side of him, effectively caging him in. mark’s breath hitches – it was getting real hot in here and he was fully naked.

he reaches for your breast but you slap his hand away, “touch me and the session ends. we’re done.” you warn — having control turns you on more than you care to admit. the way his eyes darken but obeys anyway. the tension practically pulsing between your bodies. he looked so small in between your legs and it makes you want to break him even more.

“hurry up and give me the next one,” he mutters, jaw tight, trying his hardest to keep his hands to himself. it was torture. having a sexy half-naked girl right in front of him and not being able to do anything about it. your breasts were on full display, sitting prettily on your chest, your panties were practically dripping and he wanted nothing more but to taste you. wanted nothing more than to hear you moaning under him once again — you were a cruel vision of pleasure he’s not allowed to touch.

“a phrygian is which degree for the key?”

“uhh fifth?,” he guesses.

“wrong,” you say, lips curling in amusement. he groans, cock twitching.

“a mixolydian is which degree for the key?”

“third!,” he tries this time.

“wrong again,” you say, nearly laughing now. his patience was starting to blur. he’s one wrong answer away from losing his mind and you’re relishing every second of it – enjoying every grunt that passes his lips. his cock twitching so close to your core, making you clench.

“you got them mixed up,” you correct him before asking the next question, “a lydian is which degree for the key?”

he groans. he was barely holding on. he shuts his eyes, pausing, taking a minute to think about it, “...fourth?”

you lean in, voice silk and smoke, “are you asking me or are you telling me, mark lee?”

“i-i’m telling you,” he says, voice shaking with the amount of restraint he was trying to hold on to. you were so close now, heat practically radiating off of you. you smirk up at him, tossing the flashcards to the side and smashing your lips on his. he responds immediately. lips chasing yours, urgently and needy.

“correct,” you whisper in between the kiss. his hands immediately latch under your thighs as he pulls you into his lap. you feel the hot, hard press of his cock against your soaked underwear.

“take these damn panties off,” you murmur against his ear. he grunts as his fingers slide beneath the lace, pulling down the last barrier between you.

“fuuckk, you’re dripping for me,” he praises, dragging his fingers through your slick, rubbing up and down your folds before sliding two deep inside of you, making you moan against his lips. this time, his fingers immediately find that spot that makes your toes curl.

“r-right there, mark…d-don’t stop,” you whine, the tension between you rising as your hips start riding his digits, matching the rhythm of his fingers curling inside you. each thrust sends sparks through your belly, pressure building fast. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing fast but precise circles that have your head falling back, the grip on his shoulders tightening as you continue to bounce on his fingers. his lips close around your nipples, tongue flicking, sucking furiously, drawing out the high you can’t hold back — your orgasm came crashing down embarrasingly fast, leaving you breathless.

“can’t believe humiliating me got you this fucking soaked,” he smirks, breath hot against your skin, “you’re such a dirty girl, kitten,” he teases, licking his fingers clean. before you can recover, he flips you over with practiced ease, ass up and back arched just the way he likes it. you hear the familiar crinkle of foil as he tears open the condom wrapper, then feel the thick heat of him pressing against your entrance before he slides in, deep, the stretch making your teeth clench — the wait was worth it. you were so wet for him…so warm he almost busted as soon as he entered.

“you’re cumming on my cock this time,” he growls, determined, as he adjusts his member, searching for the angle that makes you scream. as soon as he found it, his fingers dig into your hips, thrusting into you from behind, sharp and relentless, your face pressing down on the sheets as the slap of skin echoes throughout the room.

this new angle hits you perfectly, “f-feels so good,” you manage to gasp, voice shaking with every snap of his hips as your hands continue to grip the sheets for stability, moans growing louder with each movement.

he growls in response as he leans over your back, lips brushing your ear, “this what you wanted, kitten?, to tease me until i snapped?” you can barely form words, nodding helplessly, body jolting forward with the force of each thrust. his hand snakes around to press against your lower belly, holding you still as he drives deeper, harder, making sure that you can’t fake anything this time.

“cum,” he demands, his breath hot against your neck as he starts sucking on your shoulder, “cum all over my cock.”

“fuck mark–i’m so close!,” you cry out, voice cracking under the pleasure, building fast and unforgiving. your knees feel weak beneath you but his grip keeps you grounded, keeps you exactly where he wants you. sweat sticks to both of your bodies now, the heat almost unbearable. then, without warning, he pulls you up, your spine arching as he pressed you against his chest. one arm wraps around you tightly, holding you in place while the other dips between your thighs, fingers finding your swollen clit, circling in perfect sync with the relentless thrust of his hips.

“c’mon, kitten” he breathes against your neck, voice low and rough, “give me another one,” he grunts. you cry out, whimpering, overwhelmed — your release finally taking over as breathless whines of his name slip from your lips.

you came all over his cock, body jerking in his arms, head falling back against his shoulder. mark holds you through it, grinding deep inside, chasing his own release with a sharp muffled groan against your skin. for a moment the room is nothing but the sound of heavy breathing and the faint creak of the mattress, savoring your shared orgasms until he finally pulls out, flopping backwards onto the bed with a satisfied sigh, arm draped over his eyes. you let yourself melt into the pillows, limbs heavy and boneless, chest still rising and falling in the aftermath. he lies beside you, chest glistening with sweat, rising with each breath.

“well,” mark pants, breaking the silence, “if we keep studying like this, i’m definitely passing all of my classes with an A+”

you laugh breathlessly, turning your head to the sound of his voice, “A+ huh? that’s bold of you.”

“please,” he says, cracking one eye open to look at you, “you saw me, I was focused, determined…inspirational,” he exaggerates, a playful smile on his lips.

“you got half of the questions wrong,” you point out, “we’re far away from an A+,” you tease.

he smirks, “fine by me, that just means more tutoring sessions,” he throws you a wink and you roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

you kick him out of your apartment as soon you both calm down, mark leaving completely satisfied. this is, by far, the greatest deal he has ever had to make.

ᓚᘏᗢ april 9. wednesday.

you sat cross-legged on the bed, flashcards in hand, watching mark settle into your desk chair with boyish excitement written all over his face. he leaned back, arms draped lazily over the armrests. you weren’t wearing a ridiculous amount of layers today, which meant he was going to be able to fuck you faster than last time.

“so,” you begin, flipping through the stack, “today’s game is a little different.”

his brows lift in curiosity, an eager smile playing at his lips. of course it was. he should’ve known you always came with surprises. always keeping him on his toes.

“for every question you get right,” you say, pausing just for dramatic effect, “i suck your dick.”

mark’s eyes widen a little too fast, the thought of your mouth around his cock so appealing. this was going to be too easy, “you’re joking?,” he breaks into a smug grin.

“i’m not,” you smirk, making your way over to him and sinking to your knees in front of him. you look up, expression all wide eyes and faux innocence. he knows better by now. “but don’t get cocky,” you warn, smirking as you settle between his legs, “i’m not moving if the answer is wrong.”

that wipes the grin off his face, just a little, “i’m not getting any of them wrong.” he came prepared this time, actually paying attention in class and reviewing his notes in order to be able to be rewarded by you.

you chuckle as you tug his sweats down, revealing his already semi hard cock, “no underwear?,” you asked, an amused smile on your face.

“why bother?,” he shrugs, a chuckle leaving his lips. with no warning, your fingers wrap around his member, stroking slowly, giving him a preview of what’s to come — mark immediately groans at your touch, head tipping back slightly at the sensation of your warm hands, cock already twitching in your hand. you looked so tiny around him and he’s already struggling to keep his composure. then your tongue glides along the side of his shaft, slow and deliberate, before swirling around the tip, collecting his leaking precum. the taste lingers on your tongue as you look up at him through your eyelashes. he was too relaxed, too comfortable, eyes focused on you with a smug on his lips. without breaking eye contact, you take the tip of his now fully hard cock into your mouth, sucking gently. it earns a low grunt from deep in his chest, his thighs tensing beneath your hands, but just when he leans into the sensation, you pull away completely, lips slipping off him with a soft pop.

frustration flashes across his face as you casually reach over and grab the stack of flashcards beside you and he’s reminded that this was the game. perhaps, this is not as easy as he thought it was going to be. he sighs in defeat and all you do is wave the flashcard lazily in your hand, eyes glinting with mischief. mark sits up straighter, his dick incredibly hard and throbbing in front of you, twitching with every passing second.

“alright,” you begin, voice sweet, innocent and absolutely lethal, “what is existing within the world of a narrative rather than as something external to that world?,” you repeat the question he got wrong last time.

mark squints, trying to focus, despite the way your fingers are slowly tracing circles on his inner thigh, not quite touching him. “diegetic or source music,” he answers. you raise an eyebrow, impressed, a hum of approval slipping past your lips.

“correct.” before he can smirk, you lean forward again, lips wrapping around him once more, this time a little deeper. his head falls back instantly, a low grown escaping. you suck him in slow and warm, letting the reward sink in and just as he starts to melt, you pull away again with a soft gasp of air, reaching for the next card like nothing happened.

he looks down at you, flustered, chest rising faster, “kitten, you’re insane.”

you flash him a dangerous smile, “define mickey-mousing.”

he doesn’t answer right away, jaw tight, trying to stay focused while his cock stands there, glistening and so so hard. “a film technique that syncs the accompanying music with the actions on screen,” he says, breathing hard.

“look at you, actually paying attention,” you tease before leaning in again, placing a kiss to his tip, taking him once again, just a little deeper, a little wetter. his whole body shudders and he mutters something that sounds like a prayer. you were only three flashcards in. he doesn’t know how much of this edging he could take. he hopes, god, he hopes he knew all the answers. when you let go again, you smile sweetly, tapping the next card against his thigh, making him clench slightly.

“what are the notes of a D major triad?” — “D, F, A,” he manages to say.

“hmm, wrong, those are the notes of D minor triad,” you correct him, leaving his cock neglected as you sit back on your heels, folding your hands in your lap. “no mouth for wrong answers,” you tease as he groans, head falling back dramatically.

“you’re actually evil, kitten.”

you only smile, reaching for another card. he glares at you like a man on the verge of a breakdown, “hurry up, i'm going to die.”

you ignore him, “list all major intervals,” you ask, resting your elbow on his knee like this is the most casual game of flashcards in the world. like his dick wasn’t right in front of your tits — the image has his cock twitching extra hard. he had to get this one correct. he racks his brain for the answers, recalling what he learned in class.

“it’s major second, major third, major sixth and major seventh,” he answers shakily.

your hand curls around the base of his cock again, making him suck in a sharp breath “correct,” you take him in all over again. he exhales hard, threading his fingers into your hair, grounding himself. you’re slower this time, deliberate and precise, letting the praise build in your mouth just like the tension between you. he did give you four correct answers. when his hand tighten a little too hard, you pull off again.

“fucckk, i hate this,” he whines shakily.

“scale the degrees in order,” you smirk.

“tonic, supertonic, mediant, subdominant, dominant, submediant, leading tone,” he answers quickly, determined, voice breathless with need.

“wow…all correct,” you say, a light shock in your tone and a proud smile tugging at your lips. he doesn’t even get a second to bask in it before your mouth is on him again, wet, warm, perfect. he moans, hips twitching up slightly and you let him, just for a second. the reward is intoxicating. and you have half the mind to continue sucking him until he was writhing under your touch. but you pull away once more, wiping your lips with a devilish smile.

“alright, next one,” you say cheerily, like this is all just a friendly trivia night.

mark looks like he might cry.

“why are you doing this to me?,” he gasps.

“don’t act like you don’t like it,” you say, “besides it’s working, you’ve only missed one question so far,” you say proudly.

“yeah, because i’ll literally die if i miss another,” he whines — this went on for a good thirty minutes more. mark only getting a couple wrong, until you were down to your last flashcards and he was teetering at the edge. ready to bust every single time you put your mouth on him but not quite getting there.

his cock is so red, throbbing, leaking to the point it hurts. a couple drops messily on his thigh, a couple on his stomach but never enough to reach his full release. there were tears streaking down his cheeks, his lips quivering. he was absolutely gutted. absolutely vulnerable.

“what’s the natural minor scale pattern?” — “minor diminished major minor minor major major,” he answers, getting the words out as quickly as possible.

this time, instead of wrapping your mouth around him, you reached for the condom you had ready, sitting pretty on your desk, anticipating this moment. his breath hitches as you tear the wrapper open with your teeth, wrapping it on his hard cock, mark practically growling under your touch. you smile sweetly, removing your shorts and crawling into his lap, knees pressing into either side of his hips. the heat of your soaked underwear brushing against his cock makes him hiss through his teeth.

he can’t take it anymore.

“what are the chromatic intervals?” — “minor, diminished and augmented intervals,” he whispers, barely hanging on.

“good boy,” you praise him as he breathes heavily under you. pushing your panties to the side, you lined him against your entrance. his breath catches, fingers finding your hips as you start to sink down onto him, inch by inch, teasing slowness, warm and tight until he’s fully buried inside you. his cock stretched you just right. a strangled moan escapes both of your lips.

“holy shit,” a low, wrecked sound escapes his throat, as he grips your hips tightly, trying his best not to unload right there, “thank you,” he trembles, breathing shakily.

he was obviously not going to last long. and it was so extremely hot. you discard the flashcards as you rolled your hips once, slow and deep, each movement designed to drive him out of his mind. mark’s hands are everywhere now, on your back, thighs, gripping your ass as he helps guide your motion, pushing up into you with desperate need. everytime you drop your hips, he lets out another choked curse, eyes glued to the way your body moves against his. you feel his cock twitch inside you, a telltale sign that he was incredibly close to coming undone.

“you gonna cum for me?,” you whisper against his ear, teeth gently grazing the lobe. he nods frantically, tears brimming in the corner of his eyes. he’s never felt this kind of pleasure before, the kind that makes him lose absolutely all sense of logic, just nodding like he was some sort of yes-man.

“-fuucck kitten, yes, d-don’t stop, p-pleasee,” his whines encourage you, dragging your hips in a deep circle that has you both gasping. it doesn’t take long. the tension you’ve built the entire session finally snaps as he groans your name, hands clutching you, hips buckling up hard, coming with a gasp buried into your neck.

you don’t stop bouncing. continuing to fuck yourself into his cock, rubbing your own clit.

“k-kitten, it hurts,” he whines. you block all of his pleas of stops, all of his whimpers, the way he’s fully crying out, fingers gripping his own hair, until your thighs are shaking, orgasm taking over, a loud moan slipping from your lips as you cling to him, both of you gasping, bodies slick and trembling.

you absolutely wrecked him — mark’s vision blacks out for a minute too long. his arms loosely wrapped around you as he tried to catch his breath. hair sticking to his skin. that was the best fucking orgasm he’s ever had and he’s had a lot.

and just like the past two tutoring sessions, mark was out the door as soon as he got dressed and it doesn’t get any better than this.

ᓚᘏᗢ april 11. friday.

mark enters the university’s basketball court, searching for your frame. you’d texted him to meet you here, a lot earlier than the usual tutoring session. the court was empty, echoing slightly and he spots you instantly, sitting on the bleachers with a book in your hand — he wonders what today’s game is, a little worried about the public location you chose.

“hey dude,” he redirects your attention to him, “are we about to indulge in exhibitionism?,” he teases, an eyebrow going up.

you laugh, closing your book. “no mark, we can’t have sex today,” offering him a sheepish smile.

he looks at you like you just delivered the worst news he could ever hear, “is everything okay?,” he asks, taking a seat next to you.

you nod, “everything’s fine, i’m just on my period,” you say casually, turning toward him.

his eyes widen slightly in acknowledgment before a grin breaks out of his face, “you know…,” he leans in, whispering, like you weren’t the only two people in this room right now, “a period only stops a sentence,” he teases.

you roll your eyes, lightly shoving his face away, “nu-uh mark lee, no way,” you say crashing all his dreams of period sex down the drain, a light smile on your lips.

“why not?, i heard somewhere, it helps with all the cramps and stuff,” he continued, still trying to convince you.

“i’m on my second day, everything’s too messy,” you say flatly, dismissing the idea with a wave of your hand. “—anyways that’s not why we’re here,” you rise from the bleachers, grabbing one of the basketballs on the side and tossing it to him.

mark catches it easily, “we’re gonna play basketball?”, he asks, a brow raising.

“yup, i read somewhere that physical activity helps with memory retention, so we’re gonna play a game while i tutor you,” you explain, standing a little below the hoop.

“you can play basketball?,” he asks, clearly amused, as he starts dribbling the ball in front of you.

“i’m no co-captain of the basketball team or anything but i’ve got a few moves,” you reply, stealing the ball from him with a cheeky grin, “and…if you win, you get to choose what we do during the next session.”

his brow raises, a smirk on his face, mind already racing of things he wanted to do to you. he could have you in his lap as he fingers you until you cry for him. he could have you bent over your desk as he fucks into you. he could spend the whole day eating you out. the possibilities were endless.

“alright,” he says, already feeling competitive, “game on.”

mark dribbles lazily as he awaits your question. you narrow your eyes, “the classical era dates are?”

mark answers quickly, “1750-1820,” like it was a piece of cake. he really is getting better at paying attention in class.

“correct. take the shot.” he does and it bounces off the rim, a curse slipping from his lips. you catch the ball with a grin.

“the romantic era dates are?,” you ask, already dribbling towards the other side. mark gets the answers correct again as you ducked under his arm, tossing the ball into the net.

“okay, showoff,” he mutters playfully, jogging to grab the ball. the game goes on for a solid fifteen minutes. the two of you jogging back and forth. you call out questions, dates, composers, and mark fires back with surprisingly accurate answers. it was a good game between friends, a good session between a tutor and her student.

mark was winning now with several points ahead of you. he hasn’t missed a single shot since the first one, while you were just getting lucky every time you made the ball in your net. he can’t help but find it adorable though – the way your face would light up every time you made a shot. the way you would do a mini celebration, a happy little dance. it was so different from your usual serious, focused, studious side. this side of you is loose, giddy, warm and he’s having way more fun than he expected to.

“alright,” you say breathless but still trying to keep up with him, “dates of the modern–”

you don’t get to finish your question. a sudden wave of pain crashes through your abdomen, so sharp it knocks the air right out of you. you double over mid-step, the ball slipping from your hands and bouncing off to the side, a yelp coming slipping from your lips.

“w-what’s wrong?!,” mark practically bolts to your side as you inhale, trying to catch your breath.

“sorry, just a really bad cramp,” you say, shutting your eyes as the pain traveled all throughout your body. he watches you for a second or two, eyes scanning your figure, registering the pain before he closes the distance, crouching in front of you. he has no idea what to do. he’s never dealt with a girl on her period before. his hands hover for a moment before resting gently at your sides, fingertips against your lower abdomen in slow circles.

you flinch, surprised at his touch, “what are you doing?”

“don’t massages help?,” he asks softly, big brown eyes filled with worry. his touch is careful, like he’s afraid of making it worse. you don’t have the heart to tell him it doesn’t really help, not with cramps this intense. still, the gesture alone tugs something warm in your chest. so for a moment you just let yourself sink into it, leaning against his chest for support like it’s the most natural thing in the world. your head rests there, tentative at first, then heavier. it’s a moment of vulnerability you haven’t shown anyone for a long time – not since your ex made you feel like needing comfort was a flaw, like softness was a burden.

mark stills when you rest against him, almost like he’s holding his breath. then, slowly, hesitantly, his arms come around you, careful and steady, not sure if any of this is okay. he doesn’t say anything, just holds you, warm and solid, his chin brushing the top of your head as you breathe through the pain. no teasing, no jokes, no snide remarks – just quiet presence.

eventually, you gently pull back, and he feels himself straighten as if waking from a trance. “i think i have to cut the tutoring session short today,” you say apologetically.

“kitten, don’t even worry about that,” he says immediately. the nickname — usually tossed around with a grin, lands softer now. you don’t think too much about it, brushing off the feeling as soon as it came.

slowly, you got up from the floor, pushing through the lingering pain, “i’m gonna go home and die now,” you say with a weak laugh. he chuckles quietly, standing with you.

“i’ll walk you home,” he offers and you turn it down immediately.

“it’s okay, mark,” you make your way back to the bleachers, gathering your things. “i’m a big girl,” you add, slinging your bag over your shoulder, “i can take care of myself,” you shoot him a smile as he follows you out the court.

“you sure?,” he asks, eyes scanning your face like he’s still not convinced.

“yeah,” you say gently, “thank you, though. i'll see you on monday,” you lean up and press a light kiss to his cheek, quick, grateful. then you turn to leave, not waiting for his response.

behind you, he stays still on the court, watching your figure walk away like he’s not quite ready to let the moment end. the kiss on the cheek lingering on his skin.

once he got back to the dream house, mark still can’t help but wonder if you were okay. he’d showered, changed, even tried zoning out to whatever song was playing through his speakers but his thoughts kept circling back to you. the image of you doubling over in pain, your face twisting as you tried to play it off, like it was nothing, kept replaying in his head like a song stuck on loop.

and he hated it – hated seeing you hurt. hated the way you pretended it wasn’t a big deal. hated the way you apologized for needing a break and absolutely hated the way you waved him off, like his concern was too much.

he told himself it was normal. this was normal. he is your friend. it’s normal to be worried about your friends. that’s allowed.

when he walked into the living room and found jaemin sprawled across the couch, glued to his phone and jeno halfway through a protein bar, he didn’t stop to think before blurting out, “what do you do when angel and bunny are on their periods?”

the question dropped like a brick. jaemin blinked, his gaze dropping from his phone to mark, “uhh why?,” he asks, a curious grin on his face.

mark shrugs, flopping down onto the couch “nothing, just curious.”

there was a beat of silence, then jaemin replied, “well, angel’s gonna murder me for saying this but she gets needy…wants me glued to her side the whole time with extra cuddles and kisses…heating pads are a must,” jaemin chuckles, “oh and sex helps too,” he says with a wink.

mark huffed a quiet laugh, “what about bunny?,” he turns to jeno.

jeno choked on his water, “uh–what? bunny and i don’t have sex,” he says flustered.

mark eyes him suspiciously, “yeah, i know. that’s not what i meant,” he says slowly, “i mean she’s your best friend and you’ve known her since forever right, you should know what she’s like on her period?,” he asks, a playful grin on his lips.

“oh..right,” jeno mutters, “uhm she’s the complete opposite, she locks herself in her room like she’s going into hibernation mode, she just texts me with a list of snacks she wants and i leave those at her door and leave,” he explains.

mark chuckled, but it faded quickly. his mind was racing with a million thoughts of how he could make you feel better. what were you like? did you want to be left alone? did you want snacks? cuddles?...is cuddling even allowed?

jaemin tilted his head, studying him. “wait…is this about your girl?”

mark blinked, “she’s not my girl.”

jeno gave him a long, skeptical look.

“she’s really not!,” mark repeated, more defensively this time, “we’re just friends and i care about my friends well being, okay? that’s all,” he convinces himself more than he does them. before they could say anything else, mark stood up, headed for the door.

⟢

when your phone buzzed, you squinted at the notification from your cocoon of blankets, blinking away the throb of cramps that hadn’t quite given up yet.

mark: hi friend

mark: i’m outside

mark: just want to make sure you’re okay lol

you hesitated, considering pretending to be asleep but something in you tugged toward the door. that soft, stubborn part that wanted not to feel alone tonight. curse these hormones. you cracked it open to find him there, hoodie half zipped, a plastic grocery bag in hand.

“hi,” he said, a little breathless, “i brought you some things.”

you opened the door wider, letting him in, “i told you i was okay.”

“i know but as your friend i had to make sure,” he practically shoves the bag in your hand as you inspect what’s inside. the bag was filled with different kinds of snacks, chocolates, candies, and three boxes of heat patches.

you took the heat patches out and raised a brow, “three?”

“listen,” he said, flopping lightly on your couch, “jaemin said they were ‘a must’ and i panicked,” he says casually and you couldn’t stop the small smile that crept up. it’s been a while since the last time you’ve let anyone do anything for you.

“thank you,” you breathe, the words soft and sincere, stripped of your usual teasing edge. the smile you give him isn’t your usual sly smirk either, it’s quieter, gentler and it makes something in mark’s chest flutter unexpectedly. he looks at you a second too long, heartbeat catching like it’s suddenly forgotten how to work properly.

minutes later, the snacks were spread out on your coffee table, a heating patch working its magic under your hoodie and to all the boy’s i've loved before playing on your t.v. mark sits beside you, a careful few inches of space between your bodies. he didn’t try to fill the silence, didn’t try to cheer you up with jokes or distractions. he was just there – steady and warm and quiet.

when the credits roll, he finally speaks, voice low, “you know,” he says, glancing over at you with a soft smile, “for someone who doesn’t believe in love, i wasn’t expecting you to put on a romcom,” he turns his body towards you as you sat end to end on the couch.

you laugh, shifting slightly under the shared blanket, the corner of your mouth tugging up into a tired smile, “please, your favorite movie is spiderman…do you believe he’s real?”

“how do you know spiderman’s my favorite movie?,” he asks, a light smirk on his face.

“sophomore year, film elective class, you were totally geeking, practically bouncing up and down next to me,” you remind him, exaggerating the detail a tiny bit.

mark huffs a laugh and nudges your knee with his, “ok but it’s different…spiderman is a fantasy character.”

“exactly,” you say, your voice softening, “so is love.”

the words aren’t bitter. just…matter-of-fact. like something long accepted and carefully folded away.

mark turns his head toward you, studying your face in the dim glow of the screen. shadows play across your features, softening the hard lines you've spent building — he thinks back to the first time you met during freshman year orientation. you were the first person he’d ever talked to, bouncing up to him in a soft blue sundress and a smile too big for the room. you introduced yourself with sparkles in your eyes, asking him if he believed in soulmates, like that was a completely normal ice breaker. you were glowing then, all wide-eyed and wonder. all heart. spilling stories about your high school boyfriend like love was the most natural thing in the world. he hadn't even told you his name yet, and there you were, already peeling yourself open for him, talks of forever from your pink lips. you were all blush-colored hope and reckless honesty. he remembered thinking you were kind of intense. too trusting. overly romantic. he hadn’t understood the way your whole world seemed to spin on the axis of love.

now, years later, that sparkle has been replaced by a colder fire, a guarded kind of strength he’s grown used to. the kind that keeps everyone at arm’s length. the kind that never let’s anyone close enough to see where it hurts. your smile — once easy and disarming, has taken a brittle edge, still beautiful, but sharpened by something heavy and unspoken. you don't talk about soulmates anymore. you don't talk about love at all, not unless you're tearing it down.

he noticed the change during the last semester of freshman year. people whispered about your breakup, but no one knew the details. just that it ended and something in you shifted. like someone had quietly reached inside and flipped a switch — it became more evident when even the way you dress has changed. your light, gentle dresses were replaced by blacks and deep reds, structured silhouettes that made you look untouchable. strong. sharp. sometimes he wonders if you’re hiding behind those clothes or they just mirror what’s left…he wonders when exactly the world taught you to stop believing in forever.

“what made you say that?,” he asks finally, voice low, careful not to press too hard but needing to understand.

you hesitate, eyes not meeting his just yet. debating whether its safe to give this piece of yourself away. and maybe it was the vulnerability of the night. maybe it was your hormones messing with your brain, like you’ll tell yourself later. but right now, you find yourself answering him.

“it’s just…” you exhale, like the words are caught in your chest, “love doesn’t last. people swear it’s forever and then suddenly, it’s not. one day you’re holding hands and dreaming together, you have a ring on your finger and the next they’re telling you that you’re too much. too needy,” you blink slowly, memories flickering behind your eyes, “that he only loved me because it was easy. and the second it got hard, he left.”

mark stiffens beside you, “you were engaged?,” he asks, surprise threading through his voice.

“shocking, right?,” you force out a dry laugh, bitter around the edges, “i almost fell for the scam.” your voice is steady, each word carefully measured, telling the story without letting it touch you. but your eyes betray you, they've gone distant, unfocused, like you’re watching a memory you wish you could turn off. there’s a smile on your lips but it’s all muscle memory. empty. the kind of smile people put on when they’re used to pretending they're fine.

mark’s jaw tightens. there’s a sharp flare of protectiveness in his chest, something hot and furious aimed at the ghost of a man he’s never met.

you continue, voice barely above a whisper, “so yeah, spider-man, love, same category…fiction.”

the silence that follows is thick, heavy, but mark doesn’t rush to fill it. he sits in it with you, lets it stretch out between the two of you without trying to clean it up. the pain in your voice isn’t loud, but it’s there – woven through your words like thread through fabric. he doesn’t throw some cliche about how the right person will come along. does not insult you with hollow optimism that people usually responded with. he doesn't try to talk you out of your truth or tape over a wound he can't even see the full shape of.

instead he nudges your knee again, gentler this time. a small touch, reassuring.

“i don’t think you’re too much,” he says quietly, the words careful and real, “not even a little.”

you look at him then. you don’t say anything for a while, neither does mark. and he’s not sure if that was something he was even allowed to say. you’ve built so many walls that even kindness feels like trespassing…then, in true fashion, you break the weight with a teasing smile, “who’s your favorite spiderman anyway?,” you ask.

the shift it so perfectly timed, so you, that it makes mark huff a laugh. he knows its your way of giving you both room to breathe again and he's grateful for the shift.

“tobey,” mark says with zero hesitation.

you groan dramatically, hands flying to your face, “no way, everyone who says they’re favorite spiderman is tobey is blinded by nostalgia! his spiderman was a creepy stalker!,” you argue passionately.

you lower your hands just in time to see mark laugh…really laugh. the kind that crinkles his eyes and pulls a genuine sound from his chest and it makes something bloom in yours.

“okay well, who’s yours then?,” he asks playfully. “andrew.”

he scoffs, “nope, his peter parker was great but his spiderman was not ‘spidermanning’ at all!,” he argues back, the made-up word slipping out so confidently it makes your brows lift.

you roll your eyes, a smile on your lips, “i didn’t say i liked him for the spiderman of it all.”

“oh?” he says, eyes gleaming with curiosity, “then what?”

you shrug, slow and teasing, “he’s the prettiest one…and,” you lean in a little closer, mark watching you, “i like looking at pretty things.”

his smile falters for a split second, eyes flicking to your lips.

“do you now?,” he murmured, voice lower now, the space between your faces shrinking by the second.

“mhm,” you mutter and then, without overthinking it, you close the space and kiss him softly, slowly, carefully, like testing the weight of something fragile, unsure if it’s meant to be held at all. his hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly over your skin. it’s not like any of the others you’ve shared before – not playful, not messy, not reckless. this one feels like stepping into something unknown.

it doesn’t last long. just a few seconds. just lingers enough to feel real.

when you finally break apart, neither of you speaks right away, just looking in each other’s eyes like you unlocked something dangerous. the stillness lingers, dense and a little too loud.

you're the one to break it, typical you, peeling the weight away with a crooked smile, “i’m still not down for period sex” you tease. he forces himself to laugh, trying to push away the tension that lingered in the air.

“fair enough,” mark says, standing slowly, “you should rest anyway and maybe lay off the tobey slander,” he says.

you laugh softly, leaning your head against the couch cushions as you watch him move around your apartment like he belongs here, “i’m right about him.”

he chuckles, grabbing his phone and keys, “text me if you need anything, seriously. even if it’s just to complain about life,” he says warmly, a small smile visible on his features.

“thanks for tonight, mark,” you say as you get up, stretching your limbs and walking him to your door.

he pauses in the doorway, like he wants to say something else, but instead he just nods, “of course, that’s what friends do.”

and then he leans in again, placing a soft kiss on your temple. his voice is quieter this time, almost tender, “goodnight, kitten.”

you freeze, just for a second, but your response comes automatically, “goodnight, mark”

and with that, he’s gone, the door closing with a soft click. you’re left in the quiet and for the first time in a long time, your apartment doesn’t feel quite so lonely. and still, despite the warmth lingering on your lips, despite the comfort of knowing someone cares, there it is, crawling up your spine and tightening in your chest — fear.

⟢

the walk back to the dream house was quiet. mark’s hoodie sleeves are pushed halfway up his arms but the cool night air doesn’t do much to ease the heat still lingering in his chest. the night loops in his head like an endless record.

the kiss. he’s never been kissed like that. like it was more than two lips touching, chasing the lust.

that kiss was cautious. it had weight. like it had been carved out of something deeper, something neither of you knew how to name. he was sure of it. it’s the way you looked at him, like you completely trusted him, even for just a second. and maybe it didn’t last. maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow and bury it under sarcasm and boundaries. but that look…that look is stuck under his skin now.

he exhales slowly, staring down at the sidewalk. his footsteps echoing in the quiet — you were vulnerable tonight. he knows that. he could feel it in the way you curled in on yourself when the cramps got bad, the cracks between your jokes, that look in your eyes when you talked about your ex. mark noticed it all. that’s the problem. because he doesn’t know what the kiss meant or if it even meant anything at all. maybe it was just comfort. a soft, fleeting thing you reached for in the moment. maybe you’ll wake up and decide it wasn’t real. if that’s the case, he’ll happily play along, laugh it off, bury it.

but his chest still feels tight. he can’t wrap his head around the fact that you said love was a fantasy. and you still kissed him that way. like he mattered. like he was more than just your friend, more than just a body in your bed.

his mind is all over the place. thoughts going back and forth. he swallows hard, jaw tightening. all this thinking wasn’t supposed to happen. you were never supposed to mean anything. for god’s sake, he was the one who said that you couldn’t fall in love with him with. he meant it, too. back then, it felt like the safest thing to say. a wall, not just for you but for him, too.

he doesn’t do love. he’s always been good at lines. at keeping things in neat boxes. clean. uncomplicated. no drama. bodies, not hearts. moments with no meaning, only pleasure. he knows how to care just enough to make it feel good and not enough for it to matter. he’s practiced, efficient, detached.

but something about tonight is cracking through that. and he’s not sure he’s ready to face it.

ᓚᘏᗢ april 14. monday.

when mark entered your apartment, he hadn’t known what to expect. he’d spent the entire weekend mentally pacing, replaying friday night over and over, dissecting every word, every glance, every breath between you. and then he’d forced himself to stop. to push any thoughts of you away, telling himself it didn’t mean anything.

but still, when you opened the door, his heart thudded in his chest like it hadn’t gotten the memo.

then you smiled, that same guarded expression, the one that never quite reached your eyes. you looked the same you had last week, composed, cool and out of his reach. he knew right then, that he was right. that moment was fleeting and completely over. erased.

“hey, earth to mark lee, you there?,” you wave your hand in front of him, snapping him out of his daydream.

“yeah, sorry, what was the question?,” he asked, blinking.

“dang dude, you weren’t lying when you said sex helps you focus,” you tease him. today was another no sex session, seeing as you were still on your period.

he chuckles, letting out a groan and burying his face in your pillows, “i can’t belive god gave you periods, this has been the longest week of my life.”

you sat cross-legged on your bed, mark sprawled out beside you, “i told you i can always give you a blowjob.”

his nose scrunches up, peeking at you from the pillow, “no. not after your last blowjob session.”

“it wasn’t that bad,” you feigned innocence.

“kitten,” he deadpanned, lifting his head to glare at you, “you edged me so hard, i cried.”

“and?” you grinned, shameless, “didn’t it make the orgasm like 10x better?”

“at what cost, though?,” he asked dramatically, pressing a hand to his heart, “i saw my soul leave my body.”

you laughed, reaching over to poke his side, “but you survived.”

“barely,” he muttered, rolling his eyes, sitting up, facing you now, “you really enjoy tormenting me, don’t you?”

“only when you make it so easy,” you said sweetly, “besides, you didn’t complain that much.”

mark let out a long exaggerated sigh, head tilted towards you, “you’re lucky i like you.”

it slipped out carelessly. there was a beat of silence. the two of you holding your breaths at the words he uttered out.

for a second, neither of you moved. mark cursed himself internally. really? now? after a weekend of telling himself it meant nothing…he says that? out of all the things he could’ve said? he really needed to get better at thinking things out before saying them.

the memory of friday night replays in your mind. the slow kiss, the quiet way you looked at each other, the parts of yourself you weren’t supposed to show. you didn’t know why you let it happen but you did. what you do know is that you crossed a line and you had to make things clear.

you shifted slightly, voice coming out softer than before, “listen, mark…about friday night,” you bring up and you feel him freeze slightly.

“i really am grateful for the snacks and having a friend there but…,” you hesitated, searching for the right words, “i was all up in my period feelings and did some stuff i usually wouldn’t...”

you glanced at him, “if that makes sense?”

“no, i get it,” he said quickly, too quickly. “don’t worry i didn’t read too much into it,” he lies.

“cool,” you said, giving him a sheepish smile, “so…we’ll just forget about it?”

he ignores the way you can’t say the word kiss. he ignores the way he can’t bring himself to say that word either. both of you dancing around the “stuff” that happened.

he looked at you for a beat, then cracked a grin, “forget about what?”

you chuckle, shoving his shoulder and reaching out for your notes, resuming the session like nothing happened. like your heart hadn’t skipped a beat. like his hadn’t just cracked a little more under the pressure of pretending.

before the silence could settle over you, you change the topic, “you know, you kinda remind me of peter parker.”

mark raises an eyebrow, amused, “oh yeah? how?”

you lean back, teasing, “you’re always acting like the weight of the world is on your shoulders but somehow manage to crack a joke when it counts.”

this surprises him a little bit. he hadn’t realized how much you could actually see through him during these past tutoring sessions. how close you’d been paying attention. he doesn’t dwell on it, afraid of what other feelings it may unlock.

“i didn’t know i was that dramatic,” he finally says, playing it off with a small laugh.

“you’re not,” you say, meeting his eyes for a brief moment, “but you carry more than you let on.”

mark looks away, lips pressing into a faint line. he wants to keep the mood light, to make another dumb spiderman joke but your words hit a little too close. and that unsettles him more than he cares to admit. he clears his throat, “well, does that make you mj or gwen?,” he flirts.

you smirk, “neither. i'm your guy in the chair.”

mark laughs, eyes crinkling, “you mean like ned?”

“exactly. reliable. sarcastic. smarter than you and absolutely not dying in anyone’s tragic love arc.”

“bold of you to assume,” he says with a grin, shaking his head. you grin back, flipping a page in your notebook. you go back to explaining the notes in front of you and he listens, nodding at the right times.

on the surface, everything settles back into easy rhythm — banter and bullet points. but under all the teasing and laughter, one thing stayed unspoken. neither of you had really forgotten. not even a little.

ᓚᘏᗢ april 16. wednesday.

to say mark was excited was a complete understatement. clearing things up with you absolutely helped, he wasn’t left wondering the maybe’s. he blamed the momentary feeling on that night and it was done. explained. buried deep in a box somewhere.

today was all about his reward and he was absolutely ecstatic. he’d been counting down to this ever since your little basketball game ended in his favor. he knew exactly what he wanted as soon as the proposition was brought up. this was his moment – his perfect payback for that blowjob that ended in tears and torment.

so when you asked him what he wanted and he replied with, “i want to cut tutoring short today and have my way with you,” you had no other option but to oblige.

which is how you ended up here now, seated between his legs, thighs parted, panties long gone. your slick glistened in the warm light of your bedroom, a blindfold wrapped securely around your head – completely open, completely at his mercy. the cloth stays firm over your eyes, heightening every sense. you feel everything. his breath on your shoulder, the heat of his thighs beneath yours, the stillness between touches. you sat there, waiting…then you felt it.

something cool and slender lightly tracing along the inside of your thigh. your breath catches, legs twitching at the unexpected contact, “what is that?”

mark hums thoughtfully, as if considering the question, “just something i found lying around.”

it moves again, gliding upward, skimming where you needed him most. he circles the object around your clit without pressure, ghosting enough to make you clench. you shift your hips, trying to chase the feeling, but he’s already pulling it away.

“mark,” you grit out, jaw tightening.

“shh,” he murmurs, nibbling on your ear, “let me enjoy my reward.” you swallow hard, heat pooling in your stomach. you were sure this torture was going to last forever and you knew he was doing this on purpose. teasing you to the edge, just like you did to him.

the thing, whatever it is, drags lightly over your folds now, collecting wetness as it goes, “so fucking wet and i haven’t even touched you yet,” he whispers beside you, making goosebumps rise throughout your neck. you’re about to snap a snarky remark when his fingers suddenly replace the object, two of them sliding through your slick folds with infuriating slowness, pressing just enough to build pressure but not nearly enough to satisfy.

“fuck,” you gasp, fingers clutching his thigh as your hips jerked. he lets you have his digits, inserting two of his fingers and curling them just where you need him the most but before you can even enjoy it, he pulls back.

you whine as he withdraws, leaving you empty and throbbing, “we’re just starting, kitten,” you hear the smirk in his voice and it’s absolutely annoying — to be vulnerable this way and have no control.

mark brings the mystery object back, the cool tip sliding up your folds again, this time more deliberately. you squirm, desperate for friction. the blindfold has turned your entire body into a nerve – every inch sensitive, every second unbearable. then you feel his hands again, large and warm, settling on your thigh, the other slipping into your shirt and gliding up your torso, fingers leaving a blaze of fire until he reaches your breast.

you inhale sharply when his fingertips ghost over one nipple, already peaked and begging for attention, “you’re always so sensitive here,” his voice cuts through the silence, your breathing becoming heavier and heavier. his thumb brushes over the bud, a whine slipping from your lips. he has you memorized by now. the little ticks that turn you on. which was a lot for mark, considering most of his past sexual partners had only been for one night.

something brushes over your nipple – cool, round, smooth. you’re not sure if its the same object and it’s driving you insane, “what the hell is that?,” you ask, your voice breathless. mark doesn’t answer this time, just littering kisses along your neck, letting the object speak for him. it circles your nipple slowly, deliberately, then he flicks it lightly, sharp enough to make you gasp and arch forward, your head resting against that space between his neck. his free arm comes up to your waist, keeping you locked against him.

“you’re not allowed to squirm yet,” he murmurs near your ear, voice thick with satisfaction. he switched to your other breast, teasing it with that same cold precision. the contrast between your flushed skin and the chill of the object is enough to make your toes curl. you needed more.

you writhe, frustrated, “mark, please,” you beg for something…anything.

“shhh kitten,” he soothes, mouth brushing the shell of your ear, “be patient.”

his mouth returned to your neck, warm and wet, while the mystery object rolled lazily across your breast. your aching cunt left throbbing and dripping. you feel the hard press of his cock through his sweats and still he makes no move to satisfy either of you. he trails lower, teeth grazing your shoulder and just when you think the cold object might return to your nipple, it doesn’t.

instead, his fingers return, sliding down your slick folds. two strokes. three. then gone again.

“mark,” you gasp, body twitching under the restraint of his arm. you can’t think of any other word but his name — so caught up in the thrill of it all.

“you keep saying my name like i’m gonna feel bad,” he says with a chuckle, “i’m just repaying you.” then he brings the cold object down again, dragging it teasingly along your inner thigh before brushing it just over your clit, making you shudder in his hold, as he smirks behind you.

“kitten, you wanna know what i’ve been using?,” he whispers, smug and quiet. you nod quickly, barely able to breathe. he brought it up in front of your face, knowing full well you couldn’t see it and said, clearly amused, “your pen.”

you groan, “there’s no way it feels that good,” you managed to say. he just laughed quietly, brushing your hair back from your face, “the power of a blindfold,” he whispers. you barely had time to process his words before he was shifting behind you, leaving you sitting on your bed alone. a mixture of confusion, excitement and slight fear at the thought of what he has planned.

mark makes his way around, standing at the foot of your bed as he watches, loving the way you had no idea what’s coming to you. his hand makes contact with your shoulder, making you jump slightly as he pushes you down to your sheets, your back making contact with your soft pillows. you sucked in a shaky breath, wonder traveling throughout your body. then he hovers over you, kissing the hollow of your throat as he carefully pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere, exposing your tits to the cool air. he lets his tongue graze, tracing a path down the center of your chest until his lips find your nipple again. you gasped as his mouth closed around it, sucking, warm and wet. the suction paired with the flick of his tongue in a rhythm that made your spine arch.

“fucking perfect,” he muttered against your skin, teeth grazing before he soothed the sting with another kiss. his hand moved to the other breast, thumb circling lazily around the peak, squeezing just enough to make your hips buck.

but he didnt move lower, “you like being edged, don’t you?,” he whispered, voice dripping with satisfaction.

you whimpered, nodding, desperate, frustrated.

“use your words, kitten,” mark demands.

“yes,” you gasped, “please, mark, just–,” your plea broke off into a cry when his mouth trailed lower, down your stomach, leaving goosebumps behind. he stopped just above your mound, breathing you in like you were the only thing in the world.

“you smell like heaven,” he praises. then his hands gripped your thighs, firm and possessive, pulling you open further – his mouth on you in a second, hot, wet and needy. his tongue dragged through your folds slowly, deliberately. one long, teasing lick. then another, circling your clit, keeping you on the edge. you moaned, loud and desperate, your hand flying to his hair instinctively. he groaned at the contact, encouraged. finally, he gave your clit the attention it had been begging for, flicking, sucking, licking until your thighs were trembling.

and just when your stomach starts to clench — he pulls back.

“no–,” you gasped, “don’t stop, please—”

but he had already moved his mouth, licking the inside of your thigh, soothing and tortuous all at once.

“not yet,” he said, voice dark and patient, “you don’t get to come until i say so.”

you could cry from how badly you needed him. he was relentless, bending your body to his rhythm, his pace. his tongue returned, more insistent now, fingers slipping inside you this time, curling just right and every time that heat started to spiral, his mouth would pull away, his rhythm would slow and the wave would slip just out of reach.

it was torture – delicious, devastasting torture.

your breath came in ragged gasps, chest rising and falling rapidly. the blindfold making it worse. every sound, every touch, every breath he took, every swipe of his tongue felt magnified. and mark was loving every second of it. the way he had all control under his fingertips.

“you keep sucking in my fingers,” he murmured, voice thick with arousal. “you wanna cum that badly, kitten?”

you nod furiously, broken whimpers slipping past your lips, your pride long gone. then you felt it again. that same, cool rounded object from earlier. your pen.

he dragged the tip of it along your folds, now slick and pulsing from his touch, watching the way your legs twitched with each pass, “bet you’ll never look at this thing the same again,” he whispered near your hip. the pen collects your dripping arousal, “such a mess,” he breathes out, tongue surprisingly latching onto your folds again, sucking your juices. you whimpered as he slides a finger inside you again, slower, deeper, making you feel every second of it.

“you feel how close you are?,” he asked, voice gravelly, dangerous. you nodded frantically, choking on a breath only for him to pull back again.

“mark, please, i’m sorry,” you cry out desperately. wanting so bad to finally be relieved. the edging was too much. your clit was throbbing so painfully and you needed him so badly. he leaves you untouched for a second too long, watching you squirm for him.

then with absolutely no warning, mark slaps his hard cock against your cunt, making you moan out in pleasure. he slides his member up and down your wet folds, teasing your entrance and for a moment you don’t even care that he’s not wearing a condom. his skin felt so fucking good againts yours. you just wanted him inside you. you felt the tip of him nudge against you again. but he didn’t push in. he just stayed there, teasing.

you whined, toes curling into the sheets, body arching up, “please….”

he chuckled, low, quiet, “i love hearing you beg,” he said, his tip brushing over your clit, solid and hot against your slick, “makes it real tempting to give in.”

“i could take you right now, kitten,” he whispered, voice wrecked with restraint, “you’d be so good for me, so ready,” he hums against your skin.

you gasped, barely holding onto your sanity, practically sobbing, “please do it, mark, please i need you,” you were soaked, throbbing, voice breaking with utter desperation — that was all he needed to hear. mark wraps his member and not even a second later he finally thrusts into you, sliding into your hole with ease. your body was so prepared for him, walls completely squeezing around his cock so perfectly, so warm.

he yanks off the blindfold from your face and for a moment the room spins with light and clarity until his brown eyes come into view. your tear-filled eyes meet his and the heat in his steals your breath. he was breathing just as hard as you are. just as worked up. he brings your legs up to your shoulders, your hands threading through his hair, pulling him closer, holding on to him like he was your lifeline. he was in so deeply, his cock hitting that spot over and over again. you were trembling, panting hard, jaw clenching as you fought to keep your eyes open. mark hovered above you, his thrusts unrelenting, his own breath ragged, the heat between you unbearable. you moaned his name like it was the only word you’ve ever learned, your voice dissolving into desperate, broken sounds.

“i’m gonna—mark, i’m gonna…,” your grip on his shoulder tightens, nails digging into his skin.

“—go on kitten,” he growled in your ear, voice thick with hunger, “cum for me.”

that was it. the pleasure tore through you like a wave, your whole body arching as your orgasm finally hit you. hard. jaw going slack, vision blurring, eyes rolling back as you practically saw stars. the way your pussy pulsed around him sent mark over the edge, “fuck kitten, such a good girl,” he managed to say in between breaths, before he was groaning in your neck, spilling into the condom. his movements slowed as he rode it out, then he collapsed gently on top of you, both of you shaking, skin slick and flushed.

you stay there for a moment or two, trying to even your ragged breathing. then…laughter bubbled from your lips. light, uncontrollable, like something cracked open inside you and it sounds like music to his ears.

“what?” his head lifted slightly, brows drawn, cock still inside you.

you giggled again, still catching your breath, “h-holy shit, mark” you gasped, eyes glassy with aftershocks, “i don’t think i’ve ever came that hard before.”

he gave you that crooked, self-satisfied boyish smirk and you almost regret complimenting him. then slowly, he pulled out of you, making your body ache with the sudden absence.

carefully, he brushed the tears from the corner of your eyes, “you okay though? i wasn’t too much?”

your heart tripped in your chest. you hated that it did.

you nodded, keeping it casual, ignoring the way his concern made something twist painfully inside you, “yeah. i’m good.”

he nods, settling beside you as you laid there, still catching your breath, your limbs buzzing, body sore in a satisfying way. mark hadn’t moved much either, his arm casually draped over your thigh, chest rising and falling steadily with you. neither of you spoke, but the silence wasn’t awkward. it was warm. settled. easy in a way it probably shouldn’t have been. it was too dangerous. you needed to break it.

“i’m hungry,” you said, voice still scratchy.

mark glanced over at you, a brow raised, “i just gave you an orgasm of a lifetime and the first thing on your mind is food?”

you gave him a lazy grin, “we burned a lot of calories from that, we deserve carbs”

he didn’t comment on your use of we. or the way that there was a we now makes his heart skip a beat. but the fact that he liked the sound of a we was far worse. that box he buried somewhere deep inside, suddenly popping up.

“you’re ridiculous,” he says, forcing out another laugh.

you reached for your phone on the nightstand, “pizza okay with you?,” and he realizes you’re inviting him to stay. you’re not kicking him out like you usually do after a session.

he pushes it a bit further, wanting to see how far this invitation goes “as long as i get to pick the movie this time.”

you narrowed your eyes at him like he’d stepped on thin ice and he’s afraid he pushed it a little too far, misread the moment, until you say, “and what movie are you picking?”

a smile curved his lips as he grabbed his shirt and sweats off the ground, putting it on, “spiderman. obviously,” he says, already making his way to your living room couch.

you blinked at him then grabbed the first clothes within reach, your shorts from the far corner and his hoodie slung over your desk chair, “which one?,” you called through your room, putting the clothes on.

“there’s only one right answer!”

“andrew’s?,” you teased, walking out of your bedroom. he froze for a second. you, in his hoodie, smiling like that. that same smile from freshman year. his brain short-circuited. you were making this whole forgetting thing really hard.

“hope you don’t mind,” you said with a small laugh, “i have no idea where you threw my shirt,” you chuckle.

“that’s fine,” he replied, maybe a little too fast, “and no not andrew’s”

you snorted, “fine, i’ll order pepperoni and you can fangirl over your web-slinging childhood hero,” you smirk, calling papa john’s.

mark grinned as he turned on the t.v. and started searching for the movie, “hey, that’s spiderman, protector of new york, thank you very much.”

you settled beside him a few minutes later, pizza box on the coffee table, movie playing, quiet jokes exchanged through bites of crust and cheese. somewhere between tobey maguire’s awkward charm and halfway through the pizza box, the space between you disappeared. this time, there was no gap. no careful leaning away. your thighs brushed his and neither of you moved. neither of you said anything. but maybe, just maybe, you both felt it — that same quiet something that had been growing since that friday night. still unspoken. still unnamed.

and mark realizes that he could get used to this.

ᓚᘏᗢ april 18. friday.

the door barely clicked shut before mark had his hands on you – rough, needy, all control. he didn’t waste a second. not a single hello, not a single warning. his mouth crashed into yours, all hunger and heat, urgent and commanding, steering you straight to the bedroom with the kind of focus only frustration could fuel.

“m-mark, what’s wrong?,” you managed to ask, concern laced in your voice.

“need you. now,” he growled, voice low, flat with no room for playfulness. you didn’t even make it to the bed. he spun you, yanked your shorts down, shoved you onto your desk chair. one hand ripping open a condom, the other dragging your panties aside and in one swift motion, he was inside you.

you gasped at the intrusion, fingers gripping your desk table, not at all prepared for him. there was no easing in, no pause. just raw, relentless need. and he didn’t care. he couldn’t care. he had too much to burn off. he thrusted in and out of your hole with a desperate rhythm that had you gasping his name between moans. the sound of skin slapping echoing through your bedroom walls.

“fuuuck, kitten, just what i needed,” he groaned, fingers digging into your hips like he was holding on for life. you were sure his fingerprints would mark your skin. he pulls you back onto him with every snap of his hips, like he couldn’t get deep enough, couldn’t get close enough.

“mark, fuck,” you gasped, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity. but he didn’t slow down. he was absolutely locked in, chest heaving, only focused on reaching that high.

“everything’s fucked,” he muttered between gritted teeth, slamming into you hard, “i just needed this…needed you.”

you felt him twitch inside you, pace stuttering for half a second, just enough to send that familiar heat spiraling through your core. the roughness, the force, the way he clung to you like you were the only thing that mattered – it pushed you straight to the edge. your body tensed, a cry spilling from your lips as your orgasm washed over you. you clenched incredibly tight around him and that’s all it took.

“shit, i’m cumming,” he groaned, choking on the sound as he slammed in one last time, hips jerking, fingers still digging into your flesh like he’d break without the contact.

for a moment, all that filled the room was the sound of your breathing – heavy, wrecked, uneven. he stayed there, buried deep, his forehead resting against your back, arms still wrapped around your waist like letting go would make the world crash in again. his breath fanned hot across your skin, heavy and uneven but slowly starting to settle.

you blinked through the haze, heart still racing, legs barely steady beneath you. you turned your head slightly, voice hoarse but gentle, “mark, what was that?”

he didn’t answer at first. just exhaled, slow and ragged. then he pulled out with care, discarding the used condom and pulling his sweatpants back up. his hands steady you as he gently placed your panties back in place. he turned you to face him, guiding you to sit, and then leaned in to press a kiss to your lips – soft, slow and achingly tender. the complete opposite of everything that had come before.

“are you okay?,” you asked, reaching out to cup the side of his face, searching for the answers in his eyes. he allowed himself to lean into your touch. almost like he needed it to breathe, eyes fluttering close for a second.

“jeno got in a fight,” he sighs heavily, voice low, almost defeated.

he sank into his knees in front of you, resting his head in your lap. without thinking, your fingers immediately thread through his hair like they belonged there, like this was normal. his arms wrapped around your waist with quiet desperation, “it got recorded, reached the dean in seconds and i had to go clean it up, make sure we don’t get shut down,” he says tiredly.

you just listen to him, letting him unravel.

“and finals are on monday, i think i’m ready…we’ve been studying really well, my quizzes went okay but it’s also my last chance…if i don’t pass these classes, i'm off the basketball team.”

his arms tightened around your waist like he was bracing himself.

“it’s just been…a lot, everyone thinks i’ve got it all together. they don’t even know i’ve managed to screw it all up…i’m failing my classes, the team…everyone,” his voice broke on the last word, barely more than a whisper.

his eyes shut again, like he couldn’t bear to have anyone see him like this — mark, who was everyone’s favorite. mark, who always made confidence look effortless. mark, who everyone admired, who never looked tired. mark, who was here, on your bedroom floor, falling apart.

and you realized now just how much he’d been carrying and how alone he must have felt doing it. he was a mirror of your own reflection. so you ask him the one question you wished people asked you.

“do you want to talk about it?,” you whispered, thumb softly brushing along his cheek.

his jaw tensed beneath your touch and you thought he might pull away. shove the vulnerability back down and wrap himself in that playful charm he wore so easily when you were sitting across from him at study session or tangled up in the sheets. but instead, his shoulders slumped. he starts, voice low and rough, “i thought i could fix it, just grind harder, push through like i’ve always been able to…but things just kept stacking up. practices, papers and now this thing with the fraternity.”

you’d seen the cracks, of course. you weren’t oblivious. him being late, the bags under his eyes, the way his shoulders stay tense no matter how relaxed he tried to seem. but he always played it off and you never pushed.

“i couldn’t tell anyone,” he continued, softer now, “i’m the leader, the co-captain…i'm supposed to know what to do. everyone leans on me, if i fall apart what happens to the rest of them?.” he lets out a bitter, humorless laugh.

“and i couldn’t tell you. you’re already helping me so much with tutoring and the sex and i didn’t want to drag you into my shit. especially since…this thing between is isnt supposed to include this, right?”

you didn’t respond right away because he was right — there were walls between you that needed to stay up. this was supposed to be easy. you were supposed to be each other’s safe option. the ones who didn't come with emotional trauma. the ones who wouldn’t ask for more. the ones who never pried, just notes, flashcards and casual sex without the weight of feelings or expectations.

“we’re still friends mark,” you said gently, “and friends don't let you go through the hard stuff alone.”

your voice was soft, but steady. you offered a small, honest smile and he finally looks up, meeting your eyes, letting himself be seen. he didn’t say anything after that, just looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

you didn’t break the gaze, didn’t try to fill the silence. you just stayed there, fingers still gently curling in his hair. letting him be here. letting him breathe. and he did – his head rested in your lap, arms still loosely wrapped around your waist like he didn’t quite know how to let go. didn’t want to let go. you could feel the weight of him, every little thing he’s been holding in, slowly settling.

no one rushed to define what this moment meant. no one tried to make a joke to cut the lingering tension — it was just quiet. stretching between you full of things unsaid. of a certain kind of understanding that didn’t need to be spoken out loud. and for now, this was enough.

just two people, sitting in their own wreckage, breathing together, pretending they weren’t crossing a line.

eventually, you felt the need to offer him something more than quiet comfort. something normal. something safe.

“what do you say, we skip tutoring session for the day and watch spiderman 2, i can order chinese this time?,” you say, finally breaking the quiet.

his eyes flicked up to yours. there was a pause, like the suggestion took a second to land. then slowly, the tension in his face bagan to ease, a smile tugging on his lips, “and what about finals week?”

“mark you know it, you’ve gotten every single question right our last two sessions,” you reassure him, “there’s not a single doubt in my mind you’re going to pass,” you smirked, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

that pulled a real breath of relief from him, a soft laugh, muffled against your lap, “we’re watching tobey’s spiderman 2, right?”

for the rest of the night, there was no tutoring, no expectations, no pressure. just honey walnut shrimp, fried rice, spider-man swinging through new york city and two people, curled up on the couch, who weren’t quite sure what they were but certain that this comfort, this closeness, was something they wanted.

ᓚᘏᗢ april 20. sunday.

mark: dude

mark: [1 image]

mark: saw this and thought of you

kitten: ???

kitten: mark. that’s just a cat.

mark: she has your eyes!!

kitten: bro 😭😭

kitten: she looks like she’s ready to attack u

mark: exactly

mark: just like you! 😼

kitten: seek help

kitten: and good luck on your finals markkk

kitten: you're gonna kill it

mark: what’s my reward if i pass? 🫣

kitten: freedom from me 🙂‍↕️

kitten: sex with anyone you want! 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

kitten: any day you want!! 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

mark stared at your texts, thumbs hovering over the screen, his grin being wiped off — it was exactly the kind of thing you’d say. playful, detached, safe. like he hasn’t seen the most vulnerable parts of you. like you haven’t seen the worst parts of him.

his stomach churns in a funny way. it didn’t hit him until now that passing his classes also meant your tutoring sessions were over. no more flashcards, no more learning each other’s bodies, no more movie nights and greasy take out foods. no more you.

he set his phone down beside him, letting his head fall back against the pillow. suddenly, the finish line didn’t feel like a victory lap. it felt like a goodbye. and sure, you would still be around, he would still see you in passing, on campus, in random parties – you would still be his friend.

the word leaves a sour taste in his mouth. if he was being completely honest, he didn’t want to stop seeing you. he didn’t want this to end just because the excuse to stay had run out. he wanted to be on your couch, watching spiderman. you still had six of them to go. he wanted the greasy takeout, the shared silence, the casual way your leg would brush against his like it didn’t mean everything.

he wanted to keep learning you. your favorite color, your favorite songs, your favorite everything until there was nothing left to learn. and even then, when all the learning is done, he just wanted to be there.

he wanted to be allowed to stay. to be able to wrap his arms around you and not wonder if he’s crossing a line. to show up with all your favorite snacks, and this time he knows what they are. to kiss you and not feel that sick, sinking guilt in his stomach when it meant more to him than it ever should have.

he started typing: what if i don’t want freedom from you?

he stared at it for a second. then deleted it.

typed again: sooo i still get to bother you after finals, right?

he deleted that one too.

mark: haha, nice 👍

he sighed, tossing his phone face-down onto the bed like that would somehow quiet the tightness in his chest.

your phone buzzed again. his response felt off or maybe it was just all in your head. you shook the thoughts away and turned back to your laptop, reviewing for your own classes.

you weren’t going there. you couldn't.

you refuse to be too much again. too needy.

ᓚᘏᗢ april 21. monday.

when mark stepped out of his last class of the day, he found you immediately, leaning against the wall, a drink in your hand, smiling at him.

before he could even think about it, his feet were already moving, carrying him, each step closing in towards you as he pulled you into a hug. his face nestles in the crook of your neck, a quiet sigh of relief slipping past his lips. he just wanted to stay here for a while. wrapped in the calm only you seemed to bring.

you froze, just for a moment. the hug catches you off guard. you’ve never been this touchy in public. you could feel the eyes on you, see a few raised brows in your peripheral vision. still, after a beat or two, you gave in, arms looping around his waist, one hand still gripping the cup of milk tea you got for him.

“it wasn’t that bad, was it?,” you murmured near his ear. he chuckles against your neck, the breath of air tickling before leaning back just enough to look at you, his hands still lingering on your hips like he’d forgotten to let go.

“i’m pretty sure i aced it,” he said, all confidence and charm.

you raise a brow, “so why did you just hug me like the world was ending?”

his smirk flickered, replaced by something quieter, heavier “you said once i passed, this would be over.”

he tried to keep it light, but the words tasted bitter, “figured, i should take what i can while i still can.”

you push away the feeling rising in your throat, glancing down at the drink in your hand, shoving the emotion aside “here, i got this for you, a mini reward.”

he takes it with a soft laugh, fingers brushing against yours, just a moment too long. his eyes stayed on you as he took a sip and something about the way he looks at you makes your chest twist — it wasn’t supposed to feel like this. not in daylight. not out here, in the open, where it could be mistaken for something real.

“people are staring at us,” you murmured, gaze dropping.

he doesn’t even glance around them, “let them.”

you tried to deflect, lips tugging into a smirk “what? and ruin your chances with all your girls?”

but he didn’t laugh. he didn’t play along. didn’t take the out this time.

“maybe i only want one girl.”

the breath caught in your throat. your heart stuttered. you looked up at him, eyes searching, desperate to find some hint of irony, some trace of a grin. anything that would let you write it off.

“hmm,” you force out a chuckle, thin and cracked, “you? mr. i don’t go exclusive,” you teased, your voice barely holding steady.

he smiled, but he didn’t deny it. that was when the panic set in.

“i have to go, i still have a class to get to,” and before he could respond, you were already walking away. you didn’t look back. you couldnt.

mark stayed where he was for a while, just watching your figure get smaller and smaller, drink in his hand, feeling the warmth of your body still clinging to his skin. people moved around him in chatter, footsteps on concrete, but it all blurred.

he meant it — he didn’t just let those words slip for no reason. he’d thought about it all night, maybe longer, and when the words came out, they didn’t surprise him. and it didn’t surprise him either how quiet you went, how fast you looked away, how quickly you pivoted back to safe ground, barely entertaining the thought.

you were the girl who didn’t believe in love. he knew that. and you could continue pretending that this was nothing. you could continue to shove it down with a joke, whatever you needed to do to keep him at arm’s length.

but he was done playing along. he wasn’t going to pretend anymore.

he wanted you to have all his mondays, wednesdays and fridays. even the tuesdays and thursdays. and every last goddamn saturdays and sundays. if you’d let him.

⟢

mark’s words echoes in your ears, clear and sharp and impossible to shake as you lay in your bed, wide awake.

you replay the moment in your head, over and over. the way he held you like you were something to hold onto. the way his fingers didn’t let go right away.

the way your heart betrayed you.

you hated how easy it would be to believe him. to want more. to hope. again.

but love had already burned you. already ruined you. it hollowed you out, left you scattered in pieces you barely recognized. you gave and gave until there was nothing left to give and even then, you still tried to be enough. you made yourself smaller, more manageable, easier to love. and you hated it. hated who you became when love took over – clingy, dependent, pathetic, insecure.

the kind of person who lost herself in someone else’s orbit and called it devotion. the kind of person who mistook being needed for being desired. the kind of person who became the version they needed until the real you felt like a distant memory.

it took everything to rebuild yourself from the wreckage love left behind. you had to learn how to be alone again. how to stop apologizing for needing anything at all. you had to teach yourself to exist without someone else’s hands holding you together.

you swore to yourself you’d never be that girl again.

but here you are, heart stuttering at a single sentence from a boy who was never supposed to matter this much. all your careful walls cracking, your breath catching, body already leaning toward him like muscle memory.

and even after all the warning signs going off in your head, every scar whispering don’t, you can’t help but want him.

ᓚᘏᗢ april 23. wednesday.

there was a knock on your door. you didn’t have to look through the peephole to know who it was.

you consider not opening it. pretend you weren’t home. an internal conflict going on between your mind and your heart. one half of you aching for him, the other half gripping onto the remaining boundary you had left.

you sigh, dragging your feet across the door, fingers hesitating on the knob.

“kitten, i know you’re there, the light is on,” mark’s voice announces through the other door. the nickname didn’t feel harmless anymore. it felt like a hand reaching through a door you were trying desperately to seal shut. a reminder of the closeness you’d let happen. the thing you swore wouldn’t need again.

“i brought food,” he added, tone lighter this time. like this could be another normal night of movies and food and silence where feelings should go.

you hated how much you wanted it. hated how you unlocked the door and pulled it open, meeting the brown warm eyes that was so dangerous. he was in one of his hoodies that always looked too comfortable, takeout in his arms with an expression that you couldn’t quite read. or maybe you didn’t want to.

“i thought we could watch spider-man 3, it’s the last tobey one,” he said, raising the food like it was some sort of offering.

you stepped aside wordlessly, letting him in and he walked in like he always did. like he belonged here, in your space. he removed his shoes, placed everything on the coffee table, sat on his side of the couch like everything was normal. like nothing happened. like those words didn’t leave his mouth and had you stuck on him ever since. like he hadn’t said something too big for this setup you had.

and you let him. you followed the script too. you dimmed the lights, grabbed the blanket from the side of the couch and pulled it over both of your legs, hit play on the movie.

for a while, neither of you said a word. until the movie reached a lull and you realized not a single joke has been said between you. you sneak a look at him only to find he was already looking at you.

“why are you looking at me like that?,” you whisper into the night air.

“like what?,” he deflected, smile barely there.

you raise a brow, giving him a pointed look, but your heart is already thudding, “like that,” you murmur.

mark’s smile fades into something quieter. something real. his eyes didn’t leave yours, “maybe i’m just trying to memorize you,” he said softly, like the words had been sitting on his tongue for days. it was quiet and honest. and it wrecked you.

your chest tightened. heat crept up your neck, blooming beneath your skin, but it wasn’t the good kind. it was panic, nostalgia, longing, everything you’d spent years trying to outrun. you blinked fast, trying to swallow the ache, the confusion, the hope. you couldn’t hold his gaze.

then his hand moved, gentle, almost afraid, thumb brushing over your thigh, “does this really have to end after finals?,” he asked. his voice wasn’t playful. there was something almost broken in it. something that wanted more.

you look down at his hand. it’s warm. steady.

you forced your voice into something light, something distant, “what do you mean mark?,” you play dumb, “you can still come over, we can still hang out and watch movies.”

“you know that’s not what i mean, y/n,” his voice cut clean through you. he looked at you like you held the whole world and you hated it. because you’ve seen that look in someone else’s eyes before and you remember how that story ended.

“i want you.” he said. he’s always been upfront, the kind of guy who goes for exactly what he wants. honest. no confusion. he wasn’t going to stop that just because what he wanted now was a little different than usual.

“—not just the movie nights. i want to be able to kiss you without wondering if i’m crossing the line. i want to hold your hand. i don’t want to have to leave.”

you could hear it in his voice, that he meant every word. that he was laying himself bare. your lungs were full of things you’ve never said. fears you never voiced.

“do you want me because you want me,” you whispered, “or because you need me?”

the room went still. mark blinked, caught off guard. his face twisted in confusion. he didn’t understand the question. “what’s the difference?”

you nodded once, slowly, even though he didn’t get it. especially because he didn’t get it. that was all the confirmation you needed. the quiet confirmation of every fear you've been carrying. your thoughts spiraled, fast and breathless – he saw you as the person who kept him from falling apart, not the person who could be loved on her own terms. you didn’t want to be a need. you wanted to be a choice. wanted to be loved for your fire, your flaws, your silence, your mess. all of it.

you pulled the blanket off, stood up, walked toward the kitchen under the disguise of grabbing water but you really just needed the distance, needed to breathe.

behind you, mark didn’t move. the space where you’d just been now empty and echoing. the movie played on, some forgotten scene washing the walls in flickering color, fading into the background. all he could hear was the question that you’d asked. the silence that followed after he said the wrong thing. the way you walked away like you were holding yourself together with a string.

he stood slowly, following you into the kitchen, footsteps soft like he was afraid he’d scare you off if he made too much noise. you were standing there, back to him.

“i didn’t mean it like that,” he said, voice low, careful.

when you didn’t respond, he continued, “i don’t need you like a fix,” he stepped closer, gently, slowly. and then, he lets his confessions stumble into the night air. all of the words he’d been dying to tell you.

“i want you like—,” his voice broke slightly, “like i want to wake up with you next to me, i want to know your favorite things, i want your sarcasm, your bad jokes, i want to be the one you call when your day’s gone to shit or when someone tells you a funny story and you just have to share it with someone, i want all the parts you hide. that’s what i meant.”

he was so close now. you closed your eyes and it terrifies you how much you wanted that too.

“i’ve been through this before, mark,” you said, barely above a whisper, “i gave someone everything and he only loved me because he needed me, because it was easy at first. not the real me. not the mess. not the scared, guarded, overthinking, too-much me.”

mark stepped closer until there was barely space between you.

“y/n, i’m not him,” he says, voice full of conviction, “let me prove it. if it takes time, i’ll wait. if you need space, i’ll give it. but please stop acting like none of this is real, stop acting like this was all just tutoring and sex. don’t shut me out because someone else couldn’t handle you. because i can. i want to.”

you stared at the floor. every wall you’d built over the years was trembling in your chest, all of them threatening to collapse and you were desperately trying to keep them together. he was saying everything you’d ever needed someone to say. yet you can’t find it in yourself to believe him.

your fear was louder than your hope.

“i need space,” you breathed. it was all you could manage. your voice almost gave out on the last word.

mark stilled, his throat bobbed as he swallowed. then he stepped back. just once. and said, gently, “okay.”

he didn’t try to kiss you or hold you or close the space between you with anything physical. and that, more than anything, told you this wasn’t about need.

ᓚᘏᗢ april 25. friday.

the knock came again. you hadn’t expected it, your heart climbing straight into your throat.

you hadn’t spoken since that night. you told him you needed space and to his credit, he gave it. though as soon as he left you wanted him back. you couldn’t even understand your own emotions anymore.

he didn’t call. didn't text and even though it’s only been two days — the silence had been deafening.

your hand hovered near the doorknob again, just like it had before. like you were caught in a loop.

“y/n?,” his voice was softer this time. not playful, not teasing, just quiet and raw, “i…i got my results.”

you closed your eyes, just listening to his voice and the way he was able to shut down all the other voices in your head.

“i haven’t checked it yet,” he added after a beat, “i didn’t want to do it alone.”

something in you cracked and you opened the door. mark stood there, phone in hand, eyes tired and bloodshot like he hadn’t slept well in days. he didn’t step in this time. he just looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. you didn’t say anything. just stepped aside, letting him in. he walked in slowly, like he was afraid he might wake something fragile in the room. you followed him to the couch, sat next to him, close enough to touch but not touching.

he sat with his phone in his palm, screen still black, staring at it.

“just open it,” you said quietly, finally breaking the silence.

he turned to you, eyes searching, “i can’t do it,” he says, handing you the phone “you open it for me.”

you grab it from him, clicking the school’s app and reloading the screen, waiting for the results. the second felt too long, mark’s legs anxiously bouncing, you looked up at him with an expression he couldn’t read and his throat catches.

then in one second, your grin grew wider, “you passed!,” you cheered, laughter bubbling from your lips. he hasn’t realized how much he missed that sound until now. the past few days have definitely been an emotional turmoil.

mark blinked, “i..i did?,”

you nodded, laughing again, eyes shining, “you did, mark! look,” you say, shoving the phone in his face.

for a beat, he just stared at you, like he didn’t quite believe it. then it all hit him at once, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding finally exhaled. relief, pride, disbelief all crashing into his chest in one wave.

and before he could stop himself he pulled you into his lap in a mini victory, both of you laughing, excited, happy. his arms wrapped around you tight, burying his face into your shoulder like this was the only place he ever wanted to be. you hug him just as tight, now straddling him, arms curled around him as you both bask in his victory, your laughter’s harmonizing in the air.

after a few seconds, your body relaxed into his and for the first time in days, it felt easy again, natural. like muscle memory. like this was where you both belonged.

“i knew you could do it,” you murmured near his ear, voice soft. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still holding onto your side like didn’t want to let go yet.

and maybe it was the adrenaline in your system. maybe it was the look on his face. or maybe it was the way his hands lingered on your waist. but you didn’t think.

you leaned in and kissed him.

it was gentle, like asking a question you weren’t sure you wanted the answer to. he kissed you back with no hesitation, no second guessing. just the feeling of your lips in his, warm and certain.

mark’s hand cup your jaw like you were something breakable and important all at once. there was a slight tremble in his touch, like he couldn’t believe you were letting him this close. terrified that one wrong move would send you running.

the kiss wasn’t desperate, it wasn’t rushed. it was everything that hadn’t been said, missing each other in a way neither of you had admitted.

your hand curled into the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you steady. your body swayed forward without permission, knowing what it wanted before your mind could catch up. his forehead dropped to yours and for a moment, neither of you said anything.

“i missed you,” you whispered, voice shaking. his eyes fluttered shut at the words, something raw flickering across his features. he kissed you again, slow and intentional. like he needed you to feel every unsaid thing he did not know how to say.

the kiss deepened, soft lips parting, breath mingling. his hand moved down, tracing your spine as he pulled you closer and every inch of your body hummed with anticipation. you tugged on his black shirt, tugging it over his head. you helped each other undress with quiet urgency, fingertips brushing skin, lips reconnecting in between.

mark grabs your thighs, gently lifting you up and turning you over to lay you down on the couch. he hovered over you, eyes dragging slowly down the length of your body, memorizing every line, every curve.

“you’re so beautiful,” he breathed, brushing your hair from your forehead.

your throat tightened.

he trailed kisses over your jaw, your neck, the slope of your shoulder, your breasts. every kiss feeling like a promise. his hands were everywhere, trailing over your waist, the dip of your hip, down your thigh, slow and warm and reverent. he took his time. worshipped every inch like he didn't want to miss a second of this.

he knew exactly where to touch you. knew the spots that ignited that fire in your stomach. he pushes your panties to the side and when his mouth finally found the place between your legs, you gasped, back arching. he groaned at the sound, at the taste of you, gripping your thighs gently, keeping you open for him. he watched your every reaction, paid attention to all of your sinful moans like it was his favorite song. his tongue moved, licking and circling and sucking until you were gasping his name, eyes fluttering shut, legs shaking around his shoulders.

your fingers laced through his, grabbing onto him like he was the last thing keeping you there. and when you came, it hit hard, head thrown back, toes curling. he stayed right there, drawing it out, licking through every wave. he kissed his way back up your body, slow and open mouthed until you pulled him back to your lips, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“mark,” you whispered, breathless, “bedroom.”

you didn’t have to say it again. mark grabbed your thighs, picking you up with ease, his bare chest warm against yours, legs wrapped around him, heartbeat thudding in rhythm with your own as he carried you to your bedroom. the air between you is charged and fragile in a way it had never been before. as soon as your back hit the mattress, you pulled him down to meet you. lips meeting again. but it wasn’t like the other times. there was no reckless rush, no frantic need. this kiss was deeper. slower. like he wanted to taste every part of you that had been out of reach until now.

his weight settled over you, grounding, familiar but all too different. he kissed you like he was afraid this might be the last time. touching you like he was memorizing you all over again, not your body, he already knew that – but you.

the way you sighed when his fingers brushed over your hips. the way your breath hitched when his lips settled over that sensitive spot below your ear. the way your hands roamed over his back, curling at the base of his spine like you didn’t know how to keep him close enough.

then suddenly, he stopped. bracing himself on his forearms, forehead pressed to yours, “wait,” he murmured, breathing hard, like it physically hurt to not be touching you.

you blinked, disoriented by the sudden break in heat as he curses under his breath, “i-i didn’t bring a condom…i didn’t expect to–,”

“i-i should have some,” you turned quickly, reaching for the drawer of your nightstand only to find your box of condoms empty.

you looked at him. he looked at you. a beat of silence passing in between you.

his hand found yours, warm brown eyes boring into yours, “we don’t have to.”

“do you want me?,” your voice cracked a little and that’s when you realized your throat was tight, feeling more vulnerable than ever.

“of course i do, kitten,” he said, placing a soft kiss on the inside of your wrist, “but i want you, not just this.”

“i want you, too,” you whisper like you were sharing a secret. his breath hitched. whole body stilling. you saw the moment he gave in, the exact second his restraint cracked.

“i-i’ll pull out,” he mumbled, still trying to be careful.

“i’m on the pill mark,” you said softly, “you can stay inside.” something in him faltered, his breath hitched, eyes darkening. he kissed you again, slower than before, more tentative, like he needed to make sure you meant it.

he lines himself up against your core, giving you one last look for confirmation and when you nod, granting him permission, he finally gave in to what you both wanted. he slid into you slowly, carefully, his forehead pressed to yours, breaths tangling. you felt the tremble in his arms, the shudder that worked through him as he sank fully into you – making you feel full, whole, complete.

you both stilled, letting the moment settle.

you’d done this before. countless times. fast, rough, unspoken. but it had never felt like this. this felt like new territory. this felt like falling.

this wasn’t about sex. this was about every word you’d left unsaid.

your hands roamed up his back, fingernails grazing over the muscles there and his body responded to every touch, arching into you slightly. you could feel every vein on his cock, every twitch, every pulse. he moved slowly, deeper than he had before, watching your face for every flicker of reaction.

mark’s hand came up to brush the hair from your cheek, as he littered kisses from your cheekbones, along your jaw, every inch of skin he could find, “i was made for you” he whispered.

your chest ached, eyes burned. you didn’t know what to do with those words so instead you pulled him closer and kissed him hard. desperate to shut him up. to shut yourself up. to make the ache go away. every movement was slow, sensual, too vulnerable. every inch of your skin between you whispering i missed you, don’t leave again, please feel what i’m feeling.

his hand laced with yours, fingers locking tight, fitting together like two connecting pieces of a puzzle. it was all too much. the way he stayed close, nose brushing your cheek. the way he murmured your name under his breath like it was the only word he knew.

you whispered his name when that coil in your stomach started to tighten, the pressure ready to be released, tension curling through your body. he kissed your temple, your cheekbone, your mouth, over and over again as you came undone beneath him. your legs trembled, breath hitched, back arching as he talked you through it, murmuring praises in your ear.

he followed soon after, body shuddering against yours as he gave in, marking your walls, a grunt of your name spilling from his lips. and even then, he didn’t let go of your hand. he stayed inside you long after, face buried in the curve of your neck, body heavy over yours in the best way. neither of you said anything, just basking in the warmth of each other’s bodies.

you’ve never felt fuller. the feeling of skin on skin. of a truth too big to name yet.

and when he pulled out, you felt the loss of him like a jolt. your body throbbed, empty and aching. he reached for the tissues on your bedside table, gently wiping away the mess you two made.

you swallowed hard, “mark-”

his eyes searched yours, desperate and open and unguarded in a way you’d never seen before. he was just as scared as you. scared that you would push him away again, “please,” he begs, “don’t make me leave.”

“i don’t know how to do this,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper, “i don’t know how to accept this.” you couldn’t even bring yourself to say the word. that one word lingering in both of your tongues.

mark’s face softened, something inside him cracking at your words. he leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours again, “we can figure it out,” he says, “but we don’t have to figure it all out tonight…for tonight let's just…stay here.”

your eyes stung. he wasn’t asking for promises. he wasn’t demanding answers. he was just asking you not to run. not yet. you nodded and he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. neither of you said anything after that. he shifted beside you, pulling you into his arms, your body curling naturally into the space against his chest. one of his hands wrapped around your back, the other held your hand like he was scared you would just disappear.

you laid there, wrapped in him, your heart a mess of silence and scars. listening to the beat of his heart. trying to believe this could be real.

“i don’t want to hurt you,” you whispered into his skin.

“you already do,” he murmured, raw and honest, brushing his lips to your hair.

“i’m sorry.”

“there’s nothing to be sorry for, kitten. i’d rather be hurt with you than feel nothing without you,” he whispers, placing a soft kiss to the top of your head. your eyes fluttered closed at that, too tired to hold everything in your chest. too afraid of what would happen when morning came. but for right now, in this moment, you let yourself stay.

and somewhere between his breathing and the ache in your chest, you fell asleep in his arms, tangled up in a mess of limbs, heartbreak and that word you both can’t say.

ᓚᘏᗢ april 26. saturday.

mark woke up to the soft morning light filtering in through your bedroom window, stretching across the sheets like a quiet whisper. the space beside him cold. his hand reached out before his eyes even opened, instinctively searching for you, but the space was empty, only leaving behind the shape of your figure.

his brows furrowed as he sat up slowly, blanket slipping off his chest. the room felt too still. like the warmth had left with you. he got up, heart tightening as his bare feet hits the floor, pulling on his sweats as he stepped into your living room — empty.

no note. no text. no sound of the shower. just silence. the kind of silence that presses on your ribs and makes everything feel heavier than it should.

mark exhaled slowly, rubbing his face with both hands. this wasn’t new – this disappearing act of yours, distant and cold. but it hurt more today. especially after last night. after they way you kissed him like you meant it. the way you held him like you wanted him. the way you made love to him like you loved him.

he sat down on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. the victory of passing his finals felt like a faded memory now. and maybe you were just getting breakfast? maybe you were getting coffee? maybe you went out for a quick walk? but deep down, he knew better.

because when someone leaves without saying goodbye, it’s never just about getting coffee – it’s about fear. about retreat. about trying to stuff last night back into that box. a box where it doesn’t fit anymore.

he didn’t know what would happen next but he made you a promise and he’s determined to keep it. even if you never let him this close again. even if this was the last night he’d get to love you the way he wanted to. but he wouldn’t push. he wouldn’t beg. he wouldn’t ask you to feel more than you were ready to. he knew your walls were built from heartbreak and survival and he would never try to tear them down.

but he’ll show up — quietly, steadily, solid where you expected everyone to vanish. he wouldn’t ask for anything in return. not your love, not your certainty, not even your presence. just the chance to exist nearby. just the permission to care.

you didn’t have to earn his love by loving him back.

and if someday you turned around and realized you didn’t want to be alone anymore. he’d be here, welcoming you with open arms.

⟢

you hadn’t meant to leave like that. not really.

you told yourself it was just a short walk. just some air. just to clear your head before the morning got too loud and the reality of your actions settled in too deep.

your lips still felt the ghost of his. your skin still hummed with the way he touched you like he knew you — not just the version you showed him on movie nights and tutoring sessions, but the messy, terrified, too much version you’d spent years trying to hide. he kissed you like he wasn’t afraid of her. and that pushed you further down your fears.

you didn’t know if you were allowed to believe in it. so you left. not to hurt him. never too hurt him. but to protect yourself. protect him from you. to build the distance before you both could fall all the way in.

you couldn’t stop thinking about the look on his face when you told him he passed — a mixture of excitement and bittersweet emotion clearly on display. the way he hugged you like you were home. and then, god, you kissed him. and for the first time in forever, kissing someone didn’t feel like an escape. you swallowed hard. you were so afraid of these emotions. of needing him.

you went back home when the sun was down, mark nowhere to be seen, except for a note left on your coffee table, written in mark’s handwriting:

“call me if you need me.”

just simple words that made your chest ache.

if. not when.

he wasn’t expecting you to need him. wasn’t asking you to lose yourself again, to shrink, to bleed out the softest parts of you just to keep him. he wasn’t trying to save you or fix you or unravel you for the sake of making you his.

he left you a choice, control fully in your hands. a door, cracked open.

if you need me.

not a condition. not a plea. just kindness wrapped in restraint. not loud or overwhelming. not all-consuming. just patient. just quiet. just there.

ᓚᘏᗢ one week later. may 3. saturday.

you never contacted him. you didn’t know how to face him.

some days, you’d go home to take-out waiting for you by the door, still warm, like he’d just left. there were messages left in your phone. messages that you read over and over again, finger hovering above the keyboard. a reminder that mark was still there. that he still cares.

you just didn’t know what to do with that.

“c’mon y/n, come to the party at the wayv frat tonight,” your best friend, yeri, says through the phone, her voice bright and pleading.

“yeri, i don’t really feel like partying,” you sigh, voice low and dull.

“y/n, you can’t push us away too, we’re your friends,” she says more firmly now.

you told her all about it a couple nights ago, over the fried chicken mark left at your doorstep, the soju in your fridge and a loose tongue that couldn’t keep your pain in any longer.

you spilled everything. what happened with mark, how it started, how it ended and yeri almost killed you with your own pillow. you can still hear her voice now, going through every stage of disbelief like it was a full-blown performance.

she went from, “are you kidding me?! mark lee?!,”followed by a dramatic gasp and a mischievous smirk, “was he good?? was he big?,” then came the pause, wide eyes, jaw dropping surprise “he said he only wanted one girl!!?? THE mark lee?? wanting one girl???,” and then her voice cracked, eyes misting as she whispered, “he wanted to know your favorite things?!?!” like it was the most romantic thing she’d ever heard.

and then she strangled you with your own pillow when you got to the end of the story.

she was very much #teammark at the moment.

she was tired of your self sabotaging, your walls, your stubbornness — the way you rejected affection like it was poison. the way you flinched from being needed. from being loved. she understood it came from a place in your past. she never dismissed that pain. but she firmly reminded you that you can’t let your past haunt you forever. that the echoes of what hurt you, the ghosts that whisper you’re unlovable or unsafe, should not define the life you’re living now. she gave you an entire pep talk talking about how you can’t keep holding someone with one hand while the other is clinging to everything that once went wrong. and maybe the love in front of you isn’t perfect, maybe it’s messy and complicated and terrifying but it’s here and it’s real and it could be everything only if you let it.

“look,” yeri cuts through your train of thought,, “mina, doyeon, and ningning will be there too, okay, “you’re the only one that's going to be missing.”

you hesitate.

“he probably won’t even be there,” she adds quickly, “the dream frat most likely has their own party going on tonight.”

you don’t believe her. especially since you knew the dream frat was still under observance from that fight jeno threw.

“i don’t know…,” you say.

“c’mon,” she says, softer this time, “it’s the end of finals, we deserve to let loose and have fun,” she tries, one more time.

you exhale slowly, already halfway convinced.

“...fine.” you mutter, earning a bubbly scream from the other side.

⟢

the music is loud the moment you step through the door, laughter spilling down the hallways, the scent of cheap beer and fruity vape lingering in the air. you’re already regretting the black dress hugging your body, the heels, and the fact that you let yeri talk you into this.

“shots first!,” she yells over the music, dragging you toward the room. you spot familiar faces, mina waving from across the room, doyeon chatting up a pretty girl, ningning locked in an intense game of beer pong with a guy in sunglasses — it’s all the usual chaos. familiar. almost comforting.

you let the noise wash over you, grateful for the distraction until yeri stiffens beside you. you know before you even turn. he’s here — mark lee, leaning casually against the wall across the room, red cup in hand. he’s mid-conversation with a boy you knew, xiaojun – music major, member of the wayv fraternity, also a guy you tutored.

he was laughing, looking relaxed until he saw you.

and everything stops.

almost like you were the only two in the room.

his smile falters. eyes lock with yours. like he didn’t expect you to be here. doesn’t know what to do now that you’re both standing in the same room again.

you forget how to breathe for a second.

“y/n…,” yeri starts, but you shake your head, breaking away from his gaze.

“i’m fine.” you’re not.

but that’s what you tell her, forcing a smile, “let’s get those shots,” you manage to say as you and yeri slip into the kitchen. looking for something to drink. preferably something strong.

⟢

he hadn’t planned on staying long. he hasn’t really been in the mood for parties this whole week. it was too loud, too crowded, too many people and none of them were you.

but chenle, haechan and jisung kept dragging him out night after night, insisting he just needed to “get back out there.”

it hasn’t worked — he wasn’t interested in anyone else, no matter how pretty his friends say they were. all he could think about was you.

he sees you in the spiderman figurines he had in his room. he sees you in the half-eaten pizza box that the boys had ordered, where he could practically hear your laugh. he sees you in his notes. in every damn song that plays. in the stray cat that kept curling up on their lawn. the basketball court. the library. every corner he found himself in is a memory of you.

and sex has been different since that night. not after what you’d shared. not after what it felt like to be wanted like that, to want like that. he didn’t even know if he could go back to casual anymore, especially after feeling intimacy that intense.

so yeah, the plan was simple, he was gonna show up for a bit, make his rounds, say hi to his friends then dip. lock himself up in his room. back to waiting for your call.

he didn’t expect to see you but there you were, walking through the crowd.

and he wished he looked a little better. put a little more effort into his outfit. but truth to be told, he didn't think he had anyone to impress. his light stubble has grown in. he was only in a plain white shirt and black jeans. he didn't even bother styling his hair.

one second, he’s laughing at something xiaojun said, the next the breath gets knocked out of him — you walked in like you didn’t want to be there but still looking so effortlessly beautiful. the walls you’ve been hiding behind standing tall all around you.

every instinct tells him to go to you but his feet stay planted, the grip on his cup tightening.

“dude,” xiaojun says, mid-sentence, eyebrows raising, “are you even listening to me?”

mark doesn’t answer, he watches your eyes sweep the room and then land on him.

everything else disappears.

he doesn’t even hear the music anymore. the crowd becomes nothing more than a blur of faceless shapes, none of them worth noticing.

you still have that look in your eyes. that haunted, guarded look he’s seen too many times. the one that says i want to let you in, but i can’t afford to be hurt again.

you break the contact first, of course you do. he can’t help but continue to stare.

“okay,” xiaojun says suddenly, setting down his drink. “that’s it. i’m introducing you.”

mark’s head snaps toward him, “wait, what?”

“don’t know what happened to you, man but you’ve clearly lost your game,” his friend shrugs, already grabbing mark by the sleeve, “i got this. stop being a pussy, i’ll be your wingman.”

mark resists, suddenly very aware of his surroundings, planting his feet, “no…xiaojun, wait, you don’t understand–”

“she’s super chill,” xiaojun interrupts confidently, “smart as hell, kind of terrifying at first glance but definitely nice. i got you, don’t worry.”

“xiaojun…seriously–” mark hisses, digging his heels in, heart pounding in panic now, “we already…we know each other.”

but xiaojun didn’t hear him. too excited. too focused at playing matchmaker and hauling him toward the kitchen. “you can thank me later,” he grins, “just let me cook.”

mark’s stomach sinks. his hands are clammy. he’s seconds away from bolting. and then you turn around, cup in hand, mid-sip, just as xiaojun barrels into the kitchen with mark reluctantly in tow.

“y/n!,” xiaojun calls cheerfully. mark looks like he’s been dragged into hell itself, his eyes sending you an apology and you can’t help the way your brows lift.

“oh my god,” you whisper under your breath, choking on your drink and mark has to physically stop himself from reaching out to check if you are okay. you curse the fact that you let yeri leave you alone just a few seconds ago.

xiaojun beams, “i want you to meet my friend! this is mark. mark this is y/n..she used to tutor me back in the day. super scary, very smart,” you can’t help but raise a brow at his description, “anyway, you two should totally talk,” he wiggles his eyebrows.

mark gives you a look like he wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. his voice comes out tight, strained, like it hurts to speak, “hey.”

you glance at mark. he glances at you. and somehow, without saying anything, you both decide to play along.

“nice to meet you,” you say coolly, extending a hand like you haven’t seen every inch of him in moments you’re trying very hard to forget.

mark straightens up, his face schooled into a neutral smile. he takes your hand and his touch lingers just a little too long, bringing up feelings you tried so hard to push away, “same here.”

xiaojun beams, totally buying it, “see? told you i got you,” he whispers, making you quip a brow.

mark doesn’t look away from you, “so…you used to tutor xiaojun?”

you nod, keeping your expression composed, “yeah, freshman year. he was failing basic algebra.”

xiaojun gasps in mock offence, “i had a C-”

“which is failing,” you shoot back without missing a beat.

mark chuckles under his breath, eyes crinkling, “sounds like you were a tough tutor.”

“that depends on who i’m tutoring,” you say, like you didn’t spend the past month tutoring him.

xiaojun claps his hands together, clearly pleased with himself, “this is going great. i’m so good at at this. i should charge people.”

“oh yeah,” mark says, playing along, nodding solemnly. “you should definitely monetize your matchmaking business.”

“maybe i will!,” xiaojun grins, painstakingly oblivious to the undercurrent of tension thickening between you two, “anyway, i’m gonna go and leave you two alone. you guys get to know each other. don’t do anything i wouldn’t do!,” he winks and disappears back into the party.

and just like that, the mask drops. the space between you crackling.

mark raises an eyebrow, “nice to meet you, huh?”

you shrug, “you started it.”

he smirks faintly, “you didn’t have to shake my hand like we were at a networking event.”

“well, you didn’t have to look so charmed by it,” you shoot back and for a second it all feels too normal. just two friends caught in their playful banter.

⟢

ᓚᘏᗢ now.

“it’s good to see you,” he says, a little quieter now, smirk fading just slightly. you falter at that but instead of running, instead of deflecting, you hold his gaze.

“so,” you say, attempting a half-smile, “do you come here often, mark?”

he chuckles but the sound fades quickly. the amusement doesn’t last in his eyes. you were doing it again. masking your feelings behind a joke. trying to find an out. trying to stall the inevitable — and he stopped playing this game a long time ago. has stopped holding back.

“you didn’t call.”

your smile drops, “mark–,”

“that night,” he cuts in softly, but there’s something raw under his voice now, “i woke up and you were gone.”

the kitchen feels smaller. the party noise beyond the door fades to a muffled hum.

“i didn’t know what to say,” you murmur, voice almost lost under the thump of bass in the other room.

“you didn’t have to say anything,” he says, “i just wanted you to stay.”

you look away but mark steps forward. not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him.

“i kept checking my phone,” he goes on, “every morning when i wake up, every night before i go to bed. i watched you read my messages and i thought maybe you just needed time.”

“—i waited,” he continues, voice shaking now, “i left food by your door, i didn’t even care if you didn’t text back, i just wanted you to know i’m still here.”

you press your lips together, holding everything in.

“i didn’t want that night to end,” he goes on, quieter now, “and maybe i was stupid for thinking you felt the same way but–”

he breathes in, eyes locking onto yours. you try to tell him to stop but your voice betrays you. and mark could no longer hold back the words he’s been wanting to say.

“i fell in love with you.”

your heart stutters. that one phrase making you want to run.

“and i’m still in love with you,” he finishes, like a final breath. like he’s cutting himself open and bleeding honesty, the words slamming into your chest.

“we only had two rules, mark,” you managed to whisper, voice quiet and broken.

mark takes a shaky step closer, heart in his throat, “tell me you don’t feel it then,” he said quietly. his voice wasn’t angry, just tired, broken, desperate.

“look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me…that you don’t feel anything when i look at you like this and i’ll stop. i’ll leave you alone.”

you freeze. you didn’t answer right away. because you did feel it — you felt it in your chest, in your stomach, in the way the world always seemed to go a little quieter when he was around. you feel it in the ache that never went away after that night. you feel it in the way he says your name like it’s something holy. but that truth was too dangerous. too real.

so you hardened your voice, you shove it so far down you almost believe the lie yourself.

“i don’t feel it.”

you looked him dead in the eye, even though it nearly broke you. mark’s face falls but you don’t stop there. you lift your chin, meeting his gaze and finally twisting the knife in both of you.

“i don’t love you.”

his face didn’t crumble. didn’t twist in pain. he just stilled – silent, hollow stillness. the words knocking the breath from his lungs in one brutal blow. his eyes search your face like he’s trying to find a hole in your armor – something to tell him you don’t mean it.

you walked away, leaving him in the kitchen and disappearing into the crowd before he can see the way your hand trembles. before he can see the way your heart is breaking too. every step away from him felt heavier than the last. your throat felt like it was strangling your heartbeat. every breath scraped your ribs like regret trying to crawl out of your chest.

you told yourself not to look back. not to care. this is for the better. he deserves someone better. someone who knew what they wanted. someone who can give him the love he has to give without flinching.

you did the right thing. for the both of you.

you ignore your friend’s calls. focused only on trying to get as far away from this place as possible. and yet, as you passed through the living room, something ridiculous stopped you cold — someone was messing with a money gun. dozens of dollar bills floating all around you, spinning through the air like confetti in slow motion. you scoffed before you could stop yourself, bitter and breathless at the irony.

you pushed forward anyway, trying to control your tears, making your way through the bodies and out into the front lawn. you manage to make it a couple feet away.

but then…fingers, warm and gentle, wrapped around your wrist, turning you towards his tear-filled eyes as he caught up to you, breathless.

“what are you so afraid of?” mark asked, eyes wide, wild with a mixture of hope and desperation.

“what is it that terrifies you so much you’d rather lie to my face than admit what we have?”

his words cracked something open inside you. that was it. the last of your resolve breaking apart. your defenses collapsed.

“you, mark!,” your voice broke, full of too many emotions you could no longer control, “i’m afraid of you!”

he blinked, startled. you didn’t let the silence catch up.

“i’m afraid of what you make me feel,” you said, voice unraveling.

“i’m afraid because i’m in love with you too. and i don’t want to be!”

the tears came fast and hot but you no longer cared about the strong front you’ve been trying to keep up.

“—because the last time i fell in love, it destroyed me. i gave everything to someone who promised they’d stay and they left. and i had to build myself back up from nothing and i swore i’d never let myself feel like that again.”

mark took a slow step closer. like he was approaching something sacred.

“i don’t want to become her again,” you choked out, “the girl who wakes up wondering if today is the day everything falls apart. the one who clings too tightly. the one who ruins everything because she wants too much.”

“you’re not her anymore,” he said softly, like he was holding your heart in his hands., “you’re stronger now. you know who you are. and if things fall apart,” his voice cracked, his own tears falling, “i’ll still be there, i’m not going to leave you.”

you shook your head, tears falling freely, “you don't know that! what if i mess it up? what if i’m too much?”

“then i’ll stay anyway,” he said, voice trembling with conviction, “i’ll stay and remind you every single time that you're not too much. that you’re worth loving.”

you looked up at him, ready to break again but his words make you freeze, “and i’m scared too.”

mark swallowed hard.

“i’ve never been in love before,” he said. “not like this. not even close and i don’t know what i’m doing. i’m scared i’ll say the wrong thing. that i’ll mess this up. that i’ll love you too much or not enough or in the wrong way”

he let out a shaky breath, gaze locked on yours.

“but i’m willing to learn. i'm willing to fall. because i'm scared of losing you the most and i’d rather be scared with you than go my whole life without you in it…without trying.”

his eyes bored into yours, wide and unguarded, filled with that same fear you’d been carrying. you realized then that you weren't so different. just two souls wanting to love and be loved, both terrified of what it might cost.

and if he was brave enough to jump, you weren’t going to let him fall alone — with that, the last wall inside you crumbled and you reached for him.

mark pulls you into his arms like he’d been waiting for this moment all his life. there, under the stars and distant music, you clung to him, allowing yourself to want him. your chest heaved against his, tears soaking into his t-shirt. and still, he held you tighter.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered, voice hoarse, “i’m just…i’m so scared.”

“i know,” he murmured back, “it’s okay. i’m here.”

he rocked you gently like your pain had a rhythm only he understood. he didn’t know what else to do but hold you.

eventually your tears slowed. your breathing evened out. your fingers loosened from their desperate grip. you stayed in his arms a moment longer, heart pressed into his chest. committing it to memory like it was a song you never wanted to forget.

then you pull back, just enough to look up at him. your lashes were damp, eyes still glassy, “i meant it,” you said, barely above a whisper, “i love you.”

his eyes searched yours, not for doubt, but for the truth. and when he found it, unguarded, soft, scared, real, his hold on your waist tightens just a tiny bit like he couldn’t believe this was real and not something he’d dreamed up in all the nights he spent missing you.

mark leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. you don’t. his lips brushed yours, featherlight at first, then deeper, steadier, like exhaling after holding his breath for years. you kissed him back like it was the only thing you knew how to do — your heart had spent so long trying to run away from this very feeling and now it was collapsing into it with both arms wide open.

no more running. just you and him and the promise of something real. not something that had an expiration date marked by final exams and end of sessions.

he smiled against your lips. you pulled away, the smallest, tearful laugh catching in your throat.

“so…what do we do now?,” you asked, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of your lips, though your voice was still soft. still fragile from everything it had admitted. and your eyes only had room for his reflection.

mark raised a hand, thumb gently brushing a tear from your cheek, “well,” he said, his voice low and full of warmth, “i would love to take you out on a date.”

and this time, when you smiled…it felt like the beginning.

ᓚᘏᗢ the next day.

mark knocks at your door at exactly 6:00P.M. a little more dressed up than usual, his face freshly shaved, hair styled perfectly, a bouquet of white roses behind his back.

you open the door and his breath catches. the red dress you're wearing stops just above your knees, hugging your curves in all the right places. its bold and subtle all at once, elegant neckline, bare shoulders.

you see the shift in his expression instantly, eyes widening, lips parting slightly.

“kitten,” he breathes out, recovering just enough to let a smirk tug on his lips “are you trying to cancel our date?”

your brows furrow in amusement, “what?”

he lets out a soft laugh, eyes still tracing the length of you. “how do you expect me to not want to have my hands all over you until this is off?” he says, a hand wrapping around your waist, pulling you gently against him, already losing his inner battle.

a playful smirk appears on your lips, “hey, buy a girl dinner first,” you say, pressing your palm to his chest to push him back, just a little.

he chuckles, deep and warm, eyes twinkling as he finally brings the bouquet around “for you, kitten.”

you take the flowers with a soft, surprised smile “these are beautiful mark, thank you,” you say quietly, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to his lips, just a quick one, before slipping back into your apartment. he stays at the door, watching as you make yourself into the kitchen, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. you rummage through your drawers for the vase you rarely use, dusting it off before filling it with water. carefully, you begin arranging the flowers on your coffee table. mark steps inside, closing the door behind him. his arms wrapping around your waist in a back hug.

“you ready?,” he murmurs, a kiss brushing the curve where your neck meets your shoulder.

“mhm,” you smile, reaching down to pat his hand before lacing your fingers with his. his grip is warm, sure. he leads you to the door, locking it behind you as you both step out of your apartment.

“this is kinda weird,” he chuckles as you walk towards his car.

“what? holding my hand,” you say, about to pull your hand away only for his grip to tighten.

“i didn’t say it was bad,” he says quickly, pulling you closer, “i’ve just never held hands with my girlfriend before.”

you chuckle, some things never change.

“oh, i didn’t know i was your girlfriend now?,” you smirk, teasing, a brow raising.

his smile instantly drops, “please say sike,” he mutters, suddenly serious. you burst into laughter and the tension in his shoulder melts. he watches you in awe, like your laugh could break every bone in his body and he’d still ask to hear it again. a smile taking over his features.

“sike,” you say sweetly just as he pokes your side, making you jump. he opens the passenger door for you with a smug look and you slide inside, cheeks warm, heart racing.

mark planned the most romantic, classic first date imaginable. like something ripped right out of a movie montage. candlelight dinner, soft jazz humming in the background and a corner table in a quiet, upscale restaurant where the lighting was dim and golden, casting everything in a dreamy glow. the flicker of the candle between you danced in his eyes, making him look warmer, softer than usual. the low murmur of other diners fading into the background. he pulled out your chair for you like a real gentleman. you ordered your food, sat across from each other, feet brushing beneath the table, half accidental, half deliberated. it was playful and sweet. he smiled every time it happened like he was trying to make you blush without saying a word. and it worked — you couldn’t remember the last time a date felt this intentional, this thoughtfully put together. like someone had wanted to impress you.

“wow, you really did your research, huh?,” you tease him, eyebrows raised, an amused smirk tugging at your lips.

“only the best for my girl,” he winks. you rolled your eyes at the line but the flutter in your chest betrayed you.

the food arrived and for a while you just existed in the moment. complimenting the dishes, laughing about how his plate looked fancier but yours tasted better. he slid a perfectly sliced piece of steak onto your plate without you asking and you absentmindedly twirled a forkful of pasta and held it out to him like it was second nature. like it was something you’ve been doing for years.

then halfway through the meal, mark leans in a little. his elbow resting on the table, chin in hand like he couldn’t help but watch you.

“i don’t know enough about you,” he says suddenly.

you looked up, caught mid-chew and more caught off-guard, “you’ve literally seen me naked, i think you’re doing fine.”

mark laughed — that warm, boyish sound that always cracked you open a little more than you liked to admit. he leaned back slightly, shaking his head, “yeah but i mean know you. like the little things. the stuff people forget to ask but matters more than they think.”

you blinked, slowly setting your fork down, “ok…what do you want to know?”

he lights up like a kid on christmas day, “what’s your favorite color?”

“really, mark?” you laughed, because of all the things he could’ve asked, it was a question as simple as that.

“hey! it’s important especially since i want to buy you gifts,” he shrugs, taking a bite out of his (your) pasta.

you rolled your eyes, smiling anyway “okay. pink.”

mark blinked, surprised. he never would’ve guessed. “pink?”

“mhm,” you said, spearing a bite of the salad in between you, “not like neon pink though but soft pink.”

“didn’t see that coming,” he said grinning. “but it kinda fits…you act all tough but you’re secretly a softie.”

you narrowed your eyes, “careful.”

“just saying,” he chuckled, reaching for his drink.

“alright,” you said, pointing your fork at him, “your turn, favorite color?”

“blue.”

you tilted your head, chewing thoughtfully, a playful grin on your face, “blue because it’s the color of the sky?”

he grinned, “that was the reason…at first,” he said, voice softening, “then you walked up to me, wearing a soft blue sundress during freshman year and the reason changed.”

your fork froze halfway to your mouth. for a second, the air felt heavier, quieter, like the words had rearranged the molecules around you. your eyes widen a little, lips parting as your expression falters between surprise and amusement.

“you remembered what i was wearing?,” you ask in pure disbelief.

“how could i forget?,” he shrugs like he didn’t just confess something that would stay with you for the rest of your life.

“wait…are you saying you’ve had a crush on me since freshman year?,” you asked, your tone teasing.

mark rolled his eyes, but he was still grinning, “i may have had a tiny crush on you back then,” he admits. the smile on your face growing with every second.

the rest of your evening unfolded like a dream you didn’t want to wake from. full of quiet laughter, sharing of favorites and the reason behind them. every answer was like turning a page, revealing another layer neither of you had taken time to read before. between conversation, his hand would find yours, fingers lacing together like they belonged there. he’d brush your knuckles with his thumb, every movement gentle, deliberate. and every now and then, he’d lean over and kiss you. soft, unhurried kisses that made your skin hum and your stomach flip.

by the time you slid back into his car, the air between you was warm and charged, not with tension but with something more open, more vulnerable. he let you have the aux, learning your favorite songs on the ride back. both of you singing along, sometimes out of tune, sometimes laughing too hard. his hand was in yours the whole drive home. you kissed at stop lights. playful pecks that turned into lingering moments. the city moved around you, but you both felt disconnected. stuck in your own world with a population of two.

when he finally pulled up to your place, you were still laughing about something stupid he’d said. and then it got quiet. the kind of the quiet that meant something more. mark walked you to your door, hand still wrapped around yours like he couldn’t let go.

“tonight was really fun,” you said softly , your arm looped around his neck, fingers playing absentmindedly with his hair.

“yeah?,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss your temple, lingering there for a beat, “would you say i’m you know…boyfriend material?,” he teased, smirking against your skin.

you huffed a laugh, playfully nudging him with your shoulder, “that was so bad.”

he tilts his head to look at your properly, the mischief fading into something gentler, more sincere, “i had the best time.”

you met his gaze, leaning up to kiss him – slow and sweet. his arms tightened around your waist, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss for a heartbeat before you pulled back, breathless but smiling.

“goodnight, mark,” you whispered, not quite ready for the night to end.

“goodnight kitten,” he said just as softly.

you slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. but your skin still buzzed with his touch, lips still tingling with the memory of his kiss. you leaned against the door, eyes closed, heart racing as the entire night replays in your mind.

outside, mark stares at your door, already missing your presence. he started to bring his fist up for a knock, but then the door opened. again.

he blinked, startled.

you were standing there, eyes already locked on his. you didn’t say a word. neither did he.

because in the next second, he crossed the threshold and kissed you – hard, fast and real. all the restraint of the evening gave way to need. he kicked the door shut behind him, hand blindly finding the lock as his other arm wound around your waist.

you make the familiar steps to your bedroom, lips never leaving his, a quiet gasp escaping you when he lifted you slightly, walking you backward until your knees hit the bed.

and when you made love, it wasn’t rushed or desperate. it was slow, tender. his hands memorized you all over again. his lips marked every inch of your skin. you whispered his name like it meant something new now. he held you like he never wanted to stop.

the morning came and you were still there, wrapped tightly around his arms. body molded perfectly against his like you were always meant to fit there. fingers interlaced like your hands had made a silent promise sometime in the night to never part. mark could see the pink and purple marks blooming where his lips and hands had wandered. he watched the gentle rise and fall of your chest — you looked peaceful, like all the weight you usually carried had melted away in the dark, if only for a little while. and in that quiet moment, with the world still hushed around you, he knows that it’s all worth it.

and if he had to do it all over again – the mistakes, the heartache, the waiting. he would. every single time, without hesitation, if it always leads him back to this. back to you. the only thing he’s ever been sure of.

ᓚᘏᗢ

loving mark made you realize that love didn’t have to be a fantasy. it wasn’t all sunshines and rainbows and happily ever afters. but it also wasn’t terrible, screaming at each other at 3am, being left behind on the kitchen floor, crying your eyes out.

it didn’t happen overnight either. there was still fear lingering in the back of your head. but this time you don’t let it take control. this time you don’t let it overpower.

because love with mark is staying, even when you were scared. especially when you were scared. it was comfort and safety. the kind that wrapped around your heart and told you it was okay to let your guard down. it was peace. the kind that didn’t demand you to be anything other than what you were. it was someone showing up at your apartment with your favorite snacks, settling in beside you on the couch while a romcom played and cramps left you curled under a blanket. no pressure to talk. just presence. it’s laughing at terrible jokes until your stomach hurt. arguing about which spiderman was the best. agreeing to disagree, even if you were clearly right. it was fighting over which greasy takeout to get and pretending to be annoyed when he ordered your favorite anyway. it was celebrating the happy moments, the sad moments and everything in between. it’s sticking around when things got hard. still choosing each other when the weight of the world made everything feel heavy. it was learning each other and unlearning old patterns. being patient. building something new, one honest conversation at a time. it was asking, “do you want advice or do you just want me to listen?” it was hearing the answer and respecting it.

it wasn’t about fixing each other or needing someone to fill a space inside you. it was about wanting to be there. it was about choosing to stay again and again and again.

𓏲 the end.

-

18+ only | watch at your own risk | contains mature content

bonus: mark x kitten coded -> video one, video two, video three

-

an: and 3/7 is done! i hit the 1000 text block limit thing on here and it was awful. it’s not my fault they’re both yappers and i write way too much when mark is involved! i hope i was still able to convey the tension and longing in those long ass paragraphs >.< …. anyways, this was supposed to end the moment she walked away but i couldn’t do it! i had to give mark a happy ending, he deserves it!. kitten was so hard to write like why am i writing a character with past trauma and real, raw, emotions that are hitting too close to home… this is supposed to be a fun, silly rom-com. but i hope you liked her! i hope you liked them. thank you for reading! <3

VOTE HERE FOR THE NEXT STORY

likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated ⏦ﾟ♡︎

love tags : @bluedbliss @yesohhsehun @tynlvr @sunghoonsgfreal @2sungie @euphormiia @ptv-hades @imnotrosiee @remgeolli

[withlovemark]

“STUPID CUPID”

pairing: fuckboy! na jaemin x secret identity! reader | genre: rom-com | words: 24k+

synopsis -> mr. cupid — anonymous radio host. running the #1 most popular radio show on campus. famous for his thoughtful advice and classified as a true hopeless romantic. na jaemin — photography major, the sweet fuck-boy. described to be affectionate and gentle…but don’t fall for his tactics! once he’s done with you, he’s gone with the wind. your best friend unfortunately happened to be on the receiving end of this. what happens when you find out that the anonymous radio host is none other than na jaemin himself? sweet revenge.

warnings -> tooth rotting cheesiness you’ll roll your eyes, a hundred different synonyms for a gentle smile, pet name unlocked: angel, lots of stolen kisses, there’s only one bed, reader and jaemin are stupid and selfish sometimes, a tiny bit of angst, a hole in the wall, +18, crude language, fuck-boys, mentions of drugs, alcohol, make outs, one night stands, more than one boner, smut! oral-m/f receiving, fingering, slight nipple play, blowjob, handjob, sex, a brief conversation with his cock, jaemin is whiny and vocal and big, masturbation, public sex if u squint.

an -> the first installment of the loverboy series is finally yours. i hope you love (and hate) it as much as i do. i had so many moments in the three months i’ve had with this work where i almost scrapped this as i couldn’t figure out how to progress the story without it being so cheesy. i wanted something grand, something never been done before! but (fortunately) with rom-com, and the amount of lovely fiction out there, everything has been done before. so i succumbed to the inevitable cheesiness and made something i was happy with. hope you enjoy! with love, c.

dear, mr. cupid,

my best friend slept with her crush! problem is, he’s a total fuckboy and doesn’t even remember her. he walks around pretending he doesn’t know her. what can i do to get back at him?

love,

heart

mr. cupid reads the anonymous confession of the day, ready to give his think piece.

“hi heart, hmm,” he pauses, seeming to be in deep thought, “first of all, i think you should be there for your friend. let her know that no man, especially a fuckboy, is worth any of her precious time. as for the guy, let him have a taste of his own medicine, he deserves it. no man should ever treat a woman like that,” he sweetly advises through the radio, making you scoff in disgust.

his fake persona was sickening considering you couldn't even count the number of girls he has been with in both of your hands in just a span of one year.

taste of his own medicine, huh?

two days later, you got all dolled up, looking exactly like the girls you know are his type – all pretty in pink, a cute skirt around your waist, pretty bow adorned on your hair, paired with heels that made your legs look longer.

you couldn’t even recognize yourself when you looked in the mirror. gone were the oversized t-shirts and sweats that usually hugged your body. you were going to make him notice you, one way or another.

it was all part of the plan – it’s simple, really! the entirety fitting in a page in your notebook, titled the downfall of na jaemin:

step one - introduce yourself.

step two - make him fall in love with you.

step three/four - break his heart and reveal to the whole world (university) that their beloved mr. cupid is a phony.

see, easy!

hence, we begin.

you’ve mapped out the trail he took after his first period. and like the mastermind you are, you were right where you needed to be at the right time. walking hurriedly past him and “accidentally” bumping into him, the books and papers in your hand flying out of your grasp, an exaggerated gasp slipping past your lips.

jaemin, quick to his feet, was already on the ground, picking up your fallen items, “sorry about that,” he apologizes.

“no it's okay, i wasn’t looking where i was going, sorry,” your sweet voice captures his attention as he finally gets a good look at you. a devilishly sweet smile growing on his features, eyebrows ever so slightly raising in a way that if you weren’t so observant, you wouldn’t have noticed.

“just be careful next time, beautiful,” he flirts, handing you back your things, the smile on his face never leaving. you fight back the urge to roll your eyes.

“thanks handsome, i’ll see you around?,” matching his energy, voice going softer, eyes flirtatiously but calculatively drooping, as you grab your books out of his hands, making sure your fingertips touch, just a little bit, before turning away and quickly walking the opposite direction.

the boy quickly called out to you, “hey!, what's your name?!”

leaning over your shoulder, plastering on the sweetest smile you can give him, you waved away like you were some kind of princess – classic romantic first meetings.

he watches your retreating figure, a small smile visible on his features. he has half the mind to follow you until the sound of his phone buzzing snaps him out of his daze.

mark: where are u? need help setting up

jaemin: omw

𓏲𝄢

“did we get new students?,” was the first thing that jaemin asked when he entered the room, his friends quickly glancing at his direction before continuing their tasks – setting the house up for the fraternity’s highly anticipated valentines day party that was two days away. it was really the only party (besides halloween, christmas and new year) that they prepared for. all the other ones, didn’t require this much work.

“not that i know of?,” mark — leader of the dream fraternity, music major, the favorite fuckboy. unlike jaemin, he doesn’t hide under sweet pretenses. he tells you what he wants from the beginning, never leaving you doubting his actions. whether or not you continue, is up to you. so you can’t exactly blame him when he breaks your heart in the end.

“huh..,” he ponders.

“why?,” his leader ask, curiosity piqued.

“saw the prettiest girl today, never seen her before,” he says nonchalantly.

“maybe she was just passing by?,” haechan — member of the dream fraternity, theatre major, the most popular fuckboy. girls love him. boys love him. he’s funny and charming but also very straightforward. you won’t catch him in a single lie because he doesn’t tell any, even if that means ruthlessly hurting people’s feelings.

“can’t be, her books were from our library,” jaemin reasons, remembering the ‘step by step: how to art?’ book that he picked up from the ground stamped with the university’s seal. maybe you were an art major?

“what does she look like?, i can ask around,” jeno — member of the dream fraternity, architect major, the chill fuckboy. doesn’t really like the whole hopping from one girl to another so he ends up in a bunch of meaningless situationships. his current one has been going on strong – a good new record of four days.

“exactly my type, long hair, soft skin, pretty smile, dressed in the cutest outfit,” jaemin sighs hopelessly, like he was just shot with the lust arrow.

“uh oh there you go again, falling for nameless girls,” chenle smirks, throwing him the streamers he was assigned to put up.

chenle — member of the dream fraternity, business major, the lowkey fuckboy. doesn’t get around as much as the rest but also doesn’t do relationships either and he makes that very clear. no use of pet names, or flowers, or chocolates or anything romantic.

“actually, she was holding an art book. renjun, have you seen anyone today wearing a pink top with a white skirt, a pretty white bow on her pretty head?”

renjun — member of the dream fraternity, art major, the fuckboy by association. only got labeled a player due to his friends. doesn’t actually care too much for romantic relationships, but he will have one night stands here and there, he still has a working dick after all. #1 person to call out the boys if they over step a line but will also fight a girl for his friends.

“didn’t go to class today, too busy setting up,” he shrugs, “leave the poor girl alone jaemin, we don’t need a repeat of last time,” he adds sternly.

“hey!, that one was not my fault, that girl was crazy,” jaemin reasons out earning a snort from jisung.

“yeah, hyung, crazy because she told you she loved you and you said it back then proceeded to avoid her,” jisung — member of the dream fraternity. dance major, the fuckboy in the making. he was in a relationship, once. the girl cheated on him so now he’s decided that love’s not real and is taking fuckboy 101 classes from mark and haechan.

“who tells you they love you while your balls deep in!?,” jaemin practically shouts, “my dick was my brain, okay!, besides who even says i love you to a guy you’ve only been talking to for a week, not to mention we barely talked!,” jaemin quickly defends himself for the umpteenth time.

“yeah, yeah we’ve heard it all before and well…that’s what you get for being sooo sweet,” haechan points out, laughing at his friend.

“that’s why next time you don’t put so much effort in,” chenle adds, joining in on the laughter.

“yeah dude, or maybe next time just tell them you just want sex? it works for me all the time i never have anyone crazy coming in like that,” mark teases, the entire group laughing as they recall the situation.

“well damn! god forbid i actually throw in a little bit of romance before i fuck their brains out,” jaemin sighs.

he can’t help it, he was a romantic at heart.

“fuck your brain out you mean?,” jeno snorts, causing jaemin to chase him around the house, fist ready for a punch.

“be careful! if you break any of the decorations i am not helping!,” renjun yells after them, the rest of the group breaking out into a chaos of laughter.

𓏲𝄢

dear mr. cupid,

i accidentally ran into someone today…my books flew everywhere! i swear some even landed on his feet but he was so kind about it, picking it up for me and calling me beautiful and now i can’t stop thinking about his sweet smile. problem is i don’t even know his name, what should i do?

love,

angel

jaemin’s jaw drops, this has to be his mystery girl…right? how many people go bumping around others and dropping their books?

he found himself liking the fact that his identity was unknown. to you he was just the kind boy who helped you out and not one of the school’s residential fuckboy. he thinks this is somehow a work of fate and was sure he had to thank divine interventions for landing you straight into his lap.

clearing his throat, he starts with his advice, “interesting, what should you do, angel?,” he clicks his tongue, “i think you should go to the place you saw him at, maybe he’ll be there again? who knows, he could have felt the same thing…i guarantee you if he did, he’ll walk up to you and say hi…men are simple creatures, after all. if they like you they’ll do something if not, well, you deserve a better man, angel…”

angel — a pretty name for a pretty girl, jaemin thought.

“and of course to all you lovely ladies out there, advice of the day from your favorite cupid is: never accept anything less than the best…goodnight lovelies,” ending the session for the night.

“angel, angel, angel,” the name glides off his tongue. did he just use mr. cupid to get to you? of course he did, but you didn’t have to know that.

just like how he didn’t have to know that everything was falling into place, exactly the way you planned it.

like clockwork, you end up meeting him at the exact same place at the exact same time, your books safely secured in your bag — it was time to put things in motion.

jaemin spots you first, walking up to you this time, “hi angel,” you turn towards the sound of his voice, taking in his appearance, noticing the camera that hung around his neck.

“y-you listen to mr. cupid?,” you ask, playing dumb, of course he listens to mr. cupid. he is mr. cupid. you just didn’t expect him to bring the persona up at all.

“who doesn’t? it’s the number one radio show on campus,” he smirks, “and thank god i do or else i would’ve never known you were looking for me,” he shoots you a wink and it makes sense to you now how he’s never gotten caught. it’s because he doesn’t hide the fact that he “listens” to mr. cupid. he talks about mr. cupid like he was just a casual listener.

too bad for him, you saw him sneak out of the studio late that one evening, catching sight of the mr. cupid neon sign before the door shut.

you let out a playful laugh, “of course, i guess we have mr. cupid to thank…so what’s your name, handsome?,”

“you truly don’t know?,” it takes every ounce of you not to scoff.

“should i?,” you ask innocently, completely opposite from the rage you were feeling inside.

“of course not,” he shakes his head, “jaemin,” he introduces himself, hand reaching out for a handshake. you give him a soft smile before slipping your hand in his, “nice to meet you jaemin, i’m y/n.”

“not angel?”

“you didn’t think i’d actually tell mr. cupid my real name did you? it would be so embarrassing for me,” you explain and jaemin just shakes his head lovingly.

“do you want to get coffee?,” you ask, making jaemin’s smile grow wider.

𓏲𝄢

dear mr. cupid,

how do I get a fuckboy to fall in love with me?

love,

heart

“it doesn’t matter if he’s a fuckboy or not, to get anyone to fall in love with you, you have to dig deep, find out what they like and get to know them beyond surface level.” - mr. cupid.

the air in the coffee shop was buzzing with the faint hum of quiet conversations and light tunes playing from the cafe’s speakers. you sat across from him, sun rays from the window illuminating his sharp features. na jaemin, the playboy who had stolen hearts without a second thought, was now sitting before you, completely unaware of your secret identity.

“tell me about yourself,” you say as soon as the two of you got comfortable.

“well, i'm a photography major, part of the dream fraternity,” he gives the basic answer, not giving you anything else.

“girlfriend?,” you ask, eyebrows raising up as you took a sip of your drink.

“wouldn’t be sitting here with you if i had one, angel,” he responds smoothly, the use of the nickname he has insisted on continuing to call you rolls off his tongue, making you want to gag every time you hear it. perhaps you should have just given your real name.

instead you force yourself to blush, breaking eye contact like it was all too much, smiling down at your hands.

he finds it adorable of course. from his perspective, he had you right in the palm of his hands, all he had to do was catch you.

“you said you were a photography major…can i see your photos?,” you point to his camera, an innocent look displayed on your face, catching jaemin slightly off guard.

no girl has ever asked to see his work, always only curious about his reputation and seeing him as a challenge – maybe this was your ploy, pretending to care about him just so he would sleep with you.

he almost wants to tell you that you didn’t have to go through all that effort. just say the word and he’ll be in between your legs in a second but this is amusing and he’ll let it drag on for as long as you want.

“hmm, maybe later angel, how about you tell me about yourself first?,” his shit-eating grin appeared as fast as it disappeared and you knew that you wouldn’t be able to crack him so easily. you were prepared for that. in the three years you’ve heard about this boy, you have never heard of him being in love. you knew this would be hard. you had to break down your walls first if you ever wanted to see through his.

“okay, i'm an art major with a focus on painting, my favorite color is pink and i love iced americanos,” you point down to your matching drinks, letting out a soft giggle.

“hey, we’re pretty similar,” you hear the smile in his voice. of course, you calculatively said things you knew he also liked, things he’s mentioned in his show, you were an avid listener after all…before you knew it was him.

“what is it about painting that draws you in?,” he continues.

then it clicks for you — this was his own test wasn’t it?

he was using his own advice against you. he was digging deeper. his own personal trick to get you to fall for him. you give him exactly what he’s looking for.

“i guess i just love watching simple colors and lines all come together to create something beautiful…the way it can be interpreted in so many ways by different people, you know?,” you take a quick pause, making sure he was still listening to you. he nods encouraging you to go on, “the way it can carry emotions, i can look at it one day and feel happiness and then another day i could look at the same painting and feel sadness,” you continue, letting your heart talk for you. the passion you had for art clearly on display.

“tell me more, angel,” jaemin looks at you with a soft glow in his eyes like he's really taking in everything you’re saying and storing it somewhere safe. maybe it was because of how the sun rays hit his eyes? maybe it was genuine curiosity? or maybe he’s just mastered the act of pretending to care? you wouldn’t know. but you do know that it was easy to get lost in his gaze and it makes sense how he has succeeded in making everyone fall for him.

“hmm, i like how you can find a story within each painting if you look deep enough and i love the way that story changes depending on who’s looking,” you finish.

he smiles, a gentle smile — this one different from the grins that you were used to seeing and you knew you hit the spot.

“you know something, y/n? i think you and i are a lot alike,” he starts, “except for me, my photos are my painting,” he reveals a little but not too much, hushed voice, leaning towards you as it it was a secret. maybe it was? maybe it was something he’s never shared to anyone but you? again, you wouldn’t know.

you watch him reach for the camera sitting quietly on his side of the table, and before you could process what was happening the shutter of the flash has blinded you.

“w-why did you take a picture of me?,” you asked in quiet shock.

“i like this story, i think i want to keep it forever,” he casually admits, making your heart skip a beat. he was good and you realize now how tough this could be as you sat there thinking, was it this easy to fall for someone’s words before?

“what do you say angel, you want to go to a party with me tomorrow night?," and just like that, the grin was back on his face, snapping you out of your trance.

the NCTU valentines party – you’ve always heard about it being one of the best parties on campus, whether you’re single and ready to mingle or taken and want to party with your significant other, everyone goes to have a great time: sex, free alcohol, drugs and good music. how could anyone pass it up?

“i would love to,” you reply sweetly.

you needed to get into his room.

after all, you had no physical proof that he was mr. cupid.

𓏲𝄢

“i need to borrow a dress,” you rummage through your best friend’s wardrobe, looking for something pretty and pink.

“for what?,” giselle’s attention snaps toward you, her curiosity at its peak. she doesn’t even remember the last time you wore a dress.

“umm for a party,” you mumble, “excuse me?,” she walks over to you, not entirely sure if she heard correctly, “did you say party? you’re going to a party?!” she practically shouts, excitement bubbling through her.

“calm down, it’s not that big of a deal,” you sigh, still looking through her closet.

“uhm, yes it is! i’ve been trying to get you to a party since freshman year and you always turn me down,” she pouts, “in your own words, ‘parties are sooo lame, i have much better things to do,’” she playfully mocks, earning an eye roll from you.

“i don't sound like that,” you snarked, eyes narrowing at her.

“yes…you do,” she says, pushing you out of her closet and pulling out a pretty pink dress you’ve never seen before, exactly in your size. it was the perfect dress for the perfect girl you were currently playing.

giselle hands it to you with a smile on her face, “here, i bought it for you just in case this day ever happened,” making you chuckle, “i can’t believe you, thank you,” taking the dress out of her hands.

“whose party are you going to anyway?,” she asks.

“uhmm,” you take a second to think about whether or not you should lie but giselle knows you more than anyone else, she’ll see right through your words, so you decide to come clean, “theNCTUvalentinesparty,” you mumble and giselle’s jaw drops in shock, “the wildest party of the year for a party virgin…are you sure about that?,” she asks, voice laced with concern.

“don’t worry, i’m not gonna drink or anything,” you shrug and you see the way her mind works, piecing it all together.

“who are you going with?,” she inquired, afraid that she already knew the answer to the question.

“doesn’t matter,” you gulped, looking everywhere but your best friend.

“oh my god!,” she gasped, “don’t tell me you’re going with na jaemin?!”

“ok, i won't tell you i'm going with na jaemin,” you joked, trying to keep the energy light but you see the way her smile has disappeared into a thin line, eyebrows slightly furrowing.

“y/n-, i told you…you don’t have to do anything,” she breathes out, almost angry.

“giselle, you lost your virginity to him! and then he pretends you don’t exist?!,” you point out, reminding her of his faulty actions and how much he deserves what’s coming to him.

“so what!?, i probably would have lost my virginity to another jerk if not him, at least he gave me a good time,” you actually can’t believe she’s defending him right now, a frustrated expression appearing on your face.

“are you kidding me?! you cried over him for a week!,” you cursed, remembering the time you had to pick up the mess jaemin made.

“yes because i lost my virginity to a fuckboy!…not because that fuckboy was him, it could've been any one of them and i still would have cried,” she explains, “...but i'm over it!, i’ve been over it!,” she yells, arms flinging around, “besides virginity is a social construct anyways i feel much better without that word hanging over my head and since he’s slept with me i’ve had soooo many guys in my dms—,” she reasons out, rambling, almost losing focus until she caught herself.

“—so please y/n,” she snaps her attention back to you, holding your hands “—don’t waste your time on na jaemin and just…enjoy a good fucking party,” she practically begged.

“no,” you reply sternly, letting go of her hands “he needs to know how it feels like to get his heart broken. if not for you then i'm doing this for all the other girls who have cried over him,”

giselle sighs, your stubbornness was always a problem and she knew well enough that once you’ve set your mind on something, nothing can change it, “whatever y/n, don’t come crying to me when this blows up in your face, he isn’t as dumb as you think,” she walks out, leaving you to wallow in your thoughts alone.

𓏲𝄢

dear mr. cupid,

i’m going to my first party ever! how can i make sure i catch the attention of the person i like?

love,

heart

“be safe. don’t let anyone take advantage of you. and for the person you like? confidence is key. wear your head high, flash on your beautiful smile and always be one step ahead.” - mr. cupid.

loud music, red solo cups, couples sticking their tongue down each other's throat, a guy wearing a diaper holding a toy bow and arrow drunk in the front lawn and it’s only 9pm.

this is the infamous valentines day party?

you wanted nothing more than to turn around and go back to the safety of your dorm room, hide under the blankets and binge watch cheesy rom-com movies until the sun comes up.

before you can psych yourself out, an unknown voice makes its way to your ears, “you must be, angel?,” the figure walks up to you, a smirk etched onto his face.

“and you are?,” you ask, already feeling a bit uncomfortable.

“haechan,” he introduces, hand going up for a handshake. he waits for yours but you never give it, only glancing at his hand with a slight look of disgust. quickly retracting it, the boy runs a hand through his long dark hair, laughing it off.

“he was right,” he comments, looking you up and down, “sorry?,” this is by far the most confusing conversation you’ve ever had. you’ve decided you hated parties.

“...long hair, soft skin, pretty smile and dressed in the cutest outfit, you are exactly his type,” he mumbles, sipping from his cup and taking a step towards you.

ahhh so he’s talked about you.

haechan’s figure towers over you and you’re now very aware that he’s an intoxicated man and you’re in nothing but a tight pink dress who forgot to bring some sort of self defense weapon. you hold onto your purse a little tighter, ready to swing if it comes down to it.

“back off, haechan,” jaemin’s deep voice echoes from behind you. his familiar presence brings you a sense of comfort. you’d take him over this random guy in front of you any day. though you’re not entirely sure it’s better.

“just introducing myself,” haechan smirks, raising his hands in mock surrender as the taller boy steps up beside you, “see you later, angel,” haechan bids his goodbye, walking back into the loud frat house.

“sorry about that, he gets a little too confident when he’s drunk but he’s never physically hurt anyone…just a whole lot of talk really,” jaemin snaps your attention back to him.

“physically?,” you question, head tilted.

“well, i can’t say the same for emotionally, he’s a heartbreaker you know?,” jaemin chuckles, taking a step closer to you.

“and you’re not?,” you look at him quizzically, smirk on your lips, challenging him.

“you look really beautiful, angel,” he ignores your question, choosing to lean in and compliment you instead, playful smile on his lips, “stick close to me tonight okay, you don’t want another heartbreaker getting near you,” he whispers, sending goosebumps throughout your skin.

jaemin watches you intently, “now, c’mon…let’s go inside,” he leads the way to the entrance with you following right behind him, head held high.

if you thought the outside was bad, the inside of the house was a whole different nightmare. the music booming filling up every corner of your mind, sweaty bodies bumping and grinding against each other, more lip locking, not entirely sure who’s paired up with who, everyone just kissing everyone, one side of the room chanting “shot, shot, shot,” the other side carrying someone on the keg stand. the air was thick with the stench of alcohol and a mix of different flavors of vape smoke, hitting you all at once. you were definitely out of your element, panic settling in the pit of your stomach.

jaemin quickly senses your discomfort, your feet frozen to the ground, wincing as you look around the room, taking it all in. he walks towards you, gently lacing his fingers around yours, “just stay close to me, okay, y/n?,” gone was the smirk that you swore was glued on to his face, eyes full of concern. you nod, tightening your grip around his hand before he led you deeper into the room and into the kitchen where there were less people.

“ahh, there they are, took you guys long enough, i thought you may have just led her right to your bedroo-oW,” haechan fumbles over after the guy next to him punched him in the stomach, “what the fuck, mark?,” he groans in pain, mark ignoring him.

“please ignore hyuck, he’s had too much to drink…i’m mark,” mark smiles at you, he seems normal enough. this time you accept the handshake, “im y/n,” you reply, shooting him a quick smile, “i thought his name was haechan?,” your eyes darted between the three boys, pointing at haechan who was still soothing his pained stomach.

“haechan when he’s flirting, donghyuck to his friends,” mark says, clearing it up for you.

“you don’t have to tell her that, we’re not friends,” the boy chimes in and you agree, “he’s right,” making him perk up, “on a second thought, maybe we can be friends,” he says cheerfully, “sorry about my behavior, y/n,” he drunkenly apologizes, pout on his lips and you’re confused at the sudden change in his behavior.

“praise him once and he’ll do anything for you,” jaemin explains, chuckling at his friend’s antics and handing you a cup, “drink?,” he asks.

you eye the red cup suspiciously, “it’s just coke and henny,” jaemin says, taking a sip out of the cup to let you know that it’s safe to drink. you appreciate the action, “thanks,” you say, taking the cup from his hold and taking a sip. the taste was absolutely repugnant and you try your best to not let it show on your face.

“oooh that’s basically a kiss,” renjun from your art class walks in, teasing, and your eyes almost bulge out of their sockets. there’s no way he’s here right now? renjun was so polite and proper, what the hell was he doing here?

you realized now that you actually had no idea what happens in your university. too absorbed in your own bubble to know who’s friends with who, “ooooh jaemin and angel sitting on a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” haechan sings making the boy’s chuckle as you tried to hide your face behind the red solo cup.

jaemin shoots you a smile before getting dragged away by mark to the other side of the room, creating more mixed drinks for the party, leaving you with haechan and your fellow art classmate.

“hey, i’m renjun,” he walks up to you casually earning a slight nod from you, “you must be angel?,” he questions and all you do is nod, downing your drink, trying to ignore the burning in your throat, “okayy?,” he eyes you suspiciously and you’re afraid your cover has been blown until haechan grabs his hand, “don’t stare at my friend, it makes her uncomfortable,” he steps in and suddenly you’ve decided that haechan is your favorite.

“let’s go look for jisung, i still gotta teach him how to do that tongue thing,” haechan says, grabbing renjun and mark out of the room. you don’t even want to know what tongue thing they’re talking about, just grateful for the fact that renjun was finally gone.

“woahh, slow down angel,” jaemin makes his way back to you, taking the cup out of your hands, “what?,” you didn’t even realize you were still drinking it, too caught up in trying to not get caught.

“you finished it,” he says, almost proud, chuckling at your actions.

“oh…,” you sigh, looking at the empty cup. well, that’s not good. you’re not exactly a pro when it comes to alcohol and you can feel it catching up to you now, the heat in your face growing as a carefree laugh slipped from your lips, “i guess i did.”

jaemin finds you absolutely adorable, “let’s go dance, angel,” grabbing both of your hands and dragging you out of the kitchen, into the crowded living room, a strong hold around your waist, making sure you don’t trip amongst the crowd of people.

the music sounds so much better with the alcohol in your system. for a moment you let yourself enjoy it as you swayed to the beat, singing at the top of your lungs, jaemin right behind you, hands on your waist as your bodies were pushed closer and closer until there was no longer any space in between you.

maybe you understand parties now? you have never felt more free than you did now, all the worries and anxiety that came from school completely leaving your body. the only thing on your mind is the alcohol and jaemin’s warm hands electrifying your waist.

he turns you around in his embrace, coming face to face with his huge smile, “are you having fun!?,” he yells over the loud music.

the red heart shaped lights flashes around the room, illuminating his features, making him glow.

mr. cupid’s words ringing in your ear — be confident.

and so with the help of liquid courage, you wrap your hand around his neck, the smile on your lips never leaving as you made the first move, pulling him towards you, and catching him by surprise, “yes,” you whisper against his lips before finally connecting like they were magnets.

his lips were so soft against yours, jaemin quick to lead like this was a rehearsal he’s rehearsed a million times.

if you were to ask him, he knew you wouldn’t last long — this whole act of pretending to care about his photography. he’ll give you credit for being clever, for letting the romantic in him live for a couple of hours but at the end of night he is who he is. you want one thing from him and he wants one thing from you. he knows how this goes.

his hold on your waist tightened pulling you even closer, the growing bulge in his jeans felt hot against your thigh. one of his hands made its way to your cheeks, thumb softly grazing your cheekbone as he deepened the kiss, tongue swiping at your bottom lip for entrance. the taste of alcohol and spearmint lingers as your tongue meets – he was a good fucking kisser and so dangerously intoxicating. he lightly bites your bottom lip, slowly pulling away and making his way down your neck.

“what do you say, we take this up to my room, angel?,” he whispers, sucking the sensitive spot right below your ear, earning a light moan from you. the mention of his room reminds you of why you were here in the first place. that’s the location you needed to get to. you nod, giving him the go signal, the smirk back on his face as he led you up the stairs. you hear the hollers of the people around you. to them, you were going to be another name under his belt and you’ve never felt more sick to your stomach than now. to think, for a brief moment, you were actually having fun with him.

as soon as you entered the quiet of his room, the only sound that filled the air was the faint hum of music drifting from downstairs, helping you think a lot more clearer. jaemin’s lips were littering kisses down your neck, body trapped between his large figure and his bedroom door. this was enough.

“jaemin-,” you sigh, “yes, angel?,” he murmurs against your skin. you lightly push him away, “i-i don’t want to do this,” you mutter out, looking down at the floor, making sure you look embarrassed from your actions.

jaemin immediately stops, taking a step back and giving you space, “that’s okay, we don’t have to do anything,” you look up at him, expecting to see an annoyed expression at you wasting his time but all that greets you is a quiet shock on his face, a momentary confusion before his eyes turned upwards, kind and gentle. the same genuine smile you briefly saw at the cafe making an appearance and it surprises you.

“sorry,” you whispered softly.

“no need for apologies, y/n, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he says gently, grabbing your hand and leading you to sit on his bed. you take note of the way he calls you by your actual name when it matters.

“uhm can i get you anything?,” he asks you sweetly, a little awkward.

this entire situation has got you wondering if he was more like his fake persona in real life…but you can’t be blinded by his sweet actions. this is his tactic.

ladies and gentlemen — the sweet fuckboy.

“could you get me a glass of water?,” you ask and he quickly complied “of course, i’ll be right back, make yourself comfortable,” he smiles at you, still that same genuine smile and you almost believe it.

the sound of the door shutting has you on your feet in no time, ignoring the dizziness and blurred vision that came with the alcohol.

you quickly look around his room for any signs of mr. cupid, taking note of his bare walls — absolutely nothing that leads to him being the anonymous radio host.

making your way over to his dresser, you rummage through his drawers, shutting the first drawer as soon as you opened it, the space filled with packets and boxes of condoms and a bottle of lube. the next drawer you opened, to your luck, was his underwear drawer, you shut that one tight as well. you quickly look through each one, not finding a single thing, eyes quickly scanning the room, heart beating quicker as you feel yourself running out of time and then you see it…a box hidden at the bottom of his desk tucked all the way in the back…jackpot.

you open the box to pictures of him at the studio, the mr. cupid neon sign logo right behind him as he sits prettily behind the microphone. you find yourself laughing like a maniac, here it is! proof!

you can finally take him down.

quickly taking one of the pictures, you neatly tuck it in your purse before placing the box back where it belonged, running back to his bed to compose yourself, feeling like you just ran a half marathon.

𓏲𝄢

“that was quick,” jeno snickers as jaemin enters the kitchen, grabbing you a cold glass of water.

jaemin shakes his head at his friend’s comment, “we didn’t do anything, she actually told me to stop,” he explains leaving both of them dumbfounded.

“really?,” chenle inquired, a puzzled look on all of their faces.

“really,” jaemin confirmed, “i told you, she might be different,” he smiled a lovesick smile and they knew their friend was in trouble – he was letting his hopeless romantic side win once again.

“you’ve only known her two days, jaemin,” jeno reminds him, “how can you be so sure?,” he challenged.

“well, if she was like the rest, i would be inside her right now,” jaemin points out, earning a playful punch from the two boys.

jaemin was used to girls wanting him for one thing and one thing only – bragging rights.

it’s not a secret that he was known for only sleeping with the hottest, prettiest girls on campus. in turn, he has been a personal target for them, feeling justified and confident when jaemin gives them the time of the day and well, how could he pass up the offer?

they used him for reputation and he wasn’t a saint. he used them for easy sex. everyone wins. after a while he stopped trying to remember their names but the hopeless romantic in him lives on through his persona. he tries his best to add in a bit of romance but no girl could even fathom the idea of one of the fuck boys falling in love. no girl could even trust him to do so. only one girl told him she loved him but how could she? when all she knew about him was that he was incredibly good in bed.

so this, right now, the rejection he just received from you – it feels sweet on his tongue.

jaemin notices your disheveled appearance as he walks back in his room. you’re still sitting where he left you, sweat trickling down your forehead. he glances around his room, concern creeping into his voice, “you okay?”

were you okay? hell yeah, you felt fucking great you could hardly control the giddiness seeping out of you.

“i-uhm, don’t think the alcohol is settling in my stomach properly,” you lie. well, it was a half truth. the alcohol coursing through your system doesn't feel as great anymore and now that the adrenaline has worn off, an overwhelming wave of nausea hits, leaving you feeling sick to your stomach.

“c’mon, drink this,” he makes his way over to you. the cool water is refreshing, but it does little to ease the churning in your stomach.

jaemin grabs something on his desk before making his way behind you, gently brushing your hair out of your face, carefully tying it up into a ponytail. he was surprisingly really good at it and you can’t help but wonder how much practice he’s had.

he kneels before you, gentle eyes matching his kind smile, “not much of a party goer are you?,” earning a soft nod from you, “it’s my first party” you confess, earning a shocked expression from him, “i shouldn’t have given you that cup,” he sighs, grabbing one of his jackets and softly placing it around your shoulders.

“let’s get you home, angel,” he says sweetly, placing a soft kiss on your forehead before helping you up and leading you out of the fraternity.

𓏲𝄢

“you really don’t have to walk me all the way to my dorm,” you say again for the third time.

“i told you y/n, i’m not letting you walk home alone, you’re drunk—”

“i'm pretty sober now! i really am okay!,”

“—and it’s late, i don’t feel good about leaving any woman out here at this hour,” he insists, tightening the hold he had on your hand. with his caring nature, he reminds you more and more of mr. cupid.

it’s confusing. or maybe it was still the alcohol?

“well, here we are,” you point to the building of your dorm room, “thank you for walking me home, i'm sorry i crashed your party so early,” you apologize, taking note of the time, it was almost midnight.

“there will always be another party,” he shrugs, not at all caring about missing out on the fun, “thank you for showing up by the way, for letting me walk you home and–,” his hands finding that same spot around your waist, “happy valentine’s day, y/n,” eyes gazing into yours, voice barely a whisper, “can i kiss you goodnight, angel?”

instead of the usual teasing tone that accompanied the nickname, this time it was soft, calm, almost hypnotic.

he was so close, invading all your senses, and you couldn’t help but close your eyes, fingers clenching his shirt as you waited, heart racing…you’re definitely blaming this on the alcohol.

jaemin takes this sign as a yes and soon enough his lips were on yours in a slow, intimate kiss — different from the rush kisses you’ve shared earlier that night.

before it could get deeper, jaemin pulls away, leaving a soft kiss on your forehead, eyes fluttering open, “goodnight y/n,” he says, soft smile on his lips and your breath catches in your throat, unable to speak, “g-goodnight, jaemin,” you whisper.

he finally lets you go, but doesn’t leave until he’s sure you’re safely inside.

his lips still seem to linger on yours as you stood there, body pressed against the door, replaying everything that just happened.

𓏲𝄢

“STOP!-,” you point at the mirror, “what are you doing!…stop it now!,” you tell your reflection, who was looking back at you with a giddy smile.

“you’re still thinking about the kiss, i know you are!,” you talk to yourself and you swear maybe you’ve finally lost it.

“you can’t do this! this is part of his game plan and you have your own!,” you continue, arms flinging around like a crazy person.

“stick to the plan!,” you huff out, grabbing your laptop and shooting an email to mr. cupid.

dear mr. cupid,

i found that sweet guy i told you about. we spent valentine’s day together and i know this is cheesy but there were butterflies and all. i wanted to thank you for the helpful advice. please don’t read this out loud because i know he listens to this show and this is a bit embarrassing to say.

love,

angel

the next morning was a saturday and lucky for you, you had no saturday classes which meant you could go run to the safety of the art studio and paint to your heart’s content.

a way to debrief and just be yourself, shut your mind out from the rest of the world, even if it is just for a couple of hours. ditching the cute pink outfits, you settled for your go to paint splattered oversized t-shirts, matching your oversized sweatpants, hair in a messy bun, ready for the day.

as soon as you stepped outside, the sunlight blinding your eyes, a familiar voice hit you, halting you in your tracks, “good morning, angel!,” na jaemin stood before you, radiant as ever, eyes sparkling, smile beaming.

oh…why the hell did you bring him here last night?

now he knew exactly where you lived. now he knew exactly what you looked like. the real you, anyways. the alcohol truly was a horrible idea because him showing up here unannounced was something you didn’t plan for.

“what are you doing here?,” you say, almost harshly.

“i thought you would be hungover, so i brought you tea,” he says, walking over to you, finally taking note of the cup in his hand, “i promise you this is the only remedy you need to get rid of any headaches, proven and tested,” he smiles proudly.

you wait for him to say something about your appearance – a snide remark, a look of disgust, anything that shows his feeling of indifference but all you were met with were his eyes that for some stupid reason, can’t stop shining as he looks at you.

“thanks,” you say, grabbing the cup, “i’m busy right now though, so i’ll just take this and be on my way,” you finally shoot him a quick smile before turning around and briskly walking away.

“hold on, angel!,” jaemin yells out, quickly jogging up to you, making you curse under your breath. there’s no way you’re going to the art studio now.

“jaemin, i would really like to just have a me day,” you force out a smile before he could say anything else.

“of course,” he nods, completely understanding, “i-just, i-,” for the first time since you’ve met him, his confidence falters a bit, words getting lost in stutters.

“-is everything okay?,” worry laced in your voice. you can’t help it. this was abnormal behavior coming from him and you had a tendency to care too much.

he gives you a shy smile, “everything’s okay and i promise to leave you alone, i just need to ask for your help,” he finally says, you look at him quizzically, urging him to explain, “i have a project due at the end of the month, the theme is ‘recreating romantic cliche scenes,’ it’s exactly how it sounds…i was hoping you could be my partner,” he finishes, expectantly waiting for your answer.

“why me?,”

“there’s no one else i want to do this with but you, y/n,” he quietly confesses, cheeks turning pink, slightly embarrassed – different from he's usual flirting.

truth is, jaemin saw your confession in mr. cupid’s mailbox this morning. it was his final confirmation. you truly were different from the rest and he can’t help but feel those butterflies you were talking about.

you ignore the way your heart skipped a beat. it would be weird to say no, besides you have yet to accomplish step 2 - make him fall in love with you. so you answer with one word that captures jaemins attention, a smile of gratitude on his lips, “ok.”

as promised, jaemin left you alone for the rest of the day after asking for your phone number and an agreement to meet on monday which is when you would start. you agreed on one scene per day, a total of three scenes for his project.

you can’t expose him just yet and this project is the perfect way to stop finding excuses to meet up with him. it’s easier this way. the more time you spend with him, the more you can play the perfect girl.

the faster you can get na jaemin to fall in love with you.

𓏲𝄢

jaemin: hi angel, i'll meet you tomorrow at 7pm at the cafe at 127th street, wear something cute

the text message pops up on your phone on sunday night. you ignore the slight tingle in your stomach seeing his name on your phone.

the cafe at 127th street was a vintage coffee/bar, popular for its retro style and smoothies. you already know the kind of cliche scene he has prepared – sharing a smoothie.

y/n: can’t wait! see you there, jaemin <3

dear mr. cupid,

how can i tell if the guy i like, likes me back?

love,

heart

“if a guy likes you…you’ll know it, not a single doubt will cross your mind. you’ll see it through his actions, hear it in his words. he’ll share with you things he’s never shared with anyone else,” - mr. cupid.

the sound of 80’s love songs hit your ears as you entered the cafe. seeing as it’s a monday night, the space wasn’t filled and as loud as it usually is on weekends – most of it being taken up by retired senior citizens coming for a good time, away from the crowd of college students this place usually brought.

jaemin waves at you from the red booths, his angelic smile on his lips, the one you’ve grown accustomed to seeing. the smile that annoys you because of the feelings that were starting to appear every time you saw it.

you notice the camera has been set up to face the booth you will be sitting on, proper lighting placed around it to really illuminate the space, “hey, quick question,” you ask, greeting him. he gives you a quick side hug, before letting you ask your question, “since this is for your photography class, shouldn’t you be behind the camera?,” you wonder.

“well, photography is also all about the proper lighting and the editing which is the main focus for this project,” he answers your questions while clicking buttons on his fancy camera, eyes focused on the task at hand, “—and besides, if i have to take pictures of you acting these scenes out with someone else, i might crash out,” he winks at your direction, earning a playful eye roll from you.

“okay so what am i supposed to do,” you await his instructions, standing awkwardly.

“just wait a while, i’m still waiting on that chocolate smoothie,”

“ahhh so we are doing the ‘sharing a smoothie’ scene?,” you ask, eyes full of curiosity. he sends you a smile of confirmation, finishing his set up as you continue to watch him work. his eyes flickering around his camera, making sure everything is perfect. in a quick second, the flash of the camera blinds you.

“sorry angel, practice shot,” he smiles apologetically as you got up to see the photo he took. he moves to the side a bit, giving you room to see behind the lens. “oh my god, i look ridiculous,” you giggle at the expression you were making, a light shock on your face as you were staring not right at the camera but the figure behind it, “you look beautiful…as always,” jaemin whispers by your ear, a small smile starting to form on your face as you take note of all the colors and shadows the camera has picked up, “it looks really pretty,” you comment and jaemin observes the way you're taking every detail in.

you turn your face towards him, finally realizing how close he was to you. so close to the point you could remember the lingering feeling of his lips on yours. you could feel yourself leaning in when the waiter’s voice snaps you back to reality, the chocolate smoothie being served.

jaemin instructs you on what to do. sitting right across from him, the chocolate milkshake placed right in the middle of the table in between you, one straw for him, one straw for you.

“ready, angel?,” he asks you from across the booth, starting his countdown “…3, 2, 1…” as soon as he reached 1, you both leaned in, taking a sip out of your separate straws, eyes locked together, FLASH, you held your breath, making sure not to move, only focused on the warm brown eyes that seemed to look right into you.

after making sure the camera captured the moment perfectly, you finally break away, giggles erupting from both of you as you reach over to wipe the whipped cream that painted the corner of his lips, before getting up to check the picture.

“looks good to me,” you say, opposite to jaemin sighing next to you, “there’s a glare on the corner,” he comments, his attention to detail spot on as you looked a little closer and noticed exactly what he was referring to.

“let’s take it again,” he instructs, ordering another chocolate milkshake.

“jaemin, can’t we just drink from the same one?,”

“no, the whipped cream is already a mess,” he pouts and you respect it.

as an artist yourself, his attention to detail was admirable and you find yourself liking this serious side of him. how much time and effort he puts into it — completely opposite from the way he treated his relationships. this was a side of him you’ve never heard of, a side of him that you wished to know.

the waiter comes back again, serving a new set of chocolate milkshake, snapping you out of your thoughts as you make your way back into the booth, ready to pose for the camera.

this time the picture turned out perfectly. you can tell by the way jaemin's eyes lit up like a child on christmas day, the way his smile grew on his face before turning to you and nodding his head in approval.

you find yourself getting lost in him. he was so beautiful like this — indulged in his work, an innocent glow radiating off of him, “come, take a look,” he invites.

immediately, you could see the difference. you’re not sure what he did, which buttons he pressed to make this picture turn out like this but it looked straight out of a movie scene and he hasn’t even edited it.

the two of you spent the rest of the night finishing the two chocolate milkshakes, listening to whatever song people chose to play on the coin jukebox. at one point, jaemin even got you dancing with him, joining the crowd of elderly’s on the dance floor. he shows off his silly dance moves, like he was one of the grandpa’s in the cafe.

“you’ve got a charming young man, my husband was exactly like that when we first met,” a lady whispered in your ear, a blush appearing on your cheeks at her comment.

“he’s not really my man,” you confess to her, smiling sheepishly.

“oh but he will be sweetheart, no one will act that foolish if they weren’t interested,” she points out, directing your attention back to jaemin, who was already looking right at you before joining the grandpa’s dance battle, making sure you were watching every move he made — making you laugh like you’ve never laughed before.

the night ended with him walking you to your dorms, a soft kiss placed on your lips before the two of you bid your goodnights. you swore your cheeks hurt from smiling too much.

and what’s worse? you couldn’t blame this on the alcohol. you walked up to your room with a heavy heart. the weight on your shoulders getting heavier as you remembered this was all part of the plan and there was no way you were going to lose to his charms.

𓏲𝄢

dear mr. cupid,

i like his serious side. i hope he’s serious with me too.

love,

angel

the next day, jaemin tells you to meet them at their frat house for the next scene. you hoped to god, renjun wasn’t there. you’re not entirely sure how you were going to hide from him this time around. but just to make sure he doesn’t recognize you, you amp up the makeup a tiny bit more, completely opposite from the minimal to none makeup you usually go for during classes.

you rang the doorbell once before coming face to face with none other than renjun himself – of fucking course, just your luck.

“hey, it’s you,” he greets you and suddenly you’re frozen in place, does he know?

“you’re not much of a talker are you?,” he asks, eyeing you up and down, “uhmm-,” you try to find your words but not a single sentence escapes your lips, your heart beating rapidly in your chest.

renjun sighs, definitely weirded out, “he’s upstairs,” he says before stepping aside and letting you in, it takes you a second or two to find your steps, walking into the house. it was much bigger now that no one was around and surprisingly, it was clean, like it wasn’t filled with boys 24/7.

“-it’s so clean,” you weren’t aware you said it out loud until renjun’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

“ahhh and she does talk,” renjun grins,” jaemin’s a clean freak so we have to keep this space clean or he starts nagging,” he explains and you nod in response. that was definitely a fun fact.

“anyways, just go up the stairs, i think you already know where his room is,” he smirks, before walking away and leaving you to it.

as soon as he was gone, you felt like you could finally breathe. he didn’t know it’s you. shaking your worries away, you make your way up the stairs, knocking against the door you remembered.

“come in,” you hear jaemin’s voice from the other side before turning the knob and entering his room. it looked exactly like the night of the party.

he immediately lights up as soon as you enter, attention focused on you, as he greeted you with a kiss. it was starting to get ridiculous how much your heart skips a beat every time his lips touched yours.

you weren’t really expecting to be kissing him this much to begin with but that doesn’t stop you from kissing back, your lipstick staining his lips, “sorry,” you giggled as you gently wiped it off of him.

“that’s okay, pink is my color anyways,” he says before stealing another quick peck. at this rate, you’re not entirely sure who was making who fall in love anymore.

“okayyy,” you push him back playfully, chuckling, “what scene are we doing today?,” making jaemin wiggle his eyebrows as he made his way to his closet, pulling out a vintage boombox.

“where the hell did you get that?,” you ask, inspecting the old device.

“i have my ways,” he winks, “so…you ready to win me back?,” he smirks and your jaw drops, “i have to be the one holding it?,” you ask, flabbergasted. boomboxes aren’t exactly the lightest objects in the world and you barely had any arm strength. for god’s sake you were a painter, your hands were as gentle as a feather.

“you’re my muse angel, you gotta be in the picture,” he flashes you an apologetic smile in a way that he wasn’t really sorry, instead finding that pout on your lips amusing.

so now you’re here standing a little outside the porch of his steps, boombox over your head, as jaemin angles the camera from the balcony, capturing you perfectly…well, not quite, “wait, the sun is in your eyes!, move to the left a little bit!,” he shouts from the second floor, as you quickly follow his instructions, “is this good?!,” you yell back, earning a nod of approval from the boy.

he takes another snap and another and another – this time around, you curse his attention to detail, your arms starting to burn, back starting to ache, legs getting tired from standing for so long with the heavy boombox over your head, “jaemin, are we almost done!,” you yell out, annoyance seeping through you.

“just one more shot angel, i promise!,” he shouts back. and so you do one more shot for him, posing in the way he wanted and just like he promised, it was finally over.

jaemin hurries down the steps of the fraternity house as you head back inside, “sorry, that took longer than i expected,” he says, gently taking the boombox from your hold, swapping it instead with a cool glass of water he had readily prepared for you.

taking a napkin, he carefully dabs away the sweat that has formed around your temples, “it’s okay, did the pictures turn out okay?,” you ask, offering him a warm smile.

“come see for yourself,” his hand envelops yours, tugging you up the stairs and onto the balcony where he had been standing. and just like the diner photo, this one also looked exactly out of a rom-com movie.

“wow, guess it only takes an amazing photographer for me to look like a lead in a movie,” you compliment and jaemin can’t help but grin from ear to ear, your praise going straight to his heart.

“well, a photographer also needs a beautiful muse, so thank you,” he smiles warmly, “and since you went through all that trouble for me, i want to show you something,” he says shyly before taking your hand in his once again and leading you back to his bedroom.

you make yourself comfortable, sitting on his computer chair as he rummages through his shelves, looking for something. after a minute or two, he takes out a large book and slowly, hesitantly, makes his way over to you, carefully landing the book on your lap.

“what’s this?,” you ask, curiously inspecting the outside of the book.

“that day in the cafe, you asked to see my photos,” you realize now that what you were holding was a photo album.

“i’ve never really shown them to anyone before so please be kind to me,” he says, rambling nervously, “of course constructive criticism is always welcome and you don’t have to like it,” he chuckles softly, trying to play it cool, hoping you won’t notice how loudly his heart was pounding in his chest.

“jaemin, you don’t have to show me this,” you say, your breath catching in your throat, heart aching.

for the first time since all of this began, you realize that jaemin is being entirely sincere with you. and here you are, sitting on his bed, taking up space, with a knife hidden behind your back.

“y/n, i want to show you,” he admits, “you’ve been entirely honest with me and i’m ready to do the same,” he says, nudging the album in your hand, wanting you to finally open it.

if only he knew.

you couldn’t take looking into his warm brown eyes any longer, focusing instead on the photo album.

finally turning a page. the first picture that greets you is of a woman that resembles the man in front of you, a shining smile on her face as she sat on a picnic blanket, the green scenery behind her making it look like she was straight out of a fairytale.

“that’s my mom, most important person in my life, she loves going on picnics,” he quietly comments, snapping your attention back to him, you give him a smile, “she’s beautiful jaemin, you captured her perfectly,” your voice faltering, before turning to the next page.

you recognize the next picture was of the boy you met during the party - mark, his name was. holding a guitar, and just like his mother in the previous page, he had a happy smile on his face, clutter of music sheets surrounding him.

the next couple of pages were all the boys you recognize from his fraternity, each one sporting a look of contentment in a place where they seemed to belong.

jaemin watches you flip from page to page, taking in the way your eyes would widen, the small smile that would appear in your lips as you looked over every photograph. his heart pounding in his chest. he wanted to impress you.

you turn and turn, getting to the photos where he was in, with his family and his friends. the sweet smile that he would share with you all marked in these pages. you realized those were your favorite. you wanted to paint it. wanted to capture every detail and keep it to yourself.

then, at the very last page was the picture of you – sitting in the cafe, on that very first date the two of you had.

you felt like you lost the ability to speak, just staring at the photo, guilt creeping in your heart. you didn’t deserve a place in these pages yet here you were… and he has managed to make you look as beautiful as the rest, like you were a part of everything good and true in his life.

“why am i on here?,” you shakily whisper, trying to push back the lump forming in your throat.

“these are all stories i want to keep forever,” jaemin softly whispers, “and i told you y/n, i like this story,” you turn to look at him, reading him. looking into his eyes, you see nothing but honesty.

the boy in front of you has finally let his walls down but you don’t feel an ounce of accomplishment. none of the feelings of gratification that you were supposed to be feeling came. the thoughts of revenge so far back in your mind.

instead you sat there, the butterflies in your stomach coming to life as you inched closer, closing the space in between you and capturing his lips in yours. jaemin quickly responds, kissing you back just as sweetly. the gravity of the moment hanging in the air.

“i'm guessing you like it?,” he asks.

"i love it," you confess, just before he pulls you in for another kiss, feeling his smile against your lips.

𓏲𝄢

jaemin walks back into the fraternity just right after dropping you off. head all up in the clouds, a love arrow happily pierced right into his heart as he hums a tune. he’s loving the constant goodnight kisses, loving the thought of being able to kiss you forever.

“jaemin–,” a voice strictly calls out to him, bringing him back to reality.

“yes, my lovely friend, renjun,” he sighs happily, sitting across from him on the living room couch.

“how long have you known, angel?,” renjun inquired.

“a week now, why?,” jaemin asks, nonchalantly. if he was here to tell him that he was being a hopeless romantic again then he doesn’t really want to hear it. this time he knows it’s different.

if the butterflies in his stomach weren't proof enough, the messages you leave for mr. cupid sure was.

“there’s something off about her,” renjun comments, making jaemin roll his eyes, “oh c’mon, you say this about every girl im with,” he points out. renjun has always been picky with the company his friends kept so this wasn’t really new to him.

“i’m serious jaemin, she seems familiar but i just can’t place my finger on it,” renjun ponders, earning a scoff from the younger boy, “there’s no placing your finger on anything, she goes to our university, you’ve probably seen her walking around campus,” he reasons out.

“whatever jaemin, just be careful,” renjun advised before walking out of the living room and up the stairs.

jaemin shakes his head, thinking back to the memory of you looking through his photo album and once again, find himself humming, smiling at the ceiling. there was absolutely nothing anyone could say to ruin this for him.

dear mr. cupid,

i think i'm falling for him.

love,

angel

you hated yourself that night.

𓏲𝄢

jaemin leads you to the parking lot, hand in hand. you inspect the location, wondering what romantic scene he had planned out for the last scenario. you’ve been dreading this moment, realizing that it’s soon coming to an end. every tick of the clock leads you to step three: breaking his heart.

you stop in front of a silver car, your brain not connecting the pieces together. turning to the boy right next to you with a set of curious eyes.

“we're going to a new location for this one,” he explains, opening the car door up for you. you don’t question it, somehow you trust him enough to hop into the passenger seat.

jaemin ensures you're securely buckled in before stealing a quick kiss, leaving a surprised flush on your face. with a smile, he jogs around and settles into the driver’s seat, putting the car in drive and hitting the gas.

you sat in silence, gazing out the window as the scenery shifted, the soft hum of the radio barely audible, allowing your mind to wander.

as you reflected on the past few days, each quiet moment seemed to lead you back to this – the heavy weight of dread and guilt slowly taking over.

the once alluring idea of revenge now tastes bitter on your tongue. you expected it to be difficult, but you never anticipated that the true challenge would be the way he’d quietly capture pieces of your heart and how you didn’t mind it at all.

in fact, you liked it. you liked being around him, liked his stolen kisses, his stories, his gentleness, the warmth that he left on your skin with every touch, his laugh and most of all, that stupid sweet smile he always seems to be sporting around you.

you’ve replayed it in your mind a thousand times, torn between the devil and the angel on your shoulders, unsure if this plan is worth risking the bond you've built with him. but every time, the same side wins — the side of pride, the side that tells you this is all still a lie. and if it’s not, then the truth remains. this relationship was born from anger and hate.

jaemin interlaces his fingers around yours, grabbing your hand, bringing you back in the car with him, “what are you thinking about?,” he asks softly. even without looking at him, you can see the smile on his face, the gentleness in his tone.

“just thinking about where we're going,” you lie, staring at your interlocked fingers that somehow seemed to fit like two perfect puzzle pieces.

“hmm, we’re going down south, to busan,” he answers and your eyes almost bulge out of your head, “what?!,” he chuckles at your expressive reaction, “jaemin that’s like a 4 hour drive,” you sulk in your seat, hand still in his, “why do we need to go that far?”

“for rain,” he shrugs, bringing your hand up to his lips as he placed a soft kiss upon your knuckles. you fight the urge to smile.

“what exactly do you have planned, loverboy?,” you tease him, pushing all your previous thoughts to the side and focusing on this moment.

“oh you know, pretty rain, pretty girl,” he tosses you a look, confirming your thoughts. he was planning to do the ever so famous rain kiss.

“if you wanted to kiss me, you don’t even need to ask,” you teased, earning a playful laugh from him, “-will keep that in mind, angel,” he winks.

the rest of the car ride was spent singing to whatever was on the radio, learning each other’s favorite things, sharing fun stories and a few more stolen kisses, some of them coming from you.

it all felt comfortable, almost like you were always meant to be here with him by your side. eventually, sleep crept up on you, leaving jaemin in the warm silence, eyes occasionally drifting to your figure, finding peace in the calm as he drove.

the next time you open your eyes is when you finally get to the location jaemin had in mind. it was cloudier here, the sky already casting a soft gray hue. jaemin sets up his equipment, preparing for the rain, while you rush to assist, quickly placing everything into the makeshift set. the lush green landscape stretches around you, the open field decorated with blooms of pinks, whites and yellows, while the river in the distance adds a cool touch of blue. you’re not entirely sure if the camera could capture the beauty of nature but you trust jaemin will find a way to make it come to life.

the rain came at the perfect moment.

jaemin decided to hit record on his camera instead, explaining how it’d be easier for the two of you, since he didn't have to run back and forth to take the picture.

he led you to the right spot, flashing you a smile before his hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer and without wasting another second his lips were on yours. heart immediately racing in your chest as you move in complete synchronization, lips chasing his as he took the lead.

the rain continuously pouring over you.

when you could no longer breathe, you pull away, giggles erupting from both of your chests.

the rain pours harder and harder. jaemin feels like he’s been struck by lightning, your giggles melodically ringing in his ear.

he pulls you back in again, kissing you gently, so intimately, like he forgot there was a camera a couple feet away. every kiss, he loses himself in you, melting under your fingertips and for the first time in forever he says words he’s never said to any girl.

“i really like you, y/n,” he confesses, the words floating in the air, replacing the sound of the rain thumping on the ground, filling every corner of your mind. he rests his forehead against yours, warm brown eyes filled with sincerity, making you unable to breathe.

and just like that, the other side won — the side that has fallen for him. the one that believes this is real. the side that likes hearing your name slip from his lips, the stolen kisses, the warmth of his hand in yours, the laughter and of course that sweet smile forever etched in your mind.

you don’t want to let go of any it.

instead, you decide to throw your four step plan out the window, casting away all thoughts of revenge that once burdened your heart.

in that moment, you felt light, free.

the rain fell in an endless rhythm, drumming against your skin, soaking every inch of you, but you barely noticed it as you kissed him again. this time with a passion that made it feel like your life depended on it.

he’s a dream you couldn’t bear to lose, a fleeting moment you feared would vanish the moment you opened your eyes. but then you feel him smile against your lips, warm hands tightening around your waist as he pulls you even closer and you’re reminded that this is real and exactly where you want to be.

you stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s embrace until the cold slowly crept in, seeping through your clothes.

the rain never letting up.

𓏲𝄢

jaemin did not plan this well at all. besides the fact that he didn’t think to bring extra clothes, the light showers the weather app had predicted had turned into a brutal rainstorm and it was getting harder for him to drive, the droplets continuing to pour heavily on the car window.

“angel, we’re gonna need to stop and stay overnight somewhere,” he suggested in which you quickly agreed to, prioritizing safety. which is how you ended up sitting on the bed with nothing but the bathrobe that came with the hotel, your clothes drying in the bathroom that was currently occupied by none other than jaemin, himself.

the hotel only had one room available and of course, like this was all a part of your doom, that available room happened to have only one bed.

you’ve already taken your shower, washing off the remnants of the cold rain sticking to your body. now that you're in the safety of the warm room, waiting for the boy to finish, your mind can’t help but wander at the possibilities the night held. you’re not entirely sure you could stop yourself if he decides to advance. in fact, you’re not entirely sure you could control yourself around him.

shaking the thoughts away, you finish drying your hair before getting under the bedsheets and tucking yourself in, making sure your robe hugged tightly around your body.

grabbing the remote from the bedside table, you switch the t.v. on, hoping the noise could drown out the nerves. you settled on the channel playing harry potter and the goblet of fire, forcing yourself to focus on the movie instead of the boy that was as naked as you just on the other side of the bathroom door.

jaemin steps out of the bathroom a couple minutes later, his robe hanging loosely around his body, a bit of his toned chest exposed to the cool air. you try not to stare for too long as he walks around the room, eyes on the t.v. he quickly shuts off the lights before finally settling on the chair, farthest away from your side of the bed, “i love this movie,” he comments, your heart pounding in your chest at the sound of his voice, somehow raspier in the night.

the effect he had on you was absolutely insane. you’ve had sex before, had a couple tricks up your sleeve but nothing like what you’ve heard about jaemin. the fact that he was amazing at sex was a known fact throughout the entire university, girls always giggling about how they had the best night of their lives and how they couldn’t walk the next morning.

turning your head towards him, you’ve realized how engrossed he actually is in the movie that’s playing and it makes you feel silly. jaemin has never made you do anything you didn’t want to do and not once has he ever crossed a line. you really needed to get your head out of the gutter.

“why are you sitting all the way over there? this bed is big enough for both of us you know,” you say, capturing his attention, reminding him of the fact that this bed is a queen sized bed.

he sends you a soft smile, “i’m a gentleman, angel”

“oh please,” you scoff playfully, “we’re both adults, we can control ourselves,” you point out, completely contradicting your thoughts and burying yourself in a bigger hole. it’s not that you were trying to provoke him, it’s just that he was the one who paid for the room and you would feel absolutely awful if he had to squeeze himself in the chair, that was obviously too small and uncomfortable, the whole night.

you pat the empty space beside you, “c’mon, i won’t bite,” you playfully tease.

unbeknownst to you, jaemin was in a way tougher spot.

he accidentally caught a glimpse of your pink lacy underwear, the one you left behind in the shower, tucked in between the rest of your clothes, and couldn’t get the image of you in a matching set out of his head. then his mind started to get a little out of control, if your underwear were here then that must only mean you were completely naked underneath that white robe.

he had to relieve himself in the shower, hand wrapped tightly around his hard cock, biting back his moans as his mind brought him to images of you. he thought jerking himself off in the bathroom would help push away all his desire for the rest of the night but as soon as he stepped into your room and saw how small you looked, tucked into the queen sized bed, he felt his cock twitch under his robe again. which is why he had to resort to turning off all the lights in the room, afraid you would see his boner poking out. then he sat there, focused on harry potter, as he tried to drown out your presence.

but now, you’re inviting him to take up the space next to you and god, you have absolutely no clue what you’re doing to him, it’s unfair. he feels disgusted at the fact that all he could think about is how much he wants to fuck you.

he really needed to get his mind out of the gutter.

slowly, he got up. surely this would not help his case but he didn’t want you to think he was a horndog that couldn’t control himself. he usually was better at this. it was just the fact that it was you and he wants you so bad. needs you. all those lingering touches and kisses finally catching up to him.

he focuses again on the screen ahead, the t.v. illuminating the dark room, light bouncing off of your faces as you sat in silence, just watching the movie play out. though if you asked him what just happened in the scene, he wouldn’t be able to tell you. his mind racing with anything that could help soften his dick.

at one point it got way too hot beneath the sheets and you made the mistake of releasing your arm out from the under and onto the bed, right next to where jaemin’s arm was lying. you try to ignore the heat radiating off of his body, try to ignore the rapid rhythm of your heart. pulling away would be suspicious so you kept it there.

jaemin’s eyes flicker from the t.v. to your hand. you were so close, all he had to do was move his pinky and his hand would be in yours.

his self-control was becoming thinner with every second that passed and before he even realized what he was doing, his pinky moved — bumping into yours and in the next second he had your hands locked together.

he turns his head towards you only to see you were already looking up at him, starry eyes locked on his for a second before you quickly turned away, blush creeping up your cheeks at being caught.

he can’t help himself anymore, moving away from the headboard and lowering himself down to the pillows as he turned his body in your direction. this time, when he turned to look at you, you were only a couple of inches away from him.

“angel,” he whispers. you cautiously turned your head towards his, knowing that there was absolutely no going back from this. the tension in the room has got you clenching at nothing and you were getting sick of it. you wanted him and you’re not entirely sure why you were holding back, considering the confessions you shared earlier.

jaemin takes a second to study your face, memorizing every freckle before he let his eyes finally dart down to your parted lips, “i really want to kiss you,” he confesses into the night air, like it was a secret no one else was allowed to hear.

“i thought i told you if you wanted to kiss me you don’t even need to ask,” you quietly tease and that was all jaemin needed to hear before giving in to the cravings of the night, harry potter long forgotten as he finally pressed his lips on yours.

he kisses you once, twice, three times before his tongue darts in begging for permission. your mouth immediately parting as you gave him access, tongues moving in melody.

the make out session grew heavier and heavier, fingers finding their way through his hair, lightly tugging, eliciting a messy whine from him, his moans sending tingles throughout your body. “fuck, y/n, i need you,” he groans against your lips and you couldn’t agree more.

you wanted his hands all over you, regretting how tightly you tucked yourself into the blankets. swiftly, and with jaemin’s help, you pushed the blanket off of you, never once breaking the kiss, leaving both of you in your robes. the lack of the heavy covers made it easier for your hands to roam, wandering down to his chests as jaemins hand settled on your back, a little bit above your ass, pulling you so close you could feel his bulge against your clothed core.

“take this off,” he demands, untying your robe and pushing it off of your shoulders, jaemin quickly tossing it somewhere across the room before hovering over you.

he takes a moment, taking you all in for the first time, practically drooling at the sight of you, you’re so beautiful to him. it’s as if an actual angel was right in front of him and the thought of him ruining you makes his cock twitch. he didn’t even know he could get this hard.

“jaemin, please do something,” you say, starting to feel insecure under his gaze. your small voice snaps him out of his daydream. “you’re so fucking beautiful,” he praises before his lips latched onto your nipple, sucking, licking, making your back arch towards him, moans slipping past your lips, other hand playing with the other bud, twisting, pinching and you feel like you could cum just from that.

“f-fuck jaemin, want you please,” you sigh in pleasure, hips bucking up in response to his actions.

“what do you want, angel?,” he asks, teasing you and it takes every ounce in you not to pounce on him.

“i want you to touch me, p-please,” you don’t even care how desperate you sounded right now.

“i am touching you, angel,” he was loving this way too much. the way you were unraveling underneath him and he hasn’t even touched the neediest part of your body.

“lower,” you plead, earning a smirk from him, “hmm, right here?,” he asks, his hand, wandering down to outline the curve of your waist and landing on your hip, rubbing soft circles around your love handles. you don’t know how much more teasing you could take, your pussy dripping with arousal, “lower, please,” you cry out, “tell me where, angel, want to hear it from you,” he grunts against your ear, leaving marks all over your neck, “i want your fingers inside of me, please,” you plead for the third time.

“anything my angel wants, she gets,” jaemin playfully whispers before his fingers found its way to your folds, rubbing up and down, “so wet already, all this for me huh,” he praises, your head nodding vigorously in response, “only for you, jaemin.”

happy with your response, his finger slides into you, finally giving you what you wanted. even with your pooling arousal, you were still so tight around his digit, making him curse. he curls his finger, immediately hitting that spot that made you see stars, eliciting a high pitched moan from you, pussy clenching even tighter.

“fuuck angel, im gonna need you to open up for me,” he slides another finger in, curling and scissoring againsts your walls, pleasure coursing through your veins, he was so so good.

“i need to taste you,” he warns before he was diving into your pussy, mouth sucking and blowing against your clit, lapping up your juices, catching your breath, “holy fuck, jaemin,” your stomach clenches, heat traveling all throughout your body as you feel your orgasm coming to a close embarrassingly soon.

“i-m gonna come, baby,” the new pet name drives jaemin absolutely crazy, fingers practically moving at a speed of light inside your walls as he continued to suck on your clit, “go ahead angel, come for me,” he moans against your pussy, the added vibrations rolling your eyes back as you lost the ability to moan, head falling backwards, mouth wide open as you came.

jaemin coaxes you through it, savoring every drop before his lips were back on yours, pulling you back down to reality as you taste yourself in his tongue.

“you okay?,” you hum in approval, a smile taking over your features as you kiss him back, hands quickly untying his robe. jaemin quickly responds, pushing the last piece of clothing away, cock springing free.

in one swift motion, you push him back down to the pillows, taking the lead as you straddled him, “your turn,” you whisper, a light shock appearing on the boy’s face before he settled into the bed, getting comfortable. one of his hands coming up to support the back of his head as he watched you, the other roaming all over your skin, a smirk displayed on his lips.

you were fucking nervous, you’ve never been this upfront in the bedroom but due to how much experience he had, you wanted to show him that you could keep up.

“want to make you feel good,” you whisper in his ear, making him shiver, he swears you were going to be the death of him. your lips found its way to his neck, decorating him with the same pinks and purples you’re sure he has left all over your body.

jaemin was very vocal, already whining under your touch, helping you completely push away any of the remaining worries you had. your fingers found it’s way around his nipples, lightly squeezing and you realized how sensitive he was as he squirmed below you, hips immediately thrusting up, “fuck, angel you’re gonna kill me,” he whines and you can’t help but let out a soft giggle as you travelled lower and lower, hand softly wrapping around his hard length, earning a breathily groan from him. you understood now why your body really needed to open up. he’s huge and you were definitely intimidated.

you start by kitten licking his tip making jaemin hold his breath as you stare up at him, his eyes completely blown out. you can tell how much restraint he’s trying to hold on to to not shove his cock down your throat. you don’t tease him for too long before finally taking his length in your mouth, sucking on his tip, jaemin’s groans immediately increasing as his hand found its way to your hair, gripping tightly, orgasm already creeping up.

you bobbed your head up and down, tears brimming in your eyes at his size. he has no idea what you’re doing to him, how you managed to have him coming undone in seconds, body shaking under your touch. no girl has made him cum this fast before, “fuck angel, i can’t last,” he manages to mumble in between heavy pants. the words encouraging you as your hand finds its way around his balls, gently cupping.

you barely touched him before he was toppling over, cum shooting down your throat with no warning, making you choke.

your hand continued to work him through his orgasm as you cleared your throat. jaemin had to practically push you away, “angel, please stop, i need to feel you,” he groans, pulling you back up to his lips and kissing you passionately.

carefully, he switches the position, having you under him once again. he reaches out for his wallet placed on the nightstand, taking the pack of condom and ripping it open with his teeth before placing it on his already semi hard cock, “god, look what you do to me,” he grunts.

your hand rubs up and down his thighs as you watch him swipe his length between your wet folds, the tension in your stomach building up once again.

he wraps your legs around him, kissing you slowly, so intimately, “i really fucking like you, y/n,” he admits for the second time that day, sending you what has now became your favorite smile.

“i really like you too, jaemin,” you reply, pulling him closer as he aligns his cock against your entrance.

jaemin wasn’t a fan of missionary but god, you’re so fucking beautiful, he wanted nothing more but to look at you when he entered, watching your face contort as you adjust to the size of his large cock, harmonized moans mixing in the air.

for the first time, he finally understood all the sentiments his friends in relationships would say — this feeling was so different from the regular hook ups. the passion, the intimacy of it all. you were so dangerous to him and yet he was obsessed with the way you have him wrapped around your finger.

he loves the way your eyebrows furrowed in between pleasure and pain as he bottomed in, your walls finally hugging the size of his cock, sucking him in deeper and deeper. the way your lips fell into moans once he started thrusting in and out of you. your eyes shutting as he increased the pace, faster and deeper and always hitting that spot that got your head rolling back, toes curling. the way you gripped his back as he rubbed harsh circles around your clit, sending you to overdrive. the way your body went completely limp against the pillows, face in complete bliss as your walls tightened around him, sucking him in. his abs clenching in response, a guttural moan from his throat escaping, reaching a high he’s never felt before as he burrowed his face into your neck to control his shaking body.

you enjoyed the feeling of his skin against yours, reveling in your shared orgasms. staying that way for a minute or two, his body heavy against yours before he snuck in a gentle kiss to your lips.

you hiss as he pulled out, already feeling empty without him. he fucked you so good that all you wanted to do was slip into the peaceful darkness, sleep begging to take over.

the distant hum from the t.v. continues, playing the credits, as the rain pounded on the windows filling your ears. you feel the bed dip beside you as he moved around, feel the soft cloth against your pussy, wiping away your arousal, feel him take the spot next to you once again, shutting off the t.v and pulling you close to his chest.

“goodnight, angel,” he whispers, gently draping the blanket over your bodies, before placing a soft kiss on your temple and finally letting sleep consume you.

jaemin wakes up the next morning, your figure right next to him. it was strange, waking up to a person but he liked it — liked that it was you.

the sunrise peeks through the curtains as the memory from last night vividly replays in his head. he softly pushes away the layers of hair that have covered your face, taking in your angelic appearance as your chest rises and fall to a steady rhythm, sleep still hugging you.

he starts tracing the outline of your cheekbones, fingers softly grazing the curve of your nose, down to your lips. he takes in every detail, taking a mental screenshot.

your eyes flutter open at his light touches, “take a picture, it’ll last longer,” you tease which you figured was the wrong thing to say to a photographer as soon as the words lef your mouth, jaemin wasting no time to reach for his phone and snapping a shot.

“oh my god! i was kidding, i look like a mess,” you scream playfully, bringing the blanket over your head and covering your face in embarrassment, earning a laugh from the boy beside you.

he tugs the blanket off of your face, “you look even more beautiful in the morning, angel,” he compliments, making you blush.

the rest of the morning was spent well — shared selfies, slow kisses, lazy sex, touches lingering all over your skin, an innocent shower with millions of stolen kisses, laughter and more stories.

everything truly felt like a dream, like you were sitting on a cloud occupied by only two. hands never leaving the other’s as jaemin drove back to seoul, the car ride filled with sweet nothings.

𓏲𝄢

jaemin was worried sick. it’s been two days and you haven’t reached out to him. his texts being left on delivered. fear was starting to creep up on him in the form of doubts and mistrust. he thought maybe you were exactly like the rest and you did only want him for sex and now that it’s done, you were also gone and he was nothing but a fool being hit by his own karma.

he realizes now that he’s too deep into this, that it’s too late now to take it all back. too late now to make sure you can’t hurt him. he’s never given anyone this much control over him and he was absolutely losing it.

his phone dings and he scrambles to pick it up, hoping that this time it was you on the other end. his prayers being answered when your name pops up, letting out a sigh of relief.

my angel: jaemin i’m sorry…

his heart races in his chest, not entirely sure what you were apologizing about. he watches as the three dots appear on the screen, an indication that you were still typing.

my angel: i’m sick :(

my angel: i think the rain finally caught up with me

he reads the message, feeling absolutely awful and guilty that his mind could even taint your image like that. that he could even let doubts fill his head.

all he wanted to do now was take care of you.

on the other side, you were really regretting staying out in the rain for so long as you sat in your bed rotting, body burning up, head hurting, nose red, throat dry. it’s been two days since you last saw jaemin and you missed him…a lot. but you didn’t want him to catch your virus so now you’re here, hanging on by a thread as he spammed your inbox with messages filled with tips on how to get over a cold quickly.

the next morning, after asking around, jaemin finds himself knocking on your dorm room’s door, a bag containing hot soup and medicine in hand.

he couldn’t stand the thought of doing nothing so here he is, ready to be your nurse for the day and cure you back to health.

the door swings wide open only to reveal a familiar face, “jaemin?,” the girl with long black hair asks, head turned like a curious puppy.

“uhmm,” he mutters, quickly racking his brain for information, searching for a name he definitely knew. he remembers her face, remembers the fact that they shared a night together but he can’t quite pinpoint who she is exactly.

for a second, he thinks he’s in the wrong room, until her voice breaks him out of his thoughts, “are you looking for y/n?,” she asks.

he nods in response as she gestured to the door across the room, “she’s in there,” she said before stepping aside, letting him in and quietly shutting the door behind him as she hurries into her own room.

jaemin stands there, bewildered, if she was your roommate, who he’s sure he definitely knew, then surely you must have known who he was when the two of you first met. surely, you’d heard about his reputation. so why did you say you didn’t know him?

the sound of a cough coming from behind your door snaps him back into place. when doubt clouded his mind yesterday, he turned out to be terribly wrong. pushing the confusion aside, he steadies himself and gently knocks on your door.

“giselle, don’t come in, i’ll get you sick,” you respond, the raspiness of your voice evident.

your roommates name echoes in his ear as he finally unlocked the memory of who she was – the girl who told him she loved him. the girl he said the words back to…on accident.

he quickly pushes the memory away, turning the door knob as he finally makes his way inside your room, eyes scanning the space. he notices the various trinkets scattered on shelves, paintings and posters adorning the walls, books stacked in neat chaos, brushes cluttered on your desk.

“jaemin?,” you manage to croak out, eye squinting at the bright light coming from the living room. you’ve been pent up in the dark for too long, the only light coming from the small lamp on your desk. your hair sticks up in every direction and you had absolutely no color on your face. you look like a total mess. but somehow, seeing you like that only makes his heart skip a beat.

god, he was down bad.

“hey angel, i brought you some chicken noodle soup, it’ll help you feel better,” he says softly, completely forgetting the thought of giselle as he sat on the edge of your bed, taking out the bowl he had prepared.

“jaemin, i’m gonna get you sick,” you pout, hiding under the covers to try and contain your virus, earning a soft chuckle from the boy, “angel, i’m pretty sure you’ve already contaminated the air in this room,” he points out, playfully poking your side until you came out from underneath.

“you don’t even have a humidifier,” he teases, reaching over to smooth down your messy hair before bringing the spoon filled with the hot soup to your lips. you let out a resigned sigh, rolling your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you give in.

he spends the rest of the evening taking care of you, checking your temperature, making sure you take the proper medicine. his quiet care speaking louder than any words could.

carefully, he tucks you both in, ignoring your sleepy protests about him catching your cold as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close, your head resting against his chest. it's warm, safe, and comfortable. so comforting that the next minute, sleep takes you, carried off by the side effects of the medicine and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

𓏲𝄢

the sound of clutter jolts you back to reality, waking you up from your slumber. blinking slowly, you spot jaemin’s figure hunched over, quietly gathering the things he must have knocked over, “you okay?,” you groggily question, rubbing the sleep away.

“sorry angel, i accidentally bumped into your desk, i’ll clean it up, don’t worry,” he says softly, already rearranging your things back into place.

but then you see it – a little too late. your stomach drops, everything inside you stills. instantly you knew your world was about to crumble down, “wait, jaemin–” you call out, urgency creeping into your voice, but he was focused on the task at hand.

jaemin picks up the fallen journal, a photo slipping out from between the pages.

it takes him a second to process that the person in the photo was his own reflection but once he did, everything shifts – there he is, staring back at himself, the mr. cupid sign right behind him.

a wave of realization crashes over him, bringing all his doubts to the surface, “why do you have this?,” he demands, turning around to face you, the photo gripped tightly in his hand.

the guilty expression on your face was enough to shatter any remaining illusions – he knows he’s been playing the fool. he should’ve known that this was too good to be true.

in a flash, jaemin flips through your journal, looking for answers, “jaemin, don’t!,” you get up, ignoring the way your vision momentarily blurs, threatening to pull you under. but you were too late. jaemin has stumbled across your four step plan.

“the downfall of na jaemin. step one - introduce yourself. step two - make him fall in love with you. step three and four - break his heart and reveal to the whole world that their beloved mr. cupid is a phony,” jaemin reads out loud, his entire figure rigid as he connects all of the clues, his mind replaying every memory like it was some sort of cruel punishment crafted just for him.

“you didn’t think i’d actually tell mr. cupid my real name did you? it would be so embarrassing for me,”

dear mr. cupid, i'm going to my first party ever! how can i make sure i catch the attention of the person i like? love, heart / “not much of a party goer are you?,” earning a soft nod from you, “it’s my first party” you confess.

the way you walked out that saturday morning he brought you his hangover cure, ditching the pink outfits because you knew he wasn’t going to be around.

renjun voicing out his suspicious concerns and telling him to be careful.

the door opening to giselle, a girl he had sex with at a random party. the same girl that was standing just outside your bedroom door – your roommate.

every single moment, every confession, every word that he believed to be true led to this – your four step plan, cold and calculated, had no other intention but to hurt him.

every ounce of trust he’d placed in you, every bit of affection, it was all nothing but a step forward.

every time he was being honest, you only showed him what he wanted to see.

he didn’t know the person in front of him. all he knows now is that this is all a lie.

“jaemin, please let me explain,” you plead, voice shaking as you fight back the tears that were daring to escape, taking a cautious step towards him, unsure if he’ll let you get any closer.

he meets your gaze, pain and betrayal flashing all over his features – raw, gutting, all-consuming and gone in a second.

his face goes stone cold, “there’s nothing to explain,” he says, each word cutting clean, final.

“have fun with step four, y/n,” he mutters, voice deep with frustration before tossing your journal and the now crumpled photo to the ground. without another word, he storms out of your room, angrily slamming the door behind him, your heart dropping.

you rush after him, voice breaking as you cry out, “jaemin, please,” you grab his hand, desperation flooding your every movement, holding on tight, trying to make him stay, “it’s not what it looks like, please,” at this point you don’t stop the tears from flowing. you don’t care anymore. you just can’t let him walk out the door.

the loud ruckus catches your best friend’s attention. giselle quick to join you in the living room, eyes wide with concern, “what happened? is everyone okay?,” she asks, frantically looking between your broken expression and jaemin’s seething anger.

her presence was enough to pull your focus away, jaemin taking the opportunity to yank his hand out of your grip and finally making his way out.

you tried to follow him out but before you could take another step, your body finally gave up on you and you came crashing down the living room floor.

jaemin hears the sickening thud of your fall and giselle’s frantic shout of your name. for a brief moment, he hesitates, just long enough to almost turn back and check if you’re okay…but he doesn't.

blinded by rage, jaemin stormed into the fraternity house and without a second thought, his fist crashed through the living room wall, no longer able to contain his anger. he was seeing red.

“dude! what the fuck?!,” chenle yells, everyone turning their heads in surprise. but what shocked them the most was the next scene — watching their friend drop to the floor, quiet sobs escaping his lips as he burrowed his face into his hands.

jeno was up in no time, making his way over, “what happened?,” he asks, checking his friend for any injuries.

“you were right, renjun,” jaemin choked out between his broken sobs, feeling absolutely defeated.

the room fell silent as everyone turned to face renjun, wanting for an explanation, “y/n, isn’t who she says she is,” jaemin muttered, wiping tears that refused to stop. he felt pathetic — so this is what heartbreak felt like.

he wouldn’t wish it on anyone, not even on his worst enemies.

“who’s y/n?,” renjun looks around, confused, earning a light punch from donghyuck, “angel, dude,” he whispers under his breath like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

renjun pieced it all together in an instant. he knew you looked familiar, he just didn’t know you were that familiar, that you were the same girl who sat behind him in art class — you disguised yourself so well, you fooled even him.

he watched his broken friend on the ground, jaemin’s figure slumped against the wall he’d struck moments earlier, lips trembling, tear-streaked face buried in his hands.

𓏲𝄢

“renjun, please just let me talk to him,” you ask for the umpteenth time. it’s been three days since your fight with jaemin and in those three days, his friends have done everything in their power to keep you away, rightfully so.

when you showed up to the fraternity house, ready to explain your side and apologize, haechan immediately shut you down, slamming the door in your face.

when you saw him in the university’s cafeteria the next day, jeno was right next to him in an instant, pulling him away before he could even see you.

every single message you sent him was left on delivered, every call going straight to voicemail. you were desperate to reach him and renjun was your only access. he couldn’t exactly ditch class to avoid you.

renjun rolls his eyes, scoffing, “again, the answer is no, angel,” he says sarcastically, the nickname dripping with venom, his tone laced with disgust.

you wince, desperation creeping into your voice, “i just need to explain and i promise i won’t ever show my face again.” your eyes are full of conviction, pleading for a chance to right your wrongs.

he sighs. truth is, him and the boys have no idea why jaemin was so upset, only telling them that you lied to him about who you truly were but what does that even mean?

after mulling it over he finally says, “his showcase is on friday at the university’s gallery, 3 p.m., he has to be there for his project which i’m sure you know all about,” he pauses, “you can talk to him there if he wants to but all the boys are gonna be there too,” he warns.

renjun and the boys practically hated your guts but they also know how important you’ve become to their friend, otherwise he wouldn’t be sat at home, moping around, watching rom-coms as a form of self destruction, muttering “love is a lie,” every time the two characters get together in the end.

“thank you,” you nod in understanding, your gratitude mixed with a quiet tension.

“let’s get something straight y/n,” he says, his tone hardening as he starts to walk away, “i’m not doing this for you.”

with that, he leaves you standing at your station, the weight of his words sinking in.

𓏲𝄢

the university's art gallery buzzed with life, lined wall-to-wall with projects from various photography majors. you hadn’t expected such a crowd, the room filled with chatter and laughter as the bright lights illuminated the spacious room.

you take your time, making your way around, palms clammy and heart pounding as you move through the room, quietly practicing the speech you've prepared for days. gone were the sparkly pink outfits and the persona that came with it. replaced by just jeans and a plain t-shirt. you continued weaving through the art gallery, the panels shifting from artist to artist, until you finally reached his.

jaemin’s name stood boldly against the wall, his project titled, “stupid cupid.”

your breath caught as your eyes dropped to the description beneath it:

“love in the movies feels effortless and looks beautiful but all those picture-perfect moments turn out to be nothing more than echoes of a love that was never real to begin with.”

the word’s, achingly beautiful in their bitterness, struck like an arrow piercing your heart. you scanned the pictures on the wall, trying to contain your emotions.

each image held a memory, fragile and glowing – the moment in the cafe, the boombox in your hand, the kiss in the rain, now looping endlessly in video, truly playing like a haunting echo of what once was.

you stood frozen, emotions tightening in your throat, eyes brimming with tears as you wanted nothing more than to step into that scene and live in the moment just a little longer.

you wipe the tears from your cheeks, steadying yourself. you had an apology due, you couldn’t let another day pass without telling him everything you wanted to say. this was possibly your only moment and you weren’t going to let it slip away.

your eyes searched the crowded room, until they landed on him.

jaemin stands a little further back, deep in conversation. you recognize mark and jeno right next to him along with some girls from campus who were obviously flirting with him, one of the girls laughing a little too loudly and you almost scoff.

taking a deep breath, you force your feet to move, making your way through the crowd, heart pounding.

mark notices you first, eyes widening for a split second as he immediately grabs jaemin’s wrist, steering him further away from you, “hey winter! have you met my friend, jaemin?,” mark calls out, his voice ringing loud and clear, every word sharp and intentional.

jaemin looks at him suspiciously before greeting the new girl in front of him. you catch the subtle glance of the previous girls lingering behind, clearly disappointed that he walked away.

you cursed under your breath, frustration mounting, they really won’t make this easy for you.

“what are you doing here?,” a voice to your right captures your attention.

“donghyuck!,” you quietly exclaim in surprise, a hand to your heart.

“haechan,” he corrects immediately, “so what’s the angel in disguise doing here?” he laughs like he just said the funniest joke, “god that’s a good one, gotta tell the boys about that,” he snickers to himself, completely lost in his own amusement.

every conversation with him felt like some weird episode you didn’t sign up for. you still couldn't figure out how he managed to charm everyone. his mocking tone was grating, but deep down, you knew you’d earned it.

“i’m just here to apologize,” you sigh, too tired for an argument.

“huh, you’d think you’d get the hint after all the text messages and calls jaemin ignored,” he says, voice dripping with malicious amusement, “don’t flatter yourself too much, y/n, you’re not special, this is just what he does, you were just another girl who fell for it,” he taunts, his words sharp like a dagger before he walked away, leaving you in your thoughts.

they’ve been trying to stop you from reaching him and you’ve had enough. all you wanted was to have a chance to fix things. so you abandoned the careful apology you’d been rehearsing and did the one thing you hadn’t planned.

you called out his name.

your voice rang out, echoing through the large room as the chatter slowly diminished. one by one, every head turned in your direction, but you only saw him.

jaemin's eyes locked with yours and for a split second, something softened in his eyes. then, just as quickly, the wall was back up and that cold, unreadable mask slipped right back into place.

you ignore the hush whispers around you, even the one that cut through clear as day, “wait…she’s the girl from his photos..,” as you slowly walk towards him.

jaemin doesn’t utter a single sound, doesn’t make an effort to move away, he just watches as you approach, silent and unmoving, until you were standing just a few feet away.

“hi”, you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. you ignore haechan’s mocking chuckle, as he now stood next to jaemin.

“im sorry!,” you blurted out, not wasting another second. jaemin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react, only looking at you like you’re a stranger.

“alright, you said it, you can go now, we’re a bit busy,” jeno cuts in, sharp and dismissive, a devilish smirk on his face as he spoke for his friend. the audience snickers in the background…but you weren’t finished.

“i’m sorry i lied to you,” you say a little more composed this time, standing your ground.

a shaky breath escapes you as the words you’ve been dying to tell him tumble out.

“i hate iced americanos, i hate the color pink and i definitely hated you…at first,” your voice cracks slightly, but you push through it, eyes locked on his.

you don’t care about the stares or the whispers or the way you knew this moment will be dissected by everyone watching – none of it matters, only him.

“and i know, i know everything must feel like a lie now. i wouldn’t blame you if you never believed another word i said,” you laugh bitterly, pushing away the ache in your chest.

“i only did it because i thought it was the right thing to do, i thought you deserved it for leading so many girls on…it’s stupid, i know,” your gaze softens, slightly shaking your head as your voice drops to a fragile murmur, regret and embarrassment written all over your face.

you look up at him once again, his expression still as hard as stone but it doesn’t stop you from saying your next words.

“—but i also know that i’m in love with you,” you quietly confess, the words rolling off your lips for the first time, hanging in the air – honest, bare, terrifying but all so right.

you notice the flicker of something behind his eyes that betrays the coldness in his expression. something almost soft. but it’s gone as soon as it came.

“i’m in love with you,” you repeat, hoping.

“and i'm sorry that we started out this way but this is me, the real me,” you continue, voice shaking as you ignore the lump forming in your throat.

“i prefer iced matcha over iced americanos, my favorite color is white and i have completely, stupidly fallen for you,” you finish your speech, letting the last words hang there, raw and unguarded. there’s nothing left to hide behind, no more reason to pretend.

this is your truth.

the room is silent – so silent that it felt suffocating. not a single person dared to speak, no one even moved, everyone holding their breaths with you, waiting for something…anything.

finally, jaemin takes a step forward, each step he took was slow, deliberate. his expression unreadable, eyes still cold, and you can’t tell if he’s angry, hurt or just tired of it all.

he stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the way his jaw clenches.

“well, angel,” he say, voice low and quiet but cutting all the same, the nickname sounds nothing like it used to – no warmth, no teasing. just ice.

“this was fun,” he snickers, a cruel smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, one that doesn’t reach his eyes.

it wasn’t the smile in his photos – it wasn’t the smile you fell in love with.

“-but that was all it ever was,” he continues and you feel like someone has just punched you in the gut.

“thank you for letting me use you for my project,” he adds, his tone light, casual, like it’s just another throwaway line in a script he’s already performed before.

“but you, of all people, should know–,” he leans in just a little, voice dropping, and for a second his warmth consumes you until his words turn everything cold, “-i never fall in love.”

his friends start chuckling at the back, the crowd joining in. other’s looked at you with pity having fallen for the boy in front of you but you didn't pay attention to them. you don’t even look at them. you’re still staring at him and you don’t buy a single word.

not with the way his hands are clenched at his sides. not with how his voice trembled, just barely, when he said never.

he’s lying. protecting himself the only way he knows how – by pretending not to care. trying to convince himself more than you but even knowing that doesn’t dull the sting. tears prick at the corners of your eyes, blurring the sharp lines of his face as you blink them back, forcing yourself to stay composed.

you nod once. small. almost imperceptible. a silent acknowledgment. not of belief but of acceptance.

then, carefully, you pull out the white envelope tucked in your back pocket, “this belongs to you,” you say, voice soft, barely hanging on. you hold it out to him and then you turn.

you don’t look back, running out of the gallery – out of the stares, out of the suffocating stillness that had begun to close in on you.

your vision blurs completely now, hot tears streaming freely down your face. you can’t breathe. you’re not sure if you even want to.

jaemin watches you retreat. he doesn’t call out, doesn't make an effort to stop you. he just watches.

only when you were finally out of his sight, he felt it – that sharp swell in his lungs, the ache in his chest unraveling into something hollow and brutal.

he thought it would feel satisfying to hurt you the way you hurt him. he thought having the last word would fix the damages of his broken ego and piece back the heart you shattered. but as you left he realized that parts of it were still in your hands.

the crowd begins to break apart, quiet murmurs replacing the earlier hush. now that the show’s over, their entertainment has ended and one by one, they leave, continuing on with their day, until he’s standing there alone, the envelope in his hands.

he opens it slowly, like he’s afraid of what’s inside, even though some part of him already knows.

and there it is. the photo. the one you stole from his room. the one in your four step plan. his secret.

for a split second, all he can feel is the surge of anger and betrayal, remembering everything that has happened in the past two weeks. his heart pounds in his chest, a sharp sting of violation threatening to overwhelm him.

but then, something shifts.

he looks at the photo again and it hits him – you’re giving it back to him. you’re not using it. you’re not following through with your plan to expose him. you had returned the evidence with no strings attached. you were telling him the truth.

the confessions you made, your voice trembling with sincerity, resonating in his mind.

renjun snaps him back to reality, the rest of the boys next to him, “hey, you okay?” he asks his friend, tone sharp with concern.

he forces a half-hearted laugh, voice laced with self-deprecation. “i feel like absolute shit,” he quickly tucks the envelope in his pocket, hiding it away from prying eyes, mind still reeling.

“well, i know just the cure for that,” haechan teases, slinging an arm around his neck. “a pretty girl and some drinks,” he continues, his voice is playful, trying to pull jaemin back to the surface and he’s grateful for the distraction.

“yeah, come on,” mark chimes in, grinning. “we gotta celebrate your gallery’s success!...party at the dream fraternity tonight!” he calls out, his enthusiasm infectious as cheers erupt from the crowd, a wave of excitement sweeping through the room.

jaemin feels disconnected from it all, but he can’t ignore the energy around him. he shakes his head, finally allowing himself to breathe. maybe they’re right. maybe a party is exactly what he needs. maybe he can continue to pretend that this doesn’t hurt him until it finally doesn’t.

𓏲𝄢

jaemin can’t get it up.

“i thought you were supposed to be good at this?,” the pretty girl from the gallery comments, making him sigh in frustration.

“just give me a second,” he grunts, furiously pumping his cock up and down, hoping a miracle would happen. this has never happened to him before and he’s beginning to get really worried.

“you said that five seconds ago,” she cuts in, looking at him with those judgmental eyes, like he doesn’t fucking know he said that five seconds ago. the urge to run to the doctor’s getting stronger with every second.

“you know what? just get out,” jaemin says annoyed, tossing her clothes back to her as he made his way to his bathroom, not caring at all about the girl sitting on his bed. he hears the girl scoff, followed by shuffling and a, “thanks for absolutely nothing!,” before his door slammed shut.

jaemin rolls his eyes, hopping in the shower, the lingering touches she left behind felt sticky and gross on his skin. he knew she wasn’t going to tell anyone, knowing her reputation was also on the line and he didn’t even feel bad. the girl should’ve known he wasn’t in the right mind for some ego boosting. or maybe she should’ve tried harder for him.

yikes. maybe he did deserve the heartbreak you served him with.

as he stood there, under the hot shower, his intoxicated mind can’t help but wander back to you and the time you’ve spent together.

he can’t help but remember that morning of your first night together, the innocent shower you took together as he admired your body – thoughts of your scent consuming him, the way your lips left trails of kisses, soft skin against his.

then he feels it, his cock hardening.

all it took was the memory of you, “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he scolds his dick.

“really?, a pretty girl on your bed and absolutely nothing from you and just one thought of her and you’re up,” he talks to his member, feeling absolutely crazy before his hand got to work – mind flashing with scenes of you and only you.

hopping out of the shower, jaemin feels a little more refreshed, his mind clearer than it was a few shots of alcohol ago. the party outside his bedroom door has now died down.

he picks his clothes up from the ground, ready to toss it into his hamper, when the envelope peaks out, reminding him of the picture.

he takes it out again, staring into his own image, the slight crumple on the top left marks the photograph, evidence of his anger. he sighs as sadness takes over once again.

flipping the image, he sees your handwriting, words that you have left behind just for him. words that has signified the mark you left on his life.

dear jaemin,

thank you for showing me this side of you. im sorry.

love,

y/n, angel, heart

it was your last confession and right away he knew what he had to do.

𓏲𝄢

“hi my lovely listeners, it’s mr. cupid here on a surprise live session, i couldn’t prolong this any longer,” jaemin’s voice filters through the mic, softer than usual.

he pauses, a shaky breath pulled in as he braces himself for the inevitable, “i haven’t been completely honest with you.”

there’s a beat of silence and then, “i have been keeping a secret and lately i’ve realized how much secret’s hurt.”

“so today, im finally telling you who i am,” jaemin continues, fingers tightening slightly around the mic stand as he braced himself.

“i am mr. cupid, your #1 go to for all things love and heartbreak but i am also third year, photography major, member of the dream fraternity,” he takes a quick pause, finding his courage, “my name is na jaemin,” he finally confesses into the microphone.

the words land like a stone thrown into still water, rippling through the space between him and the hundreds of people listening.

his inbox immediately lights up, emails flooding in. he could already see the previews. lots of surprised listeners, lots of angry listeners.

his phone quietly flickers by his side, messages from the boys swarming his screen as the group chat blows up — all of them shocked and confused.

he would have to deal with all of that later.

“i want to take this moment and apologize,” he continued, voice soft but firm, “to every girl i’ve hurt, every person i made feel disposable…i’m sorry. i wish i could remember all your names but the truth is, part of me was that player, part of me liked being that player,” he sighs in embarrassment, the weight of it all sinking in.

“—and i’m sorry for hiding behind this persona, for pretending i had it all figured out while calling out the very things i also did,” he continues, a bittersweet feeling rising in his chest.

he took care of this radio show, he wouldn’t have climbed the #1 spot if he didn’t. but every truth must be revealed someday.

“—i need you to know, i meant every word i’ve ever said on here. the advice, the stories, the moments where i told you to believe in love even when it hurts…that was all real. i was just too much of a coward in real life to admit that i wanted that too,” he continues, feeling lighter with every word.

“there’s a girl i met recently,” a nervous chuckle slips from his lips as he runs a hand through his hair, gaze unfocused, lost somewhere far beyond the studio walls.

“she knew who i was, from the very beginning” he rambles, “she had this four step plan to make me fall in love with her…the last step of her plan was to expose me but she never followed through with it,” a quiet moment passes.

“somewhere along the way, she fell for me anyway…the player, the romantic, the scared, complicated mess,” he shakes his head, a halfhearted smile tugging at his lips.

“i always thought that i had to be one or the other, turns out i was just waiting for her to freely be who i truly am,” a heavy sigh leaves him, full of everything he’s carried alone until now. his thoughts catching up to him.

“—and i really need to follow my own advice and get her back,” the words left him in a rush as he finally reached his own conclusion.

love was a strong word and unfortunately it took him a while to accept that this is what it was and it was all he wanted.

without another word, he abruptly ends the session. running out of the studio, finally seeing things clearly.

he runs, lungs burning, heart pounding. he ignores the students who were still outside this late hour, calling out his name, calling out mr. cupid, until he finally reaches your building, sweat forming around his forehead, as he tries to catch his breath.

he knocks on your door, practically pounding on it, adrenaline rushing through his veins, nerves and excitement coursing through him at the thought of seeing you again only to be met with none other than your roommate.

“oh, if it isn’t mr. cupid,” giselle greets him, voice laced with mockery, her expression twisted with subtle disdain.

“you know i was wondering why y/n was so adamant on getting revenge, i thought it was just because of what you did to me, turns out you’re not just a huge player you’re also a pro liar,” giselle continues, a pointed look on her faced, eyebrows furrows, lips pointed.

“pretending to be mr. sweet angelic guy just to be a fuckboy behind the scenes, man, how did you fool everyone?” she chuckles, almost disbelievingly.

jaemin shifts uncomfortably, his confidence briefly faltering, “giselle, im sorry,” he says, catching the girl off guard, “i do remember our night together and i’m sorry…i shouldn’t have said those words so lightly, i wasn’t thinking, just putting my needs first,” he confesses, completely owning up to his actions.

she blinks, then lets out a small, surprised laugh, “it’s fine, i just wanted to give you a tough time for what you did to y/n at the gallery,” she says, “besides, i used you that night too, we both win,” she shrugs, really not caring, “i would actually prefer it if we never talk about it again.”

jaemin nods, a quiet gratitude in his eyes for her unexpected grace, “is y/n here?,” he asks.

giselle ponders for a second or two, studying him, eyes narrowing slightly, reading him like a book until she nods, “second floor of the art building,” she says.

“thank you,” he breathes, already turning, “wait jaemin!,” giselle stops him in his tracks, “you hurt her again and i will kill you, okay pretty boy?,” she says with a sugar-sweet smile, almost like she didn’t just threaten him. it wasn’t a question, not really.

he chuckles, not entirely sure if she’s joking or not, either way, he would not like to find it.

“wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies, flashing her a smile before sprinting off.

𓏲𝄢

jaemin stepped quietly into the art room, spotting your back to him as your fingers worked like magic, brushing smoothly against the canvas seated on your easel, completely immersed in your work. he notices the iced matcha sitting on the table to your right, your paint-stained jeans and oversized t-shirt on display, hair in a messy ponytail.

even with your back turned to him, you looked so at ease, like the world had melted away and left only you and your art behind. he stood still, taking it in, wishing he had his camera with him.

content hums slip past your lips as your hand glided from your palette and the canvas. then he notices what you’re painting and he can’t look away, transfixed by the way you captured the scenery of the luscious green landscape blurred by the gentle rain, the pink and whites of the blooming cherry blossoms, opposite to the gray hues of the clouds floating on top.

it was like he had stepped into that day once again. almost like he could feel your lips on his again.

he clears his throat before finally finding his voice, “that’s beautiful.”

your head turns quickly, jumping slightly at the sound of your intruder’s voice, eyes wide with surprise. you weren’t exactly expecting anyone else to be here this late.

“jaemin?,” you question, voice uncertain, wondering what he was doing here at this hour.

“hi,” he smiles sheepishly, hands awkwardly tucked in his pockets, almost shy, as he walks closer to you, your breath stuck in your throat.

“you uhm…you have paint right here,” he points at his own cheek, mirroring the spot on yours as you quickly tried to wipe it away, missing completely.

“not quite, here let me-,” before you could protest, he closed the gap, licking his thumb and wiping the smudge away from the apple of your cheek. the moment was so intimate, his light touch igniting that spark all over again.

“thanks,” you whisper before taking a step back and trying to ground yourself.

“what are you doing here?,” you asked, voice soft.

“i was looking for you,” he responds like it was the simplest truth in the world.

“i-i thought you didn’t want to see me again?,” you say, brows furrowed in confusion.

“i thought that too,” he admits, “but as soon as you left, all i wanted to do was see you again,” he continues, looking for any signs of rejection on your face.

“how did you know i was here?,” you ask, puzzled, you never brought him here before so you wouldn’t expect him to even know it.

“i asked giselle,” he replies simply, leaving you confused, your brows knitting, “you talked to giselle?”

he chuckles slightly before saying, “i actually stopped by your place first and you weren’t there and then i got an earful from giselle about being mr. cupid and now i'm here,” giving you a quick rundown of what happened.

“wait, what? i never told her your secret,” you say, wide eyed. that’s when he realizes then that you had no idea what happened in the last hour.

“i uh…i actually finished your four step plan,” he explains and you’re left speechless, “you didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, voice soft.

“no, i did,” he quickly retorts, “it was time,” a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.

“he wasn’t all a fake persona, you know?,” he exhales, voice laced with honesty.

“i know,” you say quickly, eyes meeting his. “i saw him,” voice filled with sincerity, “fell in love with him,” you whisper into the night air, making him look up, hope flickering behind his eyes.

“i thought i had to hide that side of me,” he admits, “i’ve been very aware of the whole fuckboy label and yeah…i got caught up in the ‘cool’ image of it all. it was easier to be who everyone expected me to be, it’s stupid, i know,” he smiles softly, his words reflecting your confession.

“but that’s not why i came here tonight,” his eyes find yours, unwavering.

“i'm sorry about what i said earlier at the gallery,” he adds softly and you shake your head before he can go on, “it’s okay jaemin, i get it, i know why said it, it’s not like i didn’t deserve it,” you reassure him.

“no,” he says, a little firmer this time, “it’s not okay because it wasn’t true and i'm tired of all the lies between us so…here it goes,” he takes a breath, almost like he’s steadying himself.

“you’re not the only one who fell,” he says, a quiet smile forming, tender and nervous,“i did too.”

“—and i’m pretty sure i hit the ground way before you did,” he pauses.

you looked at him like he had somehow brought the stars to you and that was all the courage he needed to continue.

“i think white looks perfect with pink, i’m not a big fan of matcha iced tea but i’d still love to see my glass of americano sitting next to yours, and i am completely, stupidly, undeniably in love with you,” he confesses, voice steady and full of conviction, “that’s what i should’ve said earlier.”

you blink, heart pounding, the corners of your lips lifting into a smile you can’t fight, every emotion rushing to the surface.

“better late than never, right?,” you softly tease, making him chuckle before finally taking a step closer. this time, you don’t move away.

“you told me i didn’t have to ask,” he whispers and then he kisses you, soft and certain, and full of emotion.

for the first time since he walked out of your bedroom, angry and overwhelmed, jaemin feels like he could finally breathe again.

his hands gently make their way to your cheeks, deepening the kiss as yours clasped around his neck, pulling him in closer.

“god, i love you,” jaemin whispers against your lips as he moves down to litter kisses on that spot below your ear, eliciting a breathy whine from you.

“i love you too,” you whisper in his ear, large hands making their way behind your thighs as jaemin picks you up, sitting you on the long wooden table, now eye to eye level, his lips were back on yours in an instant, as he stood in the place between your legs.

you could feel his growing bulge against your thigh, making you dizzy, “jaemin, i need you,” you whine desperately. he gives in to your request quickly, no longer wanting to deny the pleasure coursing in between your bodies.

unzipping your pants, he slides it down, before pushing your panties to the side and shoving two fingers in, “so fucking tight, angel,” he groans as his fingers curl drawing out breathy moans from your lips as you tried to be as quiet as possible, afraid someone would walk in. usually no one was here during this time but you could never be too sure, you were still in a public place after all.

you could feel the tension in your stomach rise, heat starting to travel down to your toes, but you needed more, “please, n-need you now,” you plead, “you sure angel? it might hurt,” he grunts, his fingers brushing your walls repetitively, trying to prepare you as much as he can.

no longer able to wait, your hand reached for the wallet in his back pocket as you took out the condom you knew he always carried.

jaemin’s pants falls to the ground, pooling around his ankles, his boxers soon to follow as you wrapped the condom around his throbbing cock, the warmth of your hands making him groan into your shoulder as he tried to control the urge to bust right then and there, “have i told you how much effect you have on me?,” he grunts.

“show me,” you whisper, kissing that soft spot below his ear.

“you make me so fucking crazy,” he says, looking you in the eyes as he pushed his tip in your entrance. you bite back your moans, the expression on your face between pleasure and pain as you looked up at him, trying your best not to shut your eyes at the way he was slowly expanding your walls, pussy molding to the shape of his large cock.

“fucckk, you feel so fucking good,” he compliments as he bottoms in, tip kissing your cervix, your shared moans mixing in the air as you burrowed your head in his shoulder, leaving trails of wet, sloppy kisses, trying to distract yourself from the pain of the stretch.

“missed your pussy so much,” he whines. carefully, he pulls the hair tie out of your ponytail, letting your hair fall freely down your shoulders as he starts thrusting, setting a slow pace. you were so incredibly tight around him, he knew he had to be gentle, “so fucking pretty,” he whispers, watching your every reaction.

“d-don’t stop,” you sigh, getting used to his size, as he continues to thrust in and out, the slow pace becoming more addicting with every push. jaemin’s warm hands gripping your hips, massaging slow circles around your thighs, the added pressure adding on to the coil tightening in your stomach as your body arched up, hips starting to move in rhythm with his.

“faster, jaemin,” you moan. his name spilling from your lips immediately increases his speed as your hands rest on the table, trying to stabilize yourself. moans heighten as the sound of skin slapping echoes throughout the room. you don’t even care about wandering ears anymore, or what would happen if a professor happened to catch the two of you in this position.

all you cared about was this high — the way his cock seemed to be made for you, hitting that spot that makes you feel like you’re sitting on a cloud as angels sang all around you. jaemin feels the same way, absolutely lost in the feeling only you could give him.

it was getting harder to keep it together as he starts losing his rhythm, “i’m c-close, angel,” he grunts, finger finding your sensitive bud, rubbing slow but harsh circles, “cum with me, please,” he groans and it was enough to snap the coil in your stomach, eyes rolling back, pussy gripping his cock as you gave into the pleasure that is na jaemin.

𓏲𝄢

it’s been a week since that night that brought you back together. a week filled with “i love you’s,” and everything sickeningly sweet.

the boys have all apologized to you, spilling repetitive sorry’s about their behavior. forgiveness came easy. especially since you knew they were only like that because of how much they loved him and you were happy jaemin had people like them on his side.

mr. cupid became “love, na jaemin” — jaemin decided to continue it after emails upon emails of request from his viewers to come back. this time, he promised complete honesty, no longer hiding behind the fake persona. the show was back to #1 spot within a day, everyone loving this side of him even more.

there were still parties, almost every night, but instead of sneaking around with random women, jaemin had you by his side every single time — hand wrapped in yours, playful stolen kisses all over your skin, dancing and laughter. and in the days where you couldn’t go to a party, he’d simply have fun with the boys before retiring into his room alone, preferring to facetime you on the phone.

today, jaemin surprised you with a picnic. the sky was painted with soft blues and golden sun, a warm breeze curling through your hair as you sat on the picnic blanket in the park. he pulls out a bag filled with two mini canvases and a small set of watercolor.

“what’s all this?,” you giggle, as he hands you your canvas.

“i saw it on tiktok, we have to paint each other and then show each other the results,” he explains excitedly, a sparkle dancing in his eyes, like a kid getting a new toy.

“winner gets whatever they want!,” he continues, explaining the rules as you laughed, “you know i’m gonna win, right?,” you tease, raising a brow.

“hey! you’ve never seen me paint, you don’t know that,” he cutely defends himself, a pout on his lips.

“okay baby, you’re right, sorry,” you giggle, kissing his pout away, frown instantly melting into a bright smile.

“quit distracting me, angel” he said softly, grinning as he picked up his brush.

the two of you fall into a comfortable silence as you start, eyes flicking between your painting and each other. the air was filled with quiet focus and unspoken affection. you could feel it in the way his gaze lingered on you, the way your fingers moved slowly, like trying to capture every piece of him with love.

but while you were focused on painting him, jaemin had a different mission entirely.

he knew you were going to win, of course you were. this was just his little ploy to finally make you his girlfriend. a week has been long enough and he was starting to go crazy every time he wanted to call you his girlfriend but couldn’t. he’s never wanted to the boyfriend title so badly in his life.

he kicked himself over and over, wondering why he didn’t just ask you during his confession but that night was powered through by overwhelming emotions of love, hope and desire that the words had slipped his mind.

since then, nothing had felt romantic enough and you deserve to be asked properly…in the most special way. and he has finally figured out how.

after a couple more minutes of painting you break the silence, “i think im done,” you announce, setting your brush down with a satisfied smile.

he glances up at you, pretending to be busy as he continues to paint the background of his artwork, “hmm, give me one more second,” he chimes before adding his final touch.

“okay, you ready?,” he wiggles his eyebrows as you nod, your heart fluttering.

3…2…1…

you both flip your canvases, showing each other your board. your eyes immediately widen as you process the words written on his board in bold, messy paint: will you be my girlfriend? — decorated by a ton of pink and red hearts.

a happy squeal escapes your lips as you launch yourself at him, sending him back onto the picnic blanket. you pepper his face with soft kisses, laughter bubbling from both of you.

“yes, yes, yes, of course i’ll be your girlfriend!” you say happily, dreamily. he was laughing too, arms wrapped around you, holding you close like he never wanted to let go.

“by the way, i want to go to busan again,” you smile up at him, letting him know that you still win. he breaks into a soft laughter, “whatever my angel wants, my angel gets,” he says, kissing you softly, sweetly and full of promise.

jaemin swears he’s in heaven — laying under the open sky with the girl of his dreams, the girl who he loves and loves him, and the word finally echoing in his heart.

𓏲 the end.

—

an: ahhh! if you’ve made it this far thank you so so much for reading <3 i wish you all find yourself a na jaemin (the real na jaemin of course, he’s better than the one written here lol >.<) while i have you! please please please help me decide who’s story to write next by voting here -> click!

likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated ⏦ﾟ♡︎

[birdofwildness]

⋆°·☁︎Dreambound part 4

⋆°·︎☁︎Morpheus x underworld princess!reader

Summary::You grew curious about dreams. Morpheus gently walked you to rest, your bond quietly deepening. Also...is your hubby hot?

Warnings:: Morpheus is older than our dad (Hades) lmao

Ever since that evening on the bench—your first real conversation—things had shifted.

You weren’t sure if Morpheus would show up again the next day, but he did. And then again the day after that. Every afternoon, without fail, the two of you sat beneath that twisted silver-leaved tree just outside the castle. The conversations weren’t always deep—sometimes they weren’t even conversations at all. But he was there, and you were there, and that alone felt like progress.

He listened more now, you noticed that. He wasn’t warm, not quite, but the sharp edges had softened. And when he did speak, his voice felt gentler. Like he was learning how not to guard every word with armor.

You’d catch yourself waiting for that hour each day, glancing toward the garden before he arrived. That surprised you. You didn’t expect to care—not like this. But something about the silence between you had become comfortable, trusting, even.

This day was no different.You were already waiting when he arrived, the cool stone of the bench beneath you and the scent of dream-blooming jasmine curling through the air. The Dreaming never changed with the hour, but something about the sky always knew when it was your time. Soft, dusky violet—never quite night, never quite day. Just that suspended breath between.

Morpheus appeared without sound, as he always did. One blink and he was there, walking the path toward you like he hadn’t debated it for thirty minutes beforehand. You didn’t let your eyes linger too long. You knew better by now—he noticed everything.He sat beside you, same distance as always. Not too close, but not too far. Just enough space to feel the pull between you.

“Afternoon,” you said, casual as ever.

He glanced sideways, lips twitching almost imperceptibly. “Good afternoon.”

That was a new thing between you too. Full sentences. You pretended not to notice, stretching your legs out a little, watching the way the grass curled away from your boots like it was shy.

There was silence, but not the heavy kind. The type that settled into your bones like tea steam, familiar and non-threatening.

Then, after a pause, he spoke—softly, like someone unused to asking the question but trying anyway.“How was your day?”

You blinked. That wasn’t what you expected. Not because it was odd in itself, but because he was the one saying it. Morpheus, King of Dreams, infamous for long pauses and longer silences, initiating casual conversation.

You looked at him. “My day?”

He gave a small nod, hands folded neatly in his lap.

You bit back the urge to tease him—Oh, so we’re doing this now? Small talk?—and instead gave him something real. “Quiet. I spent most of it with Lucienne, as usual. She lent me a book she claims is ‘essential reading’ for anyone living in the palace.”

His mouth quirked at the corner. “She has strong opinions about essential reading.”

“That she does,” you smirked. “I like that about her.”

He nodded once more, eyes on the horizon. “She says you’re... adjusting well.”

You tilted your head at him. “She says that?”

“She does.” There was something in his tone that wasn’t just repeating words. Something like curiosity. Or hope. It made your chest ache a little, unexpectedly.

“I’m trying,” you said honestly. “I didn’t expect to like this place as much as I do. The Dreaming... it grows on you.”

He turned to you, properly now, studying you in that intense, still way he had. “It is not often that anyone new arrives and settles in so quickly.”

You raised a brow. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s an observation,” he replied, but the look in his eyes—warm and faintly amused—softened the words.

You watched him a moment longer before glancing back toward the gardens. “It’s a strange feeling,” you murmured. “Being part of something so vast. Everyone here has a place. Even the nightmares. But me? I’m still figuring it out.”

He didn’t respond right away. When he did, it was quiet. “Perhaps your place is still being written.”

You smiled faintly. “That’s poetic.”

“It’s true.” There was silence again, but this time it carried something else—mutual presence. Not comfort exactly, but an understanding. A thread being pulled taut between two distant points.He didn’t look at you, not directly. His eyes were fixed on some middle distance, as though seeing something that wasn’t there—was never there.

You cleared your throat. “Let me guess. You’ve had a productive day, ruling shadows and rearranging metaphors.”

“I mediated a dispute between two nightmares over a territory neither of them wanted,” he replied flatly. “Then I repaired a broken dream loop, and spoke with my sister.”

“Sounds exhausting,” you said, eyebrows raised.

“It was routine.”

“For you maybe.” You leaned back on your hands. “If I have to negotiate one more passive-aggressive teacup argument between Cain and Abel, I’m going to throw myself into Lucienne’s filing cabinet.”

That almost got a smile out of him. Almost.

You shifted your posture, brushing a stray thread off your sleeve. “I’ve been thinking.”

“About?”

You paused, trying to shape the thought before it came out misshapen. “I guess… I keep waiting for someone to tell me what to do here. Where to go. How to act. But no one’s really... assigning me anything.”

He nodded. “Because you are not a servant. You are not a prisoner. You are a princess — and my wife.”

“Which apparently comes with a pretty ring and zero instructions.”

“You do not need instructions,” he said simply.

You blinked at him. “You’ve barely known me.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “That’s not true. I’ve known you all your life. Through your dreams.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. That landed heavier than expected.He had probably seen every late-night spiral, every fragmented nightmare, every quiet hope you buried under sarcasm.

“That’s…” you exhaled. “Unsettling.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” He looked away, toward the horizon where stars blurred like watercolor. “I only meant that you are not a stranger here. Not to this realm. Not to me.”

You glanced down at your hands. The ring on your finger caught a faint flicker of starlight.

“So…” You drew your knees up slightly, turning to face him more fully. “You’ve seen them all? All dreams of mine? Even the ridiculous ones?”

He tilted his head. “Perhaps.”

You squinted at him. “That’s not a yes or no.”

A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossed his expression. “Yes. I have. I crafted them myself.”

Your eyebrows rose. “Even the one where I was five, and married to a dragon that lived in a teacup?”

His lips twitched. “A noble creature. If slightly unorthodox.”

You groaned. “Gods.”

You rubbed your temples with a quiet laugh. “So the Lord of Dreams has known me since I was toddling around in ridiculous pajamas. No pressure.”

You tilted your head toward him, mock-curious. “That must be… disorienting. One minute I’m some kid dreaming about teacup dragons, and now—” you gestured vaguely at yourself, “—now I’m your wife. Weird, right?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted back toward the distant, starlit horizon.

“It is not... unpleasant,” he said at last. “But it is strange. Even for me.”

You leaned forward slightly, elbow resting on your knee. “Okay but seriously—how old are you?”

He turned back to you, one brow arching like a moonrise. “Older than language. Older than this world. I was shaped before Time knew how to crawl.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at the ring on your finger as if it might whisper you a better reaction — something clever,something cool,but nothing came.

Instead, your thoughts raced in a hundred directions and none of them led anywhere dignified.

He’d seen your dreams.Not just now, not just lately—your whole life. The monster-under-the-bed ones. The ones where you lost your teeth in the middle of a crowd. The ones where you flew, and cried, and kissed shadows. That was more than intimate. That was—mortifying.

Your stomach tightened. You felt transparent. Like you were standing there with no walls, no filter, no masks and that wasn’t the worst part.The worst part was that he didn’t seem fazed by it at all.

You were used to being unreadable and untouchable.And then... there was the other thing. He was much older than you ...older than your father,who just happened to be Hades.

You’d tried to laugh it off in your head, to move past it, but for some godforsaken reason your brain had decided to file that under deeply attractive.

Oh no.Oh no no no.You swallowed hard.

Now hold on.

Had you seriously just thought your husband was...attractive?

No.

Impossible.

Maybe.

A little...

Not like that.

Not in a we’re-married-let’s-make-out-on-this-magic-bench way.

You ran a hand down your face.It was just—he was ancient and timeless,dark and mysterious... broody. The way he spoke was like poetry bleeding into silence. That wasn’t your fault. That was classic 'mysterious man with a tragic backstory' bait.You sighed, you just liked older men.Big deal.

That didn’t mean you had feelings. It didn’t mean anything, really. Just an observation. A tiny, shameful, deeply repressed observation that you were now going to lock in a mental box and throw directly into the sea.

Where it belonged.

Along with every single memory of him saying 'you are not a stranger to me.'

You had the urge to groan and roll your eyes at yourself.You sat up a little too fast. “I—um—should go.”

He turned his head to you, calmly.“Are you unwell?”

“Not at all,” you said quickly. “Perfectly fine. I just forgot I... have things. Somewhere ...umm library things—yeah.”

His brow creased slightly. You could feel him watching you, calculating, maybe even concerned—but thankfully, he didn’t press.

“Goodnight, Morpheus,” you added, already taking a step back, palms damp.

“Goodnight,” he replied, low and even.

You didn’t look back until you’d passed the archway of the castle. He hadn’t moved,just sat there, quiet and unknowable, while the stars turned above him like they always had.

...

You found yourself in the library again, tucked between towering shelves and the hush of ancient paper.A predictable retreat, maybe—but comforting all the same.

You paced between the aisles for a bit, fingers trailing across spines you didn’t read. You weren’t even sure what you were looking for. Distraction? A brain transplant?

Eventually you settled in your usual chair. Opened a book you wouldn’t remember a single word from. Tried to make your face look neutral in case Lucienne walked by.Because this wasn’t about feelings.No,this was about power dynamics.

Of course you were uncomfortable. The man literally knew everything you’d ever dreamed about. That put him about a hundred steps ahead of you on the “getting to know your spouse” ladder. You were just trying to catch up. Level the field. Regain a little agency.That’s all.You weren’t being weird — he was.

And you absolutely didn't have a crush on your ancient, dream-walking, star-draped husband.You exhaled sharply through your nose and forced your attention to the text.

You pulled the book closer, eyes skimming a page on dream-symbolism that, frankly, felt a little too relevant. Slowly you started getting captivated by the book.

The more you read, the more the Dreaming unfolded in intricate layers. Books Lucienne had guided you to, texts penned in languages that shifted the longer you looked at them, volumes on the mechanics of dreamstuff, the nature of realms, and the difference between a dreamer and a dreaming.

There were parts written about your husband.The burden of ruling a place shaped by the minds of billions. The constant push and pull of control, creation, and surrender.No wonder he kept people at arm’s length.Still, you had questions and you wanted answers—from him.

But not today. You’d already seen him once, and there was no point in pressing too hard, too soon. Especially not when your cheeks still flushed.

So instead, you read — a lot.Books on ancient dream rituals, the anatomy of nightmares, case studies of dreamers who shaped entire realms in their sleep. You devoured them all. Scribbled down notes. Re-read paragraphs until the runes blurred.

The more you learned, the more impossible it seemed that someone like him existed at all.Which only made you more determined to understand him.Tomorrow, you promised yourself to ask.

...

The next evening arrived draped in soft indigo. The sky above the Dreaming had turned a dusky violet, stars pulsing like distant thoughts. You knew he’d be there—he always was now.

You approached with your usual cadence, neither hurried nor hesitant. He was already sitting, one leg crossed over the other, posture elegant but not stiff. His eyes found yours instantly.

“You're late,” he said softly, almost amused.

You raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe you’re early.”

That earned you the faintest upturn of his mouth.You sat beside him, careful not to sit too close. There was a rhythm to these moments, and you didn’t want to break it too quickly.

For a while, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t awkward. It rarely was anymore. You watched as the wind stirred the trees, and a trail of silver moths danced overhead in the warm dusk.Eventually, you inhaled.

“I’ve been reading,” you said.“I’ve been trying to understand the Dreaming. And dreams — how they work. How people shape them. How you shape them.” You looked at your hands, then up again. “I’ve seen what you’ve built. It’s beautiful and impossible. Terrifying, sometimes,but it means something.”

He didn’t interrupt, so you kept going.

“But I don’t get it. Not really. Not how it works. And… not how you work.”

“But I don’t get it. Not really. Not how it works. And… not how you work.”

This seemed to draw his attention more sharply. His gaze flicked to yours like a blade turning ever so slightly in the light.

“And you wish to?”

You nodded slowly. “I do.”

“Why?”

You opened your mouth, but the answer tangled in your throat. You couldn’t say because I want to understand you. That sounded too raw, too soon. Instead, you reached for the truth that felt safest.

“Because I live here now. Because this is part of me—whether I chose it or not. And because I don’t want to just float around, sipping tea and pretending I don’t care.”

He looked at you for a long time,as if reading past your face and into the thoughts underneath. But then, he nodded once.

“I can take you into someone’s dream,” he said simply. “Let you see what it’s like—from the inside.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He didn’t smile, but he nodded.

You stared at him, something tightening in your chest—curiosity, yes, but also something dangerously close to excitement. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What?”

“I can tell. You haven’t slept well.” His voice lowered, not unkindly. “You’ve been thinking too much.”

“Why not now?” you teased.

“Because the dreamer I want to take you to is asleep at particular hours.” His expression shifted—soft amusement. “And because you are tired.”

You shifted awkwardly.“I’m not that tired.”

Morpheus tilted his head. “You haven’t slept properly in days.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but couldn’t. He wasn’t wrong. The excitement, the reading, the endless spirals of thought—your mind had been loud lately.

Still, you scoffed lightly. “You’re not exactly the patron saint of healthy sleep habits either.”

Something flickered across his face. Amusement. Then something else—

something fonder.

“I may not sleep,” he said, voice low, “but I do know when someone needs it.”

Before you could reply, he extended a hand toward you.You stared at it,then at him. “Wait. What are you doing?”

“I’m taking you to bed.”

Your brain promptly short-circuited.“I—I can do that myself,” you stammered, flustered by how casual he was.

“I know,” he said, not moving his hand.The look in his eyes wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t cold or kingly. It was tender and simple.So you took his hand.

It wasn’t like touching a mortal. His palm was warm, yes, but also strangely weightless, as if part of him wasn’t fully made of flesh. As if he were silk pretending to be skin.

He led you gently—not rushed, not formal—through the winding halls of the palace. The stars outside cast delicate reflections on the marble floors, and everything was quiet.When you reached your chambers, he didn’t let go right away.

You turned to him. “Thank you. For… noticing.”

He studied your face, unreadable for a moment. “You’ve been pouring yourself into this realm. Into me. That does not go unseen.”

You tried not to react to the softness in his voice or how your stomach twisted in a way that wasn’t unpleasant.

“I’ll let you rest,” he added, stepping back.before he turned away, his eyes met yours."Sleep well"

You swallowed."Thank you"

He didn’t smile, not fully. But something in his expression eased—as if the line between king and husband blurred, just for a moment.And then he was gone.

[purenonsens]

Text from this post, it fits all too well

[thoughtsfromlayla]

Lady Luck is Smiling Masterlist

.☘︎ ݁˖ When the Fates leave Morpheus' call unanswered, he gains insight into another goddess that may be able to help regain his lost tools. Lady Luck, as you go by now as opposed to Fortuna nor Tyche, is the second youngest of the Four Ladies. Morpheus is determined to learn how and what makes you smile, for your smile will allow luck to be on his side, and with any of it, will he find his tools.

Tags/Warnings: Morpheus x Fem!Goddess!Reader, grumpy x sunshine trope, SLOW BURN, occasional use of Y/N, bodily dismemberment (Pt. 4), follows canon plotline, hurt/comfort, discussions of grief, depression, impostor syndrome, and suicide.

Word Count: ~42.6k

Updates every Saturday at 6:00 EST

Tag list is open!

Main Masterlist

⟡ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ⟡ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⟡ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⟡

Part One: Quis Facit Fortunam Gratiam?

.☘︎ ݁˖ Who does Fortuna favor? - Chapter One

Part Two: Misericors Fortuna Adiuvat

.☘︎ ݁˖ Fortuna favors the compassionate. - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four

Part Three: Fortes Fortuna Adiuvat

.☘︎ ݁˖ Fortuna favors the brave. - Chapter Five (Posting 07.05.2025) - Chapter Six (Posting 07.12.2025) - Chapter Seven (Posting 07.19.2025) - Chapter Eight (Posting 07.26.2025)

Part Four: Desperato Fortuna Adiuvat

.☘︎ ݁˖ Fortuna favors the hopeless. - Chapter Nine (Posting 08.02.2025) - Chapter Ten (Posting 08.09.2025) - Chapter Eleven (Posting 08.16.2025) - Chapter Twelve (Posting 08.23.2025)

Part Five: Amantes Fortuna Adiuvat

.☘︎ ݁˖ Fortuna favors the lovers. - Chapter Thirteen (Posting 08.30.2025) - Chapter Fourteen (Posting 09.06.2025)

⟡ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ⟡ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⟡ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⟡

For now, the story goes up to the first four episodes + Calliope's episode. Then the second in the series will go into Rose Walker's arc :)

♡ Yours, Layla