bf!sunoo x f!reader ⚋ ☘︎⚋ where taking photos of him became your love language! 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
contains: just pure fluff :)
wc: 0.4k
listening to: nothing by bruno major
a/n: from this post :) so short im sorryyyy!!! but i hope you still enjoy hehehe.. good night everyone ^^
Loving taking photos of your boyfriend is an understatement—you're obsessed.
The corkboard in your room is filled with polaroids of him that were taken by you, to the point where people didn't even need to ask if he was your boyfriend.
It's the small things that mattered to him. The simple things that made him happy just made you want to grab your camera to capture his genuine smile. It never bothered him. If anything, he loved that someone saw him in that way.
Being with him meant that he would always bring you everywhere. Midnight walks, sunset watching, even going out to get his hair cut—he wanted you to be there.
Now there you were, walking with him at the park because he told you that the dorms felt suffocating and that he needed to breathe anything other than the “dorm air” or whatever he meant.
“You know, there's actually a lot of places around this park. We can go to the ice cream shop, they have the best mint choco!” He exclaimed.
“You and your mint choco obsession, seriously… you can't pay me to try that.” You replied.
“Babyyyy… it's not that bad, I promise.” He pouted. He always abused his ability to look that cute while pouting, you could never say no to him when he looked like that.
You sighed. “Fine… only if you let me take some polaroids of you to add to my collection.”
You swore you saw his eyes light up at that. “Yes, ma'am!”
You chuckled, taking your camera out of your tote bag. You looked down to change some of the settings on it—you really took it seriously, wanting every adjustment to be perfect.
Once you finished, you looked up from the camera to find him already posing for you. You let out a laugh.
“Alrighty! One, two, threeee!” The camera snaps and the polaroid slowly slides out.
“How do I look, Ms. Photographer?” He teased.
“Perfect, as always.” You replied, showing the polaroid to him.
“Good enough for the corkboard?”
“Definitely.”
He giggled before trapping you into a hug, making you squeal.
“What would I do without you and your magical camera?” He whispered into your hair, slightly swaying you from side to side.
“And what would I do without you, my muse?” You whispered back before burying your face into his shoulder, muffling your giggles.
It's always the small things that made pure happiness bloom. Sometimes in life, you don't need to think about the price—because the thought alone of making someone happy can already make a gift expensive. And that's why you stayed with him.
you knew heeseung was the most irritable after work. actually, you knew this best because you were the one he'd take it out on.
"fuck," he says, slamming the door shut behind him, fingers already working to loosen his tie.
"hey. what's wrong?" he ignores your question completely, instead pushing past you to your shared room.
"just come. need you, baby."
you sighed, legs still sore from yesterday because his assistant printed a pitch presentation wrong. you followed him anyway. his tie was on the floor, shirt half unbuttoned as he paced the room, rubbing his temples.
"hee."
"i'm thinking."
you lean against the wall, waiting for him to finish conjuring up whatever thought he was so focused on. he looked hot – unfairly so. any second now he was going to-
"strip." you look up at the sound of his voice, the demanding tone all too familiar. you obeyed instantly. this was your favorite part of the night, after all. the part where you got to relieve his stress and he fucked you deep and raw in return.
now, you were left in nothing but your matching lace bra and panties. it was pale pink and heeseung's favorite set.
"mmm, you wore this for me, doll?" you nod, proud that he appreciated it. "cute."
he walked up to you and circled you slowly, eyeing you from head to toe at every angle. he stopped in front of you, hand wrapping around your waist and settling on the soft curve of your ass. the obvious tent in his slacks pressed against your bare thigh.
"you're perfect. this is exactly what i needed right now. my pretty girl." with that, you feel two taps on your shoulder, a silent command. like you'd done countless times before, you sunk to your knees in front of him.
he bit his lip, running his hands through your hair while he watched you unzip his trousers. "this fucking idiot in marketing can't do his job right," he maunders, "i don't know who hired him to be the head of the department." a hiss interrupts his rant when you free his dick from the constrains of fabric.
you stare up at him through your batting lashes, silently urging him to continue, even as you gave kitten licks to the sensitive and leaking tip. heeseung shudders.
"his campaign idea flopped with our clients," he grips your hair tighter, holding it up in a makeshift ponytail, "and he's skipped work twice just this week." you nod before taking him deeper into your mouth.
a groan slips from his lips at that. "shit.." he adjusts his grip on your head before starting to thrust in and out of your mouth. your throat closes around him, causing his head to loll back in pleasure. drool drips down the corners of your mouth and your fingers come up to fondle with his balls.
"hah–" he pants. in a flash, he disconnects himself from your mouth, grabbing you by the waist and yanking you onto the bed. your back hit the soft sheets, bra askew just enough to reveal your nipple. he kneels between your spread legs, his cock – flushed and sticky with a combination of your saliva and his precum – brushes against your inner thigh.
once he catches glimpse of the sliver of skin that was no longer hidden behind your bra? he choked on his breath and immediately leaned down to connect his lips to the stiff peak. his tongue worked religiously, alternating between circling the bud with his wet muscle, sucking, or grazing his teeth against it.
your toes curl, jaw slack but devoid of any sweet sounds. you had grown to learn that when heeseung is stressed, he enjoyed the quiet. basically, you weren't allowed to moan or whine or speak, otherwise he wouldn't let you finish. it was maddening. maddening when all you could hear was him panting and groaning in your ear, telling you how amazing you feel and what a good girl you are for keeping quiet.
he hummed in satisfaction against your breast, patting your thigh twice as a silent praise, before switching and latching onto your other nipple. "yn, baby, can you imagine these beautiful tits full of milk, hm?" he says, voice muffled since he his face was practically buried in your chest, but you could feel the smirk on his face. "imagine you in some tight little shirt and they're leaking. fuck, i'm hard just at the thought. gonna make it come true. all fours for me, pretty."
he presses a final kiss right in between your breasts and sits up. you follow, holding yourself up with your arms, knees digging into the mattress. his fingers trace the lace lining of your bottoms, his palm rough against your smooth skin.
"take em off." your panties slide off with ease. you didn't even bother taking them off all the way, so they stayed hooked on one of your ankles. suddenly, a stinging smack lands square on your right asscheek. fighting the urge to whimper to stay loyal to his rules, your body's compromise is to turn your arms to jelly. your elbows buckle, sending you face first into the duvet.
heeseung, your evil boyfriend, laughs first and then helps you up. "ohhh, you're into that spanking stuff? noted." the grin on his lips was priceless. "should get a belt next time," he teases under his breath.
he presses your back down, forcing it into a deeper curve, and lines up against your entrance. you felt him – warm and heavy – just barely where you desperately needed him to be. without warning (because when did heeseung ever do those?), he slides in with a single thrust, bottoming out in a second. you couldn't help it this time, you let out a choked sound. his eyebrow quirks up fast.
"huh? what was that?" you freeze. shit. this is the part where the thought of anything but his own pleasure flys out his mind. "funny. i thought i heard something. might as well be begging to be used."
his hand comes down hard on you again, the slap loud enough to bounce off the walls. "be quiet. it's the one thing i ask of you," he huffs. "don't you see what i deal with everyday? my idiot employees? god, if i got to choose my life, i'd spend all day every day giving you my children. filling you up and making sure it takes. but i don't get do to that all day. so – fuck, yn – please cooperate here. take this shit." he accentuates his words with a sharp snap of his hips forward.
"please, yn-" he gasps when you clench particularly hard around him. he pulls out slowly, every ridge and vein grazing your gummy walls before crashing back into you with incredible force. each thrust nudged your cervix. the pain was dizzying in the best way possible.
you're sure the crease between your eyebrows will become permanent from how hard they're knit together. your eyes haven't opened this entire time, too focused on his filthy words and the pleasure that's building up in your lower belly.
"gonna cum, baby? go ahead." you almost moan in relief. at least he's letting you climax. you reeeeally should've known there was a catch. your sopping pussy locks up around him, squeezing him in impossibly. instead of stopping, he kept going, delaying his own release for the sake of the show. you couldn't do this anymore. "fuck- heeseung!" you cry, the tears already brimming in your eyes.
he scoffed in disbelief. "you're getting way too comfortable." landing another smack on your cheek, still pounding you from behind, except now his hands slithers over to your front, drawing tight figures on your swollen clit. your moan could've woken up the whole house. he fights his smile by biting his lip and pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades. "you can give me one more."
his dick nudged your cervix exactly one more time before you squirted hard, liquid gushing out onto both your thighs. he lets a final whimper slip as he empties his thick load into you, body shuddering and cock softening up inside you. even then, he refused to pull out for a solid minute.
"this has to take. you have to get pregnant," he mutters, more to himself than you.
eventually, he parts from you. you turn onto your back to face him. there's a surprisingly soft smile on his lips as he leans down to kiss you properly – a stark contrast to the roughness from seconds ago. when he pulls away, he sees his seed trickling out of you. his tongue clicks in annoyance and you notice his gaze darken.
"all wasted," he sighs. "now we need to go again."
an: heeseung x spanking x ME 🤤🤤🤤🤤 bye i need him bad
in which, you— an abuse survivor haunted by trauma meet James— a gentle man who slowly becomes your devoted lover. Through patient courtship and deep emotional trust— he helps you heal by showing you that intimacy can be tender, consensual, and beautiful rather than violent. 5k
༝ 赵雨凡 ༝ 𝒙 f!reader ethel cain / western gothic
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT heavy tw: ⚠︎ grape (no graphic description but still tw), religious trauma and guilt, western gothic, self hatred, intimacy, PTSD, emotional distress and angst, fully consensual gentle sex, mild alcohol use, intense emotional vulnerability. SMUT : gentle sex, praising lots of praising, softness, oral, piv unprotected, comfort, extensive verbal consent, fingering, creampie (discussed and consensual), aftercare, multiple orgasms, body worship.
a/n : please, no hate on this, i’m only human, this is fiction, please don’t come at me for writing this— when people quite literally romanticize rape on here. this was something i needed to write, i don’t want to get hate for it because it’s incredibly vulnerable so please give me a break im tired, take in consideration that this is purely a form of art. That being said, take care of yourself, if you can relate (which i hope you don’t.) please please please don’t let a monster dictate your life.
“HE GAVE IN TO TEMPTATION. Men are weak, you shouldn’t let one moment define the rest of his life.”
The priest’s voice drifted through the dim confessional like dust motes in a shaft of stained-glass light— heavy with the scent of old incense and mildew. Father Elias sat on the other side of the latticed screen, his silhouette hunched like a weathered gravestone in the small-town church.
The building itself was a relic— cracked plaster saints with peeling paint, wooden pews worn smooth by generations of sinners, a rusty crucifix hanging crooked above the altar as if even God had grown tired of holding it straight. Outside, the wind moaned across the empty plains, carrying the faint howl of coyotes circling the bones of dead cattle.
You knelt on the hard wooden step, knees aching, fingers twisting the hem of your thin cotton dress; the fabric clung to your sweat-damp skin, faded like everything else in this godforsaken stretch of America.
Your body felt foreign, animal.
The violence had stripped the softness from you and left something feral in its place: a wild thing with bared teeth and trembling flanks, hiding in tall grass, ready to bolt or bite at the slightest shadow.
Sleep came in fitful snatches, curled tight like a wounded deer, muscles locked against phantom hands. Hunger gnawed but food tasted of ash. Touch— any touch—sent you spiraling into that dark place where flesh became meat- where your own body betrayed you with memories of tearing and bruising.
You had come to the church seeking absolution for your anger— but Father Elias offered counsel for the sinner instead.
“You have to remember that forgiveness is for everyone, even the man who hurt you,” he continued, voice soft as grave dirt. The words landed like stones in still water, rippling through your chest.
You swallowed hard, throat raw— the confessional smelled of candle wax and old sins and through the screen, you could see the outline of his clasped hands, knuckles white. Everything was so detailed yet so distant.
“Father… he didn’t just hurt me. He took. I said no. I begged. And he laughed.”
The memory surged, brutal: gravel digging into your back like the teeth of the earth itself, his breath hot and sour like cheap whiskey and damnation, hands pinning your wrists as if nailing you to some profane cross. Your dress torn like fucking temple veil.
Afterward, you crawled into the ditch like an animal fleeing the slaughterhouse— limbs shaking, throbbing with violation, soul leaking out onto the dirt.
Days blurred into weeks of hiding in motel rooms, washing blood from your undergarments in sink basins, staring at your reflection until the girl looking back became something hunted and hollow-eyed.
The pain had animalized you: instincts sharpened to survival, trust evaporated like morning dew on the sagebrush. You flinched at footsteps, bared metaphorical teeth at kindness, fucked up your own attempts at connection because intimacy now smelled like violence.
A prey animal wearing human skin, yearning for a shepherd who wouldn’t lead you to slaughter.
Father Elias sighed, the sound heavy with centuries of doctrine. “Holding on to anger only gives the devil another victory, my child. Let it go before it festers into something that damns you both.”
You pressed your forehead against the cool wood, tears slipping silent down your cheeks. The church creaked around you, wind rattling the loose panes like bones in a shallow grave.
Outside, the vast western sky stretched merciless, highways cutting through it like veins opened for bloodletting. You thought of the man—your executioner —sitting somewhere in this same county, perhaps lighting candles in this very church, confessing to the same priest.
Forgiven by God while you carried the carcass of what he left behind.
“He has confessed his sins before God,” the priest said gently, almost pleading. “Perhaps it’s time for you to let this go.”
The words carved into you. Let it go.
As if pain were a coat you could shrug off on the porch step.
As if your body could forget the way it was split open under moonlight, turned from temple to battlefield.
You had become the wounded lamb limping through the valley of shadow, but no rod or staff comforted you. Instead, rage simmered beneath the fear—a wild, gnashing thing that made you want to burn the fields, to scream at the indifferent heavens until they cracked.
“We all fall into sin,” Father Elias murmured, finality in his tone. “His happened to hurt you. But grace is for the fallen. Pray on it, daughter. Seek the light.”
You left the confessional on unsteady legs, the animal inside you snarling low. The church nave stretched long and empty, dust dancing in beams of colored light from windows depicting martyred saints pierced and bleeding. You genuflected out of habit, the motion mechanical, then slipped out into the blazing afternoon sun.
The dirt parking lot was empty save for your old pickup, paint sun-bleached and rust-eaten. You drove the back roads with windows down, wind whipping your hair like a scourge. Fields of dying wheat rolled by, golden and rotten at the roots, scarecrows standing sentinel like crucified sinners.
Home was the crumbling farmhouse on the outskirts— the same one that would later shelter you and James. For now, it stood lonely, porch sagging under the weight of unspoken prayers.
You stripped in the dim bedroom, standing naked before the cracked mirror.
Your reflection showed the thing you had become: ribs faintly visible from weeks of barely eating, bruises long faded to yellow ghosts on your hips and thighs, eyes too wide and haunted. Scratches from your own nails where you had clawed at your skin in nightmares, trying to scrub him out. Breasts that once felt soft and inviting now seemed like burdens, cunt a site of trauma rather than pleasure.
You touched yourself experimentally, fingers tracing the folds that had been forced open, and flinched at the echo of pain.
No wetness, only dryness and dread.
The yearning was there, buried deep— a desperate hunger for tenderness that felt like blasphemy in this landscape of judgment.
Nights were the worst. You lay on the iron bed, sheets tangled like restraints, listening to the coyotes sing their hymns. Dreams came feral: running endless highways, hooves instead of feet, the executioner’s truck always gaining, his hands turning into claws. You woke gasping, body slick with sweat that smelled of fear.
Masturbation brought no relief— only fragmented attempts that ended in tears, fingers too rough in mimicry of violence, leaving you emptier.
The animal in you paced, wounded and wanting, craving a touch that healed rather than hunted.
Days passed in ritual. You worked odd jobs at the roadside diner, pouring coffee for truckers whose eyes lingered too long, making your skin crawl with animal wariness.
You avoided the church after that confession, but the priest’s words haunted the empty rooms like ghosts.
Forgiveness. Grace. Letting go.
They clashed with the truth etched in your flesh: some sins left teeth marks that no prayer could erase.
You read old Bibles by lamplight, tracing passages about redemption, but they felt hollow.
The God of this land seemed distant, more interested in forgiving the wolf than binding the lamb’s wounds.
One evening, storm clouds gathered low on the horizon, turning the sky the color of bruised flesh. You sat on the porch with a bottle of cheap wine, the animal inside restless. Thunder rumbled like distant judgment.
You thought of the man who hurt you— perhaps he slept easy now, absolved, while you carried the weight of his temptation.
Anger rose, hot and righteous, but so did the exhaustion of holding it.
The priest was right about one thing: it was poisoning you, turning you more feral, more isolated. But forgiveness felt like dying all over again.
So you drove to the edge of town as lightning split the sky, pulling over at an old crossroads where faded signs pointed toward forgotten places. The rain came sudden and violent, washing the dust from your windshield as tears from a penitent’s face.
You stepped out into it, dress clinging transparent, arms spread as if inviting the heavens to strike. Water mixed with salt on your cheeks.
“Why?” you screamed into the gale- to no one in particular. “Why why why why.”
That night, back at the farmhouse, you lit candles around the bedroom, mimicking some half-remembered ritual. Naked again before the mirror, you traced the lines of your body with trembling fingers, trying to reclaim it.
“This is mine,” you whispered to the reflection. But the touch stirred only echoes.
The yearning deepened into ache: for hands that asked, for a body that sheltered rather than invaded, for intimacy slow as desert twilight and tender as a mother’s lullaby.
Longing twisted with carnal hunger. You wanted to be laid on an altar of flesh and worshipped, not sacrificed.
Sleep claimed you eventually, curled fetal like a creature in its den. Dreams shifted slightly— a figure on the horizon, boots kicking up dust, eyes like moss after rain.
A lover, perhaps.
A man who understood the animal and gentled it without breaking.
Morning brought pale light filtering through threadbare curtains. You rose, body stiff but the feral edge slightly dulled by the storm’s catharsis.
The priest’s words lingered, but so did your truth.
Forgiveness might come later, or never. For now, survival meant seeking the light he spoke of, even if it led down uncertain roads.
You packed a small bag— few belongings, a worn Bible, a change of clothes—and climbed into the truck. The engine coughed to life and highways stretched before you, endless blacktop cutting through golden decay, telephone poles like crucifixes.
You didn’t know where you were going, only that staying meant becoming more of a beast.
The priest’s counsel echoed: forgiveness for all. But your body remembered the violence, and it demanded proof of another way. Proof that flesh could sing hallelujah instead of screaming damnation.
Proof that a man’s weakness didn’t have to mean your destruction.
The desert swallowed your taillights, stars wheeling overhead like indifferent witnesses.
You passed abandoned farms and rusted water towers, relics of dreams long dead. Each mile peeled back another layer of th armor— fear giving way, inch by painful inch, to the fragile wish for connection.
By the time the sun bled orange across the plains, exhaustion and something like grace settled over you. The farmhouse waited somewhere ahead, empty and beckoning, its porch light a distant votive in your mind’s eye.
You pulled over once more, killing the engine under a sky turning violet. Sitting on the hood, legs dangling, you let the cooling metal warm your thighs. Hands pressed to your stomach, you breathed deep the scent of creosote and possibility.
The rape had made you feral, yes— quick to run, slow to trust, body a battlefield of phantom pains and instinctive snarls. But beneath it, the girl who once believed in tenderness still flickered, a candle in the ruins of faith.
“Forgiveness,” you whispered to the wind, tasting the word like bitter sacrament.
Not for him.
Not yet.
But perhaps space for something new.
For hands that built instead of broke.
For a lover who would kneel in the dirt and kiss the wounds without demanding you forget they existed.
Night fell fully as you resumed driving. The radio crackled with a faint Jeff Buckley melody— your heart beat in time, animal and human entwined, carrying you toward the farmhouse where dust settled on empty rooms, waiting for the man who would finally answer the prayer.
In the days that followed, solitude wrapped you like a shroud. You cleaned the old place with ritualistic care: sweeping floors that groaned like penitent knees, hanging faded curtains, placing wildflowers in cracked jars on the windowsill.
Each task was an act of reclamation, pushing back against the wildness. Yet at night the memories returned— visceral torrents.
The weight pinning you.
The grunt of conquest.
The way your voice had cracked on “please” until it became whimper.
You woke clawing at sheets, nails leaving red crescents on your arms, body slick with the sweat of prey.
One afternoon, you found an old rosary in a drawer, beads worn smooth. You held it, running fingers over the cross, and whispered fragmented prayers.
Not for the executioner’s soul, but for your own. For the feral thing inside to find rest.
The priest’s words returned unbidden: “We all fall into sin. His happened to hurt you.” They stung less sharply now, tempered by distance, but still you rejected the easy absolution.
Your hurt was not collateral. It was a ravine carved through your life, deep enough to echo.
You began walking the back fields at dusk, boots kicking up red dust, dress trailing like a robe. Coyotes watched from the treeline, recognizing kin in your wary stride.
One evening, a storm threatened again. You stood in the open, arms raised, letting the first fat drops hit your upturned face. Rain soaked through fabric, outlining the curves the executioner had claimed, but this time you did not flinch.
Instead, you imagined different hands— gentle ones tracing the same paths with reverence. The yearning intensified, a deep ache between your legs that was desire and fear braided together.
You slipped fingers under the wet hem right there in the field, touching tentatively. Slow circles on your core, breath hitching not with trauma but with tentative want.
The animal watched, curious rather than terrified.
You did not come, but the act felt like small sacrament— reclaiming the altar of your body one raindrop at a time.
Returning to the house drenched, you stripped and stood before the mirror once more. Water beaded on skin marked by faded lines.
You spoke aloud to the reflection: “You are more than what he made you.”
The animal inside softened its hackles, curling tighter but no longer snapping.
Letters arrived sporadically— distant family, concerned friends— but you answered little. Isolation was both cage and sanctuary.
In the quiet, you read from the worn Bible and secular books scavenged from thrift stores: stories of fallen women finding grace on the road, of bodies remade through love.
The longing evolved from vague hunger to specific prayer.
You wanted eyes that saw the scars and kissed them anyway. A voice that praised instead of degraded. A sex that filled with consent and care, slow as the turning of seasons.
The priest’s final counsel lingered during a return visit to the church weeks later. You did not enter the confessional this time but sat in a back pew as Father Elias prepared for evening mass. He noticed you, offered a nod heavy with unspoken words.
After the sparse service— a handful of elderly parishioners murmuring responses—you approached him in the vestibule.
“Father,” you said, voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “I heard your words. About forgiveness. About sin.”
He clasped your shoulder lightly, a fatherly touch that did not trigger flight. “The Lord’s mercy is infinite, child. Even for the weakest among us.”
You met his gaze. “I’m trying. But the animal he left in me… it doesn’t forget easily. I’m learning to walk again. To want again.”
He smiled sadly, the lines on his face deep as arroyos. “That is the beginning of grace. Go in peace.”
You left lighter, though not healed. The drive back felt like pilgrimage. The farmhouse appeared on the horizon, its lights (you had left one burning) like a beacon.
Inside, you prepared simple food, ate at the wooden table, then bathed by lamplight. The water caressed your skin, warm and forgiving.
Fingers explored again, slower, imagining a future lover’s mouth replacing them. Soft moans escaped, echoing off tiled walls— sounds of tentative healing.
That night, sleep came deeper. Dreams featured open roads and a man walking toward you, hands open, voice like gravel and honey. James, though you did not yet know his name.
The animal in you perked its ears, in recognition.
The road finally delivered you to him on a night when the sky hung low and bruised, thunderheads rolling across the plains like the wrath of an old testament God.
You had pulled into the gravel lot of a half-forgotten roadside bar on the outskirts of another nowhere town. The air smelled of spilled beer, cigarette ash, and the metallic promise of rain.
Inside, the jukebox wept low country songs, and he was leaning against the scarred wooden bar when you entered, a silhouette carved from the very dust and decay of this land.
James.
Tall and lean as a fence post left too long in the sun, shoulders broad from years of hauling lumber and laying rebar on half-built churches that never quite got finished.
His dark hair fell across his forehead in careless waves, streaked with blond like moonlight on barbed wire.
A faded tattoo of a thorn-crowned cross peeked from the open collar of his shirt, ink blurred by time and penance. Scars traced his knuckles and the line of his jaw— road stories, bar fights, nights spent wrestling with angels and losing.
He was no savior in white robes.
James was a sinner with callused hands and a quiet faith.
A drifter architect of sorts, he built things that stood against the wind: barns for widows, shelters for runaways, sometimes just temporary altars out of scrap wood.
Men whispered he had blood on his ledger from a youth spent running moonshine and worse, but the women who knew him spoke of gentle strength— the way he held doors and held silences, never rushing, never taking.
A man who had buried his own ghosts under desert highways and risen with dirt still under his nails.
Your eyes met across the hazy room.
Something ancient stirred in your chest— the feral animal inside you paused its pacing, ears pricking not in flight but in wary recognition.
He didn’t approach like the others, with hungry grins and grasping hands.
James simply nodded once, a slow tip of his chin, and slid a glass of whiskey down the bar toward you when the bartender asked your order.
“Looks like you’ve been driving through hell’s back forty,” he said, voice low and gravel-rough, laced with that slow southern drawl that wrapped around broken things and tried to mend them. “the name’s James.”
You talked that night in careful fragments, perched on stools while lightning flashed outside. He listened like a confessor who had never betrayed a secret, black eyes steady as you skirted the edges of your story without spilling the blood yet.
He spoke of his own wanderings: building in dying towns, laying hands on structures and souls alike, searching for something real amid the rot.
“I don’t pretend to fix what’s broken,” he murmured. “But I know how to hold it gentle. The world’s got enough violence already.”
He didnt come inside the farmhouse that first night. Instead, he walked you to the door, hat in hand, rain dripping from the brim.
“If you ever want company that don’t demand nothing, I’m staying at the old Miller place down the road. No pressure, pretty.”
Days turned to weeks.
James became a presence rather than a conquest. He appeared with fresh-cut wildflowers for the sagging porch, helped patch the leaking roof without being asked, his hammer strikes rhythmic as prayer.
Evenings found you on the porch swing, sharing silence and then stories. He told you of the churches he restored, of laying bricks like laying down sins, of praying over foundations that might outlast him.
You spoke haltingly of the animal the rape had left behind— the flinch at sudden movement, the nights curled like a wounded coyote, the way your body had become a locked tabernacle no one was allowed to enter.
James never pushed.
Touches came slow: a hand steadying your elbow on uneven steps, fingers brushing yours when passing a mug of coffee. Each one asked permission with its gentleness.
“You set the pace,” he would say quietly, eyes on the horizon. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”
Over months, he became your lover in the truest sense— not through claiming, but through presence. Shared meals at the scarred kitchen table. Walks along the dust roads where he matched your stride, never leading. Nights sitting close on the couch, his arm around you only when you leaned in first, thumb tracing soothing circles on your shoulder.
The animal in you learned his scent— sandalwood, sweat, and honest earth —and stopped baring teeth. Trust bloomed tentative.
One evening, as summer faded into golden, you sat together on the porch steps. James turned to you, voice soft as grave dirt.
“I see everything you carry, darlin’. The way that bastard tried to make you into something broken. I hate it down to my bones. But I see you too— my girl, still reaching for light. When you’re ready, if you’re ever ready, I want to show you that touch can be different. Yours to command.”
Your heart ached with the weight of it.
Here was the man who had become your lover through patience and quiet devotion, not force. The wanderer with boba eyes and callused redeemer’s hands, ready to kneel at whatever altar you offered.
The farmhouse waited behind you, oil lamps glowing soft, the longing had grown into something ready. James waited too— steady, reverent—until you took his hand and led him inside, the threshold crossing like the first true breath after long suffocation.
Pleasure wasn’t punishment.
Pleasure. isn’t. punishment.
James’ fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face, gentle as evening vespers. “You look like you’re carrying the whole damn county on your shoulders tonight, pretty.” he murmured. “Let me take that weight off you.”
His breath hitched, thhose dark eyes, shadowed by the brim of his worn hat, filled with a sorrow so deep it mirrored the dry riverbeds outside.
He pulled you against his chest, heart thudding steady beneath faded cotton. “Christ, baby. It tears me up inside knowing someone laid violent hands on you. Made you think love had to hurt. I’d burn the whole fucking town down if it’d erase that night for you.” He kissed your temple, slow and lingering. “But I can’t undo it. All I can do is prove different. Every damn time you let me.”
The wrought-iron bed dominated your room, sheets worn soft from years of strangers’ dreams. You sat on the edge of the bed, knees together, vulnerable as a sinner at the altar.
James knelt before you, large hands resting on your thighs but not gripping. Never gripping unless you asked.
“Tell me what you need tonight,” he said, thumbs stroking circles that sent warmth pooling low in your belly. “We go as slow as you need. You say stop, I stop. You say more, I give you everything.”
“I need you close,” you whispered, voice cracking like parched earth.
All of you. Skin and soul. Show me tenderness, Make love to me like I’m something sacred.
James rose and undressed first, shedding flannel and jeans with unhurried grace. His body was lean muscle and scars— road life etched into him: a knife fight in El Paso, a crash outside Tulsa.
You reached out, tracing the tattoo over his heart— he shivered under your fingers but stayed still, letting you map him.
“Your turn, if you want,” he said softly.
You nodded.
He helped peel the flannelj from your shoulders, reverent as disrobing a saint. Cool air kissed your bare skin, nipples pebbling. His gaze drank you in—hungry but holy.
“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed. “Beautiful. So beautiful. I’m so lucky.”
Tears stung your eyes and he cupped your face, thumbs wiping them away.
“None of that shame, darlin’. Not with me. You’re allowed to want this— to need it slow and deep and loving.”
James laid you back against the pillows, the mattress dipping under his weight as he stretched beside you.
Skin met skin— warmth against warmth. His hand traced your collarbone, down the valley between your breasts, over the soft plane of your stomach. Every touch asked permission.
“Here?” he’d murmur.
You’d nod or whisper yes, and he’d continue.
You kissed him first, desperate for connection. His mouth tasted of smoke and salt, slow and devouring in the gentlest way, tongues slid together.
He groaned into you, a low rumble that vibrated through your chest. “So sweet,” he praised against your lips. “So pretty.”
Your hands roamed his back, feeling the flex of muscle, the raised lines of old scars. He rolled partially over you, careful to keep weight distributed, one thigh pressing gently between yours.
The pressure against your core made you gasp— slick heat building already, arousal a slow, sacred burn rather than frantic fear.
“Feel that?” he whispered, grinding softly, deliberately. “Your body’s getting ready for me, baby. So wet already. Does it feel good?”
“Yes,” you moaned, hips tilting up to meet him. “Don’t stop touching me.”
James worshipped downward— mouth latching onto a nipple, tongue circling with wet heat while his hand kneaded the other breast. Sensation bloomed: sparks shooting to your cunt, thighs parting wider of their own accord.
The old fear flickered— rough hands, forced entry—but James’s voice anchored you.
He moved lower, kissing the dip of your navel, the crease of your hip. Pausing at the apex of your thighs, breath ghosting over glistening folds. “Can I taste you?”
You threaded fingers through his dark hair, tugging lightly. “Please, James.”
His tongue was heaven and hell— broad, flat strokes from entrance to clit, then tight circles that had you keening. He hummed in pleasure, the vibration pulling a curse from your lips, “Fuck—yes, right there.”
James drank from you like communion wine.
Two fingers pressed at your entrance, circling, waiting. “Inside?” he asked, voice muffled against your flesh.
“God, yes. Slow.”
He slid them in, curling against that spongy spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. The stretch was perfect, full without pain.
Pleasure wasn’t punishment.
He worked you open with patient devotion, mouth never leaving your clit. Pleasure coiled tight, intensse —body as altar, his tongue as prayer.
You came with a broken sob, thighs trembling around his head, walls fluttering around his fingers.
He licked you through it, murmuring, “That’s my girl. So good, coming so pretty for me. Let it all out.”
Aftershocks rippled as he crawled back up, kissing the tears from your cheeks. His cock rested heavy and hot against your thigh, leaking. You wrapped a hand around him, stroking the length.
“I want you inside,” you said, vulnerable and raw.
All the way. Skin to skin. Fill the places that hurt.
James’s eyes darkened with emotion. “You sure? We can wait. I’d wait forever for you.”
“I’m sure.“
James positioned himself between your spread thighs, rubbing the thick head through your slickness. Teasing your clit until you whimpered. “Eyes on me,” he commanded gently. “Breathe with me. If it’s too much, we stop.”
The first push was exquisite pressure. Inch by inch, he sank into you, groaning deep in his chest.
“Holy fuck— you’re tight. So perfect, swallowing me like you were made for me.” Fully seated, he stilled, forehead pressed to yours. Sweat beaded on his skin. The fullness was overwhelming—stretching, claiming, but chosen. “Talk to me, baby. How does it feel?”
“Full— fuck… safe.” Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. “Move. Please”
He did. Long, rolling thrusts, each withdrawal dragging against every nerve, each return grounding deep. The wet sounds of your joining filled the room— obscene. His hand slipped between you, thumb circling your clit in lazy spirals.
“Look how well you take me. So fucking strong. Brave girl, letting me in like this. I love you.”
Emotions crashed through the pleasure. You clung to him, nails scoring his shoulders lightly.
James adjusted, hips undulating in deep, grinding circles rather than pounding. The head of his cock kissed that spot inside with every motion, sweat slickin your bodies, sliding skin on skin.
The scent was heady— sex and sage and his musk. You tasted salt on his neck when you licked him.
He whispered praises like scripture: “Am so lucky, so fucking lucky….”
Tears slipped from both of you now, mingling-/ his pace never rushed, even as your second orgasm built.
“Come for me again,” he urged, voice cracking. “Let me feel that pretty pussy squeeze me. I’m yours. All yours.”
It hit you like revelation— waves of ecstasy rolling from core outward, cunt pulsing around his thick cock. You cried out, and James followed soon after, burying deep with a guttural moan, spilling hot and thick inside you. Pulse after pulse, marking you with love instead of violence.
He stayed buried, collapsing carefully to the side and pulling you atop him so you rested on his chest.
For long minutes, only breathing and the creak of the old house. His hand stroked your back in long sweeps. “You okay? Any pain?”
“None,” you whispered, tracing the tattoo on his chest. “Just full.”
He kissed your hair. “Good girl. You were so good. So beautiful. I’m so lucky.”
The night stretched on. You talked in the afterglow, voices soft as he told you stories of the road— lost highways where he’d prayed for something real.
You shared fragments of the trauma, how it felt like God had turned his face away. James held you tighter.
“Maybe he sent me instead. A sinner to love a saint.”
Later, desire stirred again. You rode him this time, slow and deliberate, hands braced on his chest, he looked up at you like you hung the stars outside.
“Ride me however feels good, pretty’. Use me”
His hands rested on your hips, guiding but never forcing; you ground down, taking him deep, clit rubbing against his pelvis.
Curses fell from your lips —“Fuck, James, you’re so deep”— mixed with his praises: “Beautiful. Take what you need.”
Orgasm claimed you both again, slower, sweeter.
Afterward, he drew a bath in the clawfoot tub down the hall, lukewarm water from th pipes. He washed you with careful hands, soaping every inch, rinsing with cupped palms.
Then you did the same for him, kneeling between his legs, mouth eventually finding his spent cock to coax it back to life with tender sucks and licks. He came down your throat with gentle hands in your hair, whispering, “I love you.”
Days blurred into this rhythm in the farmhouse. Mornings where he woke you with his mouth between your legs, tongue tracing on your clit until you shattered.
Afternoons on the porch swing, his fingers inside you under a thin blanket while cicadas sang.
Nights of full union— missionary with eyes locked, spooning with his hand cupping your breast, against the wall with one leg wrapped around him, always slow, always checking.
One stormy evening, lightning illuminating the rusted cross outside, vulnerability peaked.
You broke down mid-act, old memories surfacing as he moved inside you. James stopped instantly, slipping free, pulling you into his lap.
“Hey, hey. I got you. We don’t have to.” He rocked you through sobs, kissing tears, murmuring, “That bastard doesn’t get this part of you. Only I do, and only when it’s love.”
You eventually asked him back in, needing the reclamation. He entered you again like returning to prayer, movements even slower, foreheads pressed. “You’re safe, you hear me?”
James proved it time and again— intimacy wasn’t the violence of the past. It was slow unraveling, ecstasy in the flesh. You found peace in the decay —in the creaking bed, the flickering lamp, the man who loved you like the last honest prayer in a godless land.
And in his arms, the truth finally settled over your bones like warm rain on parched earth: you were never guilty.
Not for a single second.
The violence done to you was not divine punishment, not the wages of some imagined sin, not a lesson carved into your flesh by a cruel God. It was cruelty, plain and merciless, enacted by a weak man who chose evil.
You carried no stain. You owed no penance. The blood and the breaking had never been yours to atone for.
“oh my god,” you groan, turning your face away from sunoo’s yet again. “you have a serious problem,”
biting his lips, he pulls away, licking his lips every so slightly. “too quick, i didn’t get the flavour,”
a soft scoff falls off your lips at his words, knowing exactly what he is doing. you’ve reapplied your lip balm three times, all because he kisses it all off your lips. “you are not even trying, just want an excuse to kiss me...”
and, it’s true.
what should have been a simple game of chaste kisses to guess the flavour of your new lip balm has now turned into him trying to get his lips on yours for as long as he can.
but your boyfriend can’t let you know that. “nah, you’re just psychotic,”
“sun—” you protest, but he is quick to cut you off with a kiss.
quick and addictive, that’s exactly who he is.
because his lips are on yours again, moving into a sweet and slow dance, way too passionate to just guess the lip blam. it’s hard to not kiss you when you look so pretty all the time.
and frankly, you are no better. with your hands cradling his face, you let him pin you down on the couch. all your complaints melt away when he nips at your bottom lip, then soothes with his tongue.
then he presses a few kisses along your jaw— not sure how that’s relevant to the game— before finally breaking away.
“berry?” his voice is a little hoarse from all the kisses and you swear, your heart skips a beat. “berry lime for sure,”
you sigh. “that’s not even close,”
he grins at your words— of course, he knows it’s not peach— and it’s against your lips that he whispers with fake regrets. “shit, that means i have to kiss you again,”
when your hand reaches down his chest to push him away, he swiftly pins it to your side, kissing you even deeper, getting a proper taste of you on his tongue.
it’s torture to keep his hands ( and mouth ) off you when you are around. especially when you are wearing his tshirt and asking him to kiss your beautiful, glossy lips for a silly game you saw online.
you should’ve known what you were getting into.
“stop—” as you begin to complain, he interrupts with a kiss. “—it—” again. he just knows how to shut you up.
“c’mon baby, it’s not fair. how am i supposed to guess if you don’t let me kiss you?” he is very, very good at playing innocent, trying to convince you with his sweet voice and soft hand that is caressing your cheek.
“i’ll just tell you,”
“no, once more, please?” he goes in again, giving your waist a light squeeze. he is pouting now, gosh, looking at you with those pretty eyes, pleading until you give in. “pretty please?”
rolling your eyes, you agree. “last chance,” and he immediately captures your lips in another kiss.
and this time, he’s not letting you pull away until you both are out of breath.
from, malena do we laik the new layout :3 also, happy birthday to my bby noo i love him sm >< hope the nooglazers like this hehe :D
words can't express how much love i have for this person. i never saw myself getting attached to a public figure, especially an idol back then, but here we are lmaooo 😭
he became my safe space and my inspiration to keep going, even through my toughest times. he became the light i never knew i needed. i may not show it often, but im genuinely so eternally grateful for him it's crazy.
thank you for existing. happy birthday, sunshine :)
pairing: sunoo x f!reader (established relationship)
∘₊‧˚ You had your life ahead of you, everything was perfect. But what happens when everything starts to feel a little too heavy for you to handle, and you showed a side of you that you never intended to show?
warnings: swearing, implied self-harm (if you think this would trigger you, pls do not read)
wc: 1.04k
a/n: teared up making this 🥹 mental health has been one of the things i have struggled with over the years, so this piece is really near and dear to me as it mentions some of the things i had to go through especially during my teenage years. i finally built up the courage to share this and i hope you enjoy and feel the emotion that i've put into it. reminder that you are always so loved <3
“Will you still love me if I show you the bad things within me?”
You were perfect—at least, that's what everyone else thought. Excellent in school, popular, a loving family, extremely sociable, and you had a wonderful boyfriend, Kim Sunoo.
You've been dating Sunoo for eight months now. It was indeed a happy and healthy relationship; everyone could see that from a mile away. You both shared sweet updates and reminders, casual dates after class, and ended each day with cuddles. If you had to be honest, Sunoo was the best thing that had happened to you.
But in the midst of all the great things in your life, you couldn't ignore the truth that your family was financially unstable. Sometimes, you had to cancel some of your dates to help out with your mother's business. It was happening way too often lately, and you were nothing but drained. You felt guilty—guilty that you thought you were leaving your boyfriend disappointed. Disappointed in you and resentful that you chose to work over him.
It being finals week and still being overflowed by constant workload, you felt so—so heavy. You felt like the world was testing you, wanting you to give up already. The pressure of staying at the peak of your academics while keeping up that same energy late at night for customers was too much. With your eyelids begging for rest, you finally reached your breaking point.
You didn't even know how it happened, but you were lying on your bathroom floor, eyes raw, red, and filled with tears. With your arms and legs stinging, you reached for your phone and opened his contact.
You, 1:43AM
I love you. I love you so much.
The moment your message flashed on his screen, his eyes widened in panic. He immediately grabbed his keys and your spare key from his counter, breathlessly whispering, “No, no.” as he ran to your dorm. He twisted the keys with shaking hands and burst through your door, desperately looking for you inside. His eyes landed on your bathroom door and flung it open. He couldn't believe his eyes at the sight of you, struggling to hold on. His eyes instantly welled up with tears as he kneeled down to cup your face.
“Baby, look at me.” He breathed, his voice cracking. “Are you fucking crazy? You should've told me. Baby, please.”
You could do nothing but completely fall apart in front of him. You buried your head into his shoulder and he instantly adjusted himself, pulling you into his lap to cradle you.
“I'm so tired, Sunoo. I'm tired of keeping up with everything… and it feels like I'm the world's biggest enemy.” You managed to choke out, voice shaky. He held you tighter against him, gently stroking your hair as his own tears fell.
“It's useless. No matter how hard I try, it always ends up in me being like this,” you continued. “I want to let go, baby. I don't want to carry this burden anymore.”
“You're not letting go,” Sunoo replied, his voice firm but gentle. “You being in my life is what keeps me going every single day. You don't need to struggle alone, baby.”
You slowly lifted your head from his shoulder, your appearance absolutely shattering him. He tucked the strands of hair sticking to your face behind your ear, gently stroking your cheek.
“My chest always feels so heavy, filled with the things I left unsaid,” you whispered, leaning into his touch. “It's slowly tearing me apart. I can't do it anymore.”
“I'm always here for you—always.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you sank back against his shoulder, finally letting yourself breathe. You were so lucky to have him. His presence was all you needed at the moment. You felt so safe in his arms, like he was protecting you from everything that could possibly hurt you.
He stayed during your lowest, he stayed when you were busy. He stayed through every misunderstanding, making sure you were seen and heard. Your bare face was the least of his worries whenever he came over to your place, ensuring that you didn't need to get pretty for him. Being with Sunoo meant that you never had to walk on eggshells. He wasn’t the type to avoid you out of the blue when something made him upset; instead, he tries to fix it with you together. During your heaviest study weeks, he tries his best to make you comfortable, making you your favorite tea, providing blankets, and constantly whispering praises in your ear to remind you to keep going.
You both stayed like that for a long time, his warmth enveloping you. He rested his chin on the top of your head,
“No more keeping secrets, okay?” He whispered. “We face everything together now.”
You nodded, wrapping your arms around him. “I love you.”
“I love you too—all of you. The real and unfiltered version of you, not just the ‘perfect’ you.”
The quietness of the room settled over you both. He held you closer, pulling you back against his chest where the world couldn't reach you. You realized you weren't alone, you realized you always had a shoulder to lean on. The bad thoughts that were filling your mind slowly dissapearing as he held you. You were always afraid of breaking your “perfect” image in front of everyone. But with him, it was different. He made you feel like you didn't need to act like someone you aren't. He was always the person you ran to first. When you wanted show something you bought, wanting to sing a verse you wrote late at night, wanting to show a new keychain to add to your collection, or to just tell and gossip about everything that had happened to you each day—it was always him. And you wouldn't trade it for anything else.
He was the one who made you realize you aren't unlovable as you think you are, that love was still within you.
Deep inside, buried under that perfect image, there was still you—the true you. It wasn't as pretty as the put together you, but he would still choose that version in a heartbeat.
→ your boyfriend's the best thing that's ever happened to you, and everyone in a fifty foot radius is aware of that fact. if you're around, then sunoo definitely is too, like the first people you search for in a room are always each other. he lights up your world in a way nobody else does, and anyone who knows the two of you is extremely sure that you're one of those couples who will always stay together.
but when sunoo breaks up with you out of the blue and moves away for better opportunities, no one's able to accept the reason behind it. there's rumours, conversations, and even anger from a few close friends—because no one saw it coming.
but what they don't know, is that in the midst of all the speculation, they got one thing right.
that no matter what, you will always go back to sunoo.
pairing: kim sunoo x ex-girlfriend!f!reader + sim jaeyun & best friend!f!reader
warning(s): MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS, ANGST TOWARDS THE MIDDLE AND THE END, i mean it when i say that there's angst. themes of grief, death, and mourning. descriptions of the passing of a beloved pet and humane home euthanasia. themes of lost friendships, mentions of terminal illnesses, and hospital procedures. heavy allusions to suicide. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO ANY OF THE ABOVE MENTIONED TOPICS.
playlist: i wanna be yours 𖦹 arctic monkeys / dover beach 𖦹 baby queen / hailey 𖦹 justin bieber / rocketman 𖦹 sara james / come over 𖦹 bts / mortal 𖦹 enhypen / back to you 𖦹 selena gomez
asher's annotations: spent some time reflecting on some of the hardest times in my life, and this was the end result of it all. while nothing in this fic is based off of real life except for a few handful of elements, it is a very personal and dear thing to me, because of all the emotion i poured into writing this.
you may relate to some elements of this fic, or you may absolutely not, but at the end of the day, all i want to remind you is that it will always get better.
i hope you can enjoy reading this, or at the very least feel the emotions that i wanted to convey through my writing. feedback and reblogs are always appreciated <3
inspired by the song, “back to you” from the netflix series, 13 Reasons Why.
YOU NOTICED THAT IT ALWAYS STARTED WITH A SMALL THING. Sunoo was the kind of person who wore his heart on his sleeve, even when he tried to be discreet and subtle about what he felt. His face spoke more than his mouth ever would, and his eyes—those pretty, gentle brown eyes—always seemed to hold a depth beyond what words could convey.
Jake noticed it, too. In fact, he noticed it almost often enough that he felt the need to tease you about it every time you sat down next to him for Mr Accetta's physics class on Thursday morning, his shoulder brushing yours as he grinned mischievously, eyes twinkling with mirth and great amusement behind the lenses of his glasses.
“You know,” he hums, doodling stars and what you assume to be a mangled “artistic” sketch of Layla, his dog, in the corners of his notebook with a very pink, glittering ink pen. “I kept count again, and I am pleased to inform you that I have got updated stats for the week.”
“Jake, don't start,” you groan, keeping your voice hushed so that old Mr Accetta doesn't catch the two of you talking in his class. The old Italian man was a great teacher and a bit of a gentle giant, but had little to no tolerance for whispered conversations during his lectures, a lesson you'd learnt the hard way during the first month of the freshman year of high school. “If Mr Accetta catches us, we're both going to be salami.”
“As if he'd say anything to me,” Jake rolls his eyes, pushing his glasses higher back up his nose. “I'm his favourite student. He'll automatically give you an excuse because it's me.”
“Narcissistic prick.” You kick his leg underneath the table, and he winces in pain. Shooting you a quick look of offense, he kicks your calf with the heel of his shoe in retaliation. “It's the truth,” he hisses through his teeth, rubbing the sore spot on his leg. “If you want to be spared from his lectures, then get better at physics. At least that way I don't have to tutor you every weekend.”
“I do well enough in physics,” you counter, quieting as Mr Accetta passes by your row. Jake snorts under his breath, tapping his pen against his notes with a look that screams ‘Really? YOU?’ and you barely resist the urge to smack the sophomore. “That's because I tutor you,” he pushes your elbow off the desk, “and you should be grateful I do, because I certainly do not enjoy thirdwheeling you and Sunoo the entire time.”
Your ears burn hot at his words. You promptly ignore them, and level a light glare at Jake. “You don't have to tutor me when he's around, then.” He tuts, shaking his finger. “Where's the fun in that? I'll miss my dose of weekly entertainment watching you squirm under Sunoo's gaze the entire time, then.” He dodges your attempt at whacking his head. “Seriously, you're both so in love, it sickens me. It's like no matter where you go, or how far apart the two of you are, you'll always go back to him.”
“Do you find a particular joy in my suffering, Sim?” You grumble, scribbling in the ‘X’ for your turn in the fifth game of Noughts and Crosses that started fifteen minutes into the class. “You're absolutely correct,” Jake sketches in the ‘O’ for his turn, leaning back in his seat with a pleased hum as he draws a line to win the game, three in a row. “And by the way, you'd actually suffer much less if you took my advice to heart and confessed to him.”
“He doesn't like me that way,” you mutter, cheering softly under your breath as you get your second win with an ‘O’ scribbled into the center of the new grid. Jake looks at you like you're absolutely dumb for saying that out loud, his pen hovering over the paper. “He looks at you like you've descended from heaven very specifically for him. Anytime you're both around in the same room, the first people you look for are each other. Don't give me that bullshit, alright?”
Before you can answer him, Mr Accetta's loud voice booms through the classroom, pointed towards the two of you. “What's the formula to calculate the escape velocity for an object leaving earth, keeping in mind surface gravity?” Thankfully, Jake's mildly ruthless style of tutoring has prepared you for surprise questions, and the formula slips past your lips as quickly as it can. “Square root of 2gr.”
Mr Accetta gives you a pleased nod, questioning Jake next, who answers the question with a calm, casual, and languid ease, the kind that comes when you're extremely sure about what you're doing. It infuriates and amuses you at the same time, because there's something so special about your best friend that is so dearly, incredibly endearing, for a lack of better term.
Jake turns back to you, a smug grin on his face. “Guess you really did listen to my tutoring instead of staring longingly at Sunoo's face the entire time.” You promptly stomp his foot. He jerks his leg high enough to knock his knee into the desk, screaming silently at the pain. The rest of the class turns your way at the sound, but when they don't find anything worth their time and interest, they turn away.
Glaring at you, he wipes the tears forming at the corner of his eyes with one hand, the other still cradling his sore knee. Settling back into his seat, he flips you off, before returning his attention to Mr Accetta once more.
You smile at the sight, turning back to the board. Your notes are a mess, streaks of pink glitter from Jake's pen still dusting the edges of your pages. You'll steal his later, and while he'll complain and whine about it, his hand will still be the one holding the book out for you to take.
The tips of your ears still burn, and your pulse still thrums like the strings and chords of a well-loved guitar under your skin.
Of course, it always started with the small things.
Sunoo is the sun personified, you decide, on a Thursday afternoon.
But it's not just any Thursday afternoon. The sun warms the pavement with gentle rays, and the sky is so blue and the clouds so fluffy and white, you'd think it was a scene pulled from a Ghibli animation. The roar of the sea is quieter at this point of time, but the salty, humid air of a seaside summer still clings to your skin.
There are a few birds chirping, their calls as sweet as the scent of the hibiscus that lingers in the passing wind, joining the gentle sway of the bougainvillea vine that's ever-so-sneakily creeped over the railings of the outdoor balcony, as the humming and chattering in the background quieten to a soft hush.
Everything about this day is perfect.
And really, why wouldn't it be? Because sitting across from you is Kim Sunoo, blond hair shining like strands of gold against the dancing rays of sunlight that filter through tiny gaps in the restaurant's terracotta tiled roof.
He's resting his head on his hand, browsing through the menu. As if feeling the weight of your lingering stare, he raises his head and catches your gaze. The corners of his eyes crinkle, almost disappearing, as his lips curve into the gentlest and softest of smiles. “Am I really that interesting?” He teases, but the hand that was holding the menu earlier is already making its way across the table, before it finds your own. “I doubt anything about me begs this great of a level of detailed attention. Most people aren't this attentive to me.”
His fingers thread with yours. Your pulse nearly stutters to a halt. Your ears burn with heat.
Still, you squeeze his hand.
“You're interesting to me.”
Sunoo blinks at that, as if he hadn't expected the answer. Perhaps he'd expected a joke, a deflection, or maybe even embarrassed avoidance—but not whatever… this was. A confession? An admission? Simply a statement? Or was it a fact? You're not sure what to call it yourself.
But something about your words—quietly spoken into the wind, with no hesitation behind them—must've clicked with him, because his expression softens some more, warmth seeping like dripping honey into the brown of his irises. His thumb rubs circles over the backs of your knuckles, before he lifts your hand to his mouth to press a gentle, reverent kiss against them.
The touch is fleeting—barely lasting a fraction of a second—but the featherlight press of his lips against your skin speaks to you more than a thousand words ever could. His eyes fall shut, even as he turns your hand over to kiss your palm, before finally leaving a last one on the inside of your wrist, this one lingering longer than the other two.
His hand still holds onto yours, the warmth of his body seeping through yours. Your skin still tingles in the places his lips had been to, but the shiver that trails down your spine is a pleasant one. When he opens his eyes once more, Sunoo smiles when he meets your own.
Your pulse quickens again.
But this time, it's because Sunoo's the one holding the guitar of your heart, thrumming the strings along to his whims, as he hums a melody of his own. You follow it without question, heartbeat spiking and dipping with the notes he's set in place for you.
Strangely, you don't mind it. If having him meant that you'd have to place your heart in his hands, you know that you'd do it without hesitation.
The reasoning behind it is simple.
Because this is the same young boy who cried over a fallen flower back when you were anything but tiny little kids all those years ago because he thought the plant would die. Because you know if you handed it to him, he'd cradle it with the greatest of care.
Because it's Sunoo.
And that's enough for you.
The chill of the swimming pool shocks you to your bones.
When you surface back up, clothes and hair clinging tightly to your skin, the perpetrators behind the “crime” of pushing you into the water grin down at you, blocking the sun from you with their shadows.
Jake and Sunoo sport matching, mischievous grins—the kind that tell you that they didn't have an ounce of regret about what they've just done. It's also the kind of grin that just makes you want to get back at them, because the way they look is so endearingly annoying.
Like a pair of cats who got the cream and licked it clean with zero remorse.
The corners of your mouth twitch upward.
Sunoo is the one who spots it first, because of course he's the one who notices everything about you first. Jake sees it a second later, but it's still a second far too late, because you're already leaping over the coping, water dripping onto the concrete as you grab both of them by their ankles and drag them in with a loud splash.
When you surface again, Sunoo and Jake are on either side of you, staring back at you with equal, identical looks of offense, like they couldn't believe what you'd just done. You hold their gazes for a moment longer, wet hair plastered to your forehead, the water rippling gently around the three of you.
Then, Sunoo laughs.
It's not one of those loud, full-bellied laughs, but it is one of those tiny, hushed ones that only come out when the two of you are up at 3 AM, trying not to laugh too hard at the videos you're watching because one of you couldn't fall asleep, the laughter being more snickers than giggles because you don't want to disturb the neighbours.
Jake joins in right after, his shoulders shaking as he giggles, leaning against the pool’s wall for support. Your own chuckles meld into the harmony of theirs, slipping in like a warm blanket on a rainy day.
Sunoo swims over to you, his sleek figure cutting through the water in clean waves, and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close to his body. “Had your fun, huh?” He tries his hardest to pretend to be annoyed, even frowning a little, but his eyes—oh, those pretty brown eyes—immediately give him away.
Not because they're crinkling at the corners the way they do when he smiles.
No, it's because of something else entirely.
It's because they look at you with such fondness it hurts.
Like you're the only thing he sees, in between the chaos of the pool party at Jay's. Over Riki's screaming and shrieking, over the sound of Sunghoon and Jay calling for him to be careful, over Heeseung's loud yells of glee as he sprays Jungwon and Riki with a water gun while Jake eggs him on.
He looks at you like you're his past, present, and his future—and he seems so sure of it all, that it leaves you breathless. The world slows down to a stop, the sun aligning just enough to create a little halo behind his head, the blond strands shining so beautifully—and the noise around you quietens to only the sound of your heartbeat thudding loudly in your ears.
“Yeah,” you rasp out, the air in your lungs still having trouble on the way out, smiling at him. “What are you going to do about it, hm?”
He mirrors your expression, his grin slowly widening as he takes you in. “Nothing much,” he hums, a hand coming up from your waist to cup the back of your neck. “Just a little punishment, nothing else.”
“And,” you lick your lips just a little, and his eyes follow the small movement for the slightest of seconds, before they flicker back to yours, “what might this little… punishment be?”
Your eyes never leave his, and neither do his break away from you.
“Just this,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours, as both his hands come to cradle your face properly, “and nothing else.”
Then, his lips are on yours, as he pours in everything he feels into the kiss.
His hands are still cold from the pool, but they slowly warm up as the heat from your skin seeps into his own. His thumb rubs circles on the apple of your cheek, while his other one tangles itself into your hair as he deepens the kiss. A sweet, syrupy sort of warmth spreads through your veins, and you welcome it wholeheartedly.
It burns and sizzles through the traces of everything else, until there's nothing else left in this world but the two of you.
At least until Jungwon interrupts.
“Oi, lovebirds!” He giggles, and now having wrestled the water gun away from Heeseung, he turns it on the two of you. “Get a room, or get soaked!”
Sunoo breaks away with a small scream from the coldness of the water, but his arm remains firmly wrapped around your waist, even as he playfully glares at the younger boy. “Oh, Yang Jungwon, you're so dead.”
Jungwon runs around the poolside deck as Sunoo finally lets go of you to chase after him, their feet leaving wet footprints all over the wood. Riki and Sunghoon swoop in to “help,” while Heeseung, Jay, and Jake cheer them on from where they lounge in the sun.
The laugh that bubbles out of you this time is loud and free and everything that you feel, watching all the people you cherish and love be so happy without a care. Sunoo's blond hair whips with the wind as he runs around, and your chest warms at the sight.
Yeah, there's no question about it.
You're absolutely, incorrigibly, undeniably in love with Kim Sunoo.
Jake's fingers are warm, as they brush against your nape.
Sunoo watches from nearby, with his arms crossed over his chest and a little quirk of his lips, as he leans against the old mahogany dresser in your bedroom.
“It looks good,” he finally speaks, strolling over to let his fingers brush against the smooth metal of the pendant resting on your collarbones, just as Jake steps away to sit on your bed instead. “You know my girlfriend so well, Sim.”
“Of course I do,” Jake scoffs, rolling his eyes playfully. “I've known this brat since she was but a snotty-nosed little toddler.”
You cuddle into Sunoo's side, and he presses a quick kiss to your temple, even as you stretch your leg to half-heartedly kick Jake on the shin. “I was not a snotty-nosed toddler. Are you really sure that your memory isn't failing you as we get older?”
“Oh, we're really going there now?” Jake scoffs in playful offense. “You want me to pull out the photographic evidence?” He threatens, hands already reaching for his pocket. “Your baby pictures are enough to prove my claim.”
“Why do you even have my baby pictures, you muppet?” You question, arm resting around Sunoo's waist. “Because your mum sends them to me.” He snorts, unlocking his phone.
“What?” Your offended shriek echoes around the four corners of the room. “Why is my mum sending my baby pictures to you of all people?!”
“Because she loves me,” Jake shrugs like it's only natural fact that your mother absolutely adores him (and it is, really, considering how long your family has known the Sims for), “perhaps even more than you.”
“OI!”
He laughs harder at your expression, clutching his stomach as he doubles over.
“If it helps,” Sunoo quips dryly, brushing a few strands out of your face. “Your mother sends them to me regularly as well.”
“It does not help!” You shriek, betrayed at the thought of your mother sending both your boyfriend and best friend embarrassing childhood pictures of yours.
“Well,” Sunoo shrugs casually, “at least I can say that I tried. Also, you were really cute as a kid.”
“As a kid,” Jake emphasises, pointing a pillow at you, “now she's just an obnoxious gremlin who likes to disturb my peace as soon as she gets a day off from her job.”
Your boyfriend chuckles, raising a brow in jest. “That I can't deny,” he hums, his fingers brushing along your arm. “But I must confess that I greatly enjoy the fact that she always wants to spend time together.”
You roll your eyes, but still kiss his cheek. Jake pretends to gag at the sight, clutching his chest. “Ugh, get a room! Leave! Shoo!”
You throw his empty can of Monster Ultra resting on your vanity at his head.
“You're in my room, you donkey! If anyone should be leaving, it's you!”
“Ugh, she's kicking me out already!” Jake's half-running, half-giggling as he makes his way out of your bedroom, before turning back to face both Sunoo and you in the doorway. “Thanks for keeping her out of my hands, Kim! See you!" he sings out, waving at your boyfriend.
Then he's off, slamming the door shut behind him just as you throw a pillow in his direction.
Sunoo laughs, his other arm wrapping around you as well to trap you in his embrace, his chest warm against your back even through the fabric of your shirt. “Well, he's not wrong. I'm more than happy to keep you to myself.”
Your hands come to rest on top of his, as the two of you sway in your bedroom to an invisible melody. “Good thing I wanna stay with you, then?”
“Yeah,” he whispers, eyes meeting yours in the mirror of your vanity. “Saves me the hassle of convincing you to stay.”
“Lucky you.” Your reflection sports a wide smile, the two little koi fishes (the one you'd taken to nicknaming as Sunoo and Jake in your head) on your pendant glinting in the evening sunrays.
“Mhm,” he hums, kissing your neck affectionately. “Lucky me, indeed.”
Lucky you, indeed. Ordinary days aren't so bad if they're spent with him.
Butterscotch seems to like cuddling Sunoo far more than you these days.
You stare at the cat sitting in your boyfriend's lap, curled up into a mangled little croissant of a ginger cat over his thighs, purring so loud that you can feel it in your bones.
“Butter,” you poke his little whiskered cheek, as Sunoo huffs in amusement at the sight. “You've always been a mama's boy. Why are you sticking to the spare human all of a sudden?”
That draws a snort from Sunoo, his hand reaching out to smooth over the few tufts of unruly fur sticking out from Butterscotch's fluffy coat. “Is that what I'm relegated to now? Not even ‘Dad’ or ‘Papa’?”
You stick your tongue out at him, poking Sunoo's cheek. “Yes, you're the spare human right now, because Butterscotch hasn't cuddled with me for three days straight. He's even begun to sleep on your side of the bed!”
“Good,” he pinches your cheek in retaliation, a smug smile on his face. “At least now you'll understand what it feels like to be given only an inch of space on the bed because my girlfriend and my son are too busy cuddling with each other.”
You glare at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “We do not take up that much space on the bed.”
Sunoo scoffs, though the sound is more amused than sarcastic. “I'm always half a turn away from toppling to the floor.”
“You'll be fine. The floors are warm.”
“So is the bed.”
“You can survive one night on the flooring.”
“I could, but only if you don't hog all the blankets at night.”
“I do not hog the blankets!” You definitely do, and you're well aware of that fact.
“Sure, you don't. And Butterscotch doesn't scream at us for breakfast at exactly 5:50 AM on the dot.”
“Sunoo!”
“You don't have to say my name so many times, you know? You did enough of that last night.”
You punch his arm.
He laughs harder.
But so do you.
“Butter, come back to mama,” you try to coax the little orange menace into your arms, but he stubbornly remains splayed on your boyfriend, even affectionately headbutting Sunoo's chin in response to your calls.
Sunoo snickers, leaning down to let Butterscotch brush against his head, a hand coming up to support the cat. “You're asking a senior citizen to listen to you. That is foolish, no?”
“He may be fourteen, but he has perfectly functional ears,” you huff. Sunoo kisses the top of Butterscotch's head. “Yeah, perfectly functional ears that he is using at the moment to ignore you.”
You pout, and Butterscotch finally relents his onslaught of affection on Sunoo, and turns to you for a little kitty kiss that you gratefully accept. “There's my boy.”
You scratch under his chin and the orange cat purrs happily, but his tail still reaches out to wrap around Sunoo's arm. “Do you want me to be closer, Butter?”
Butterscotch only meows once at him, and Sunoo moves close enough that there's no space remaining between the two of you, his thigh brushing against yours as he wraps an arm around your shoulders to pull you closer into his side. “Is that better, cutie?”
Satisfied with the proximity that's been created, Butterscotch’s purring grows louder and he settles between you and Sunoo, an equal half splayed across the both of your laps.
“Guess we've got to abandon the rest of the day, then,” Sunoo murmurs, a finger brushing over Butterscotch's closed eyes. “His Highness wants to cuddle with us.”
The trees sway with the wind, steadily growing obscured to the vision as fog takes over. The low rumble of thunder rolls outside, before the spitter-patter of raindrops against window panes slowly grows louder.
The apartment is warm, and the coffee machine buzzes with a low hum, still trying to make Sunoo's coffee for the past half an hour. You'll have to call the company and ask for a replacement.
But that can come later.
For now, you lay your head on Sunoo's shoulder. He rests his on top of yours. Butterscotch is now asleep in your laps, dreaming of things only kitties do.
It always is the little things that matter.
Jake shows up first, a bouquet of sunflowers and white roses in hand.
“Hey,” you smile at him. “You brought Butterscotch's favourite flowers.”
He mirrors the expression, though it's more somber and subdued than usual. “Yeah,” he murmurs softly. “Needed to make sure that the little guy could smell his favourite scents. He adores them so much, after all.”
You move to the side to welcome him into the apartment, and he walks in, his footsteps soft and careful, as if afraid to disturb the quiet that had settled over your home.
Heeseung and Jungwon arrive second, carrying an old, worn out toy each. They nod in acknowledgement, light footsteps making their way into the living room. You don't follow, opting to pace by the doorway instead.
Riki, Jay, and Sunghoon show up not more than twenty minutes after, Riki's hands tightly clutched around a brand new pack of tuna treats, while there's a baby blanket slung over Sunghoon's arm. The oldest of the three hugs you tightly, his hands warm against your back.
You lean into Jay, taking in the quiet feelings that bleed through his touch.
The clock echoes twice, signalling the arrival of the second hour of the afternoon.
You finally join them to reunite with the others in the living room, where they're circled around Sunoo on the floor. He leans his head against the sofa, eyes closed as if weighed by the dark shadows under them. Exhaling softly, he huffs out a tired breath when his eyes meet yours.
You take the time to take him in.
His blond hair, so vibrant before, is a bit more dull now. He's paler from the lack of sleep, but you suppose that you don't quite fare much better than him anyways. He gives you an exhausted smile, and pats the little space next to him.
Your eyes trail down to his lap, where Butterscotch lays on a giant, fluffy pillow. Jake brings over the vase of flowers, setting it down onto the wooden floors with a soft ‘Clink!’ that rings out in the apartment far louder than it should. Butterscotch lifts his head, nose twitching as he catches the faint wisp of the flowers’ scent.
Jay holds them closer for him. The feline takes a deep whiff, then lays his head back down. Riki extends his hand to feed him his sixth treat of the hour. Butterscotch eats it anyway.
The clock in the hallway chimes again. 2:30 PM.
You make your way over to them, cuddling into Sunoo's side. He leans his head on your shoulder, hair tickling your skin, but you don't move away. His eyes remain on Butterscotch the entire time.
Sunghoon drapes the baby blanket over him, tucking the corners under the cat, so that he's bundled up in the way he loves to be held. Jungwon and Heeseung wave the toys around, and Butterscotch bats at them exactly twice. They still smile at the sight.
The clock chimes thrice. 3:00 PM.
The bell rings. Nobody moves.
Then Jay gets to his feet, shuffling over to the door. The young woman you've gotten acquainted with over the past two years as Butterscotch's vet walks in, her nose and eyes red. She says it's from the cold on the way over to the apartment.
You don't point out that it's still June.
Jungwon and Riki move to make space for her. She kneels on the floor, leaning her head down to brush her forehead against Butterscotch's head. “Hi, Butterscotch,” her voice is soft, and the feline makes a low noise in his throat, one that you can only consider to be an acknowledgement. “It's Anya. You remember me? You purred so much I couldn't hear your heartbeat the last time I saw you.”
Butterscotch's slow purring starts again, and Sunoo runs his fingers through his fur.
Nobody comments on how laboured it is.
Riki silently hands her the bag of treats. She feeds Butterscotch three instead of her usual two. Then she smoothes his fur over, pressing a kiss to his head.
Sunghoon and Jungwon gently ink both his front paws. Jake carefully presses them onto the paper, leaving behind inked impressions of his paws and toe beans.
You wipe them clean, scratching under his chin.
The rest of the entire process is quick and efficient. Anya doesn't say a word the entire time. Neither do you.
Butterscotch twitches twice, and your hand instinctively reaches out to lay on his side.
The breath you've held the entire time finally seeps out of your lungs.
Sunoo lifts the pillow, and places a kiss onto Butterscotch's head, between his ears.
Anya pulls the stethoscope away, and nods her head.
You give her a watery smile. When she leaves, a heavy silence settles over the room. There's no one speaking. No one breathes out loud.
Then, you lean down to kiss the little orange menace.
Butterscotch doesn't lift his head this time.
Six pairs of arms wrap around you, as Butterscotch lays splayed across Sunoo's and your lap. This time, he remains still.
This time, the bell on his collar doesn't jingle softly as his head rests on Sunoo's palm.
The sound of the door to your bedroom slamming open is incredibly loud and jarring.
It brings you out of your daze, and when you look up from your feet, you find a fuming Jake standing in the doorway.
His breaths are heavy and laboured, as if he'd run all the way to you. Sweat drips down his temple, dropping to his white tee. His glasses are askew, his hair is all over the place, as if the wind had mussed it up, and his flannel is disheveled, one side falling off of his shoulder, while his socks are mismatched, one navy blue and one white.
He meets your eyes, and the fury in his own grows tenfold.
“What the fuck is he doing?” He hisses, storming over to you. You flinch at the volume, and he notices, softening his voice a little, although it does nothing to hide how angry he is. “Why did Jungwon call this morning to tell me that you and Sunoo broke up because he wanted “something more”? Did I seriously hear him right?”
You don't answer him.
Actually, it's more like you don't know how to.
So you keep quiet.
“No fucking way,” Jake breathes out, dropping to his knees next to where you're sat on your bed. “Did he just wake up and leave?”
“Jake.” Your voice is soft, and Jake's heart breaks at how small you sound. “It's not what you think it is.”
“Oh, I'm pretty sure I think I know what this is,” he snarls, scowling as he fists the sheets in rage and sadness. “I told you, he was acting so fucking weird since the time Butterscotch passed. At first, I tried to pass it off as just grief and that he was in mourning, and that I shouldn't say anything because different people grieve in different ways, but then he pulled away from all of us.”
You open your mouth to answer, but Jake doesn't let you, continuing his heated rant.
“It's been a year since then! It was okay when he started getting distant and pulling away. First, he wouldn't come around often, telling us he was ‘tired’ and ‘exhausted.’ Then he started speaking less and less to us. After that, he wouldn't even pick up our calls or read our messages, like he thought himself too good for us, but seriously?! He left you behind for something “better”?! What else or who else could he find that's better than you?!”
“Jake.”
He doesn't listen, continuing to ramble, his hands spinning and twisting in the air like a physical extension of his anger.
“Jake.” You try again.
He still doesn't hear you, his ranting growing louder and louder and louder till your head begins to throb from how much you've been crying all day.
“Jake!”
He stops still at the way you scream his name, and turns to face you properly for the first time since he arrived at your apartment. “Oh,” he breathes out, his own lip quivering at the sight of your red-rimmed eyes, and the way they're puffed from the way you've been sobbing since the morning when Sunoo finally left. “I'm so sorry, bug. I really am so sorry.”
His hands wrap around you in an embrace, but you don't return it.
He holds you for a bit longer, before finally letting go, as he looks up into your eyes. “Talk to me, bug. Tell me what's on your mind.”
You lick your chapped lips, before sighing softly.
“Sunoo's gone, Jake.”
“No, he's not. I'll bring him back, and he's going to apologise to you, and then the rest of us.”
“Jake.”
“I refuse to believe he just up and went.”
“Jake.”
“Who the fuck does he think he is? Does he really think I'll just let him walk away like that, after taking so much from you? Selfish fucking bastard.”
“Jake.”
“I'm sorry I ever considered him a friend.”
“Jake!”
“What?” He glares up at you, his own eyes shining with unshed tears, both at grief for himself and for you.
“Sunoo made his decision himself. We need to respect that.”
Jake looks like he's bitten something that's bitter and sour at the same time. But he doesn't speak anymore, because the finality in your words tell him that you've already accepted this fate.
“Right. Right,” he nods. “Respect the guy who couldn't even leave us with a respectable goodbye.”
“Jake.” Your voice breaks, but it doesn't stop him from standing up. He removes his glasses to wipe away his tears, and turns to you, his face completely blank, with any and all traces of rage and sadness erased from it.
“I'll order in some dinner for you. Have that, and go to sleep early. You've got a shift in the morning tomorrow. Or take the day off. I don't really care.”
You sigh softly.
“I…” He pauses, then nods his head again. “I'm going home. Layla's been very anxious as of late.”
“Okay.” You agree. “Take care.”
“… You too.”
Then he's off once more, the sound of the door falling shut behind him echoing far too loud in your ears.
You cry some more into Sunoo's hoodie, still bearing his scent from when he'd worn it a week ago.
At least the silver lining here is that your boss likes you quite a bit.
The city truly comes alive at night.
It's been three months since Sunoo left.
Everyone else—Heeseung, Jay, Sunghoon, Jungwon, Riki—came after Jake left your apartment that Thursday. They asked the same questions that he did. “Why did Sunoo leave like that, so abruptly?”
You still told them the same thing you told Jake.
“Please respect that it was Sunoo's decision to leave.”
They seemed put off by that answer. Their expressions screamed that they wanted an answer beyond that simple, final sentence, but you didn't quite have the words nor the energy to explain everything to them.
Riki and Jungwon seemed the most affected by your easy acceptance of Sunoo's departure. They'd been the closest to him after Jake, and to see you simply tell them to leave the matter alone by framing it as Sunoo's decision, must've really hurt them. Probably hurt quite a bit too, considering the frequency of their visits to your home had slowly begun to dwindle.
First it had been the youngest two.
Then it had been Heeseung and Sunghoon. Work kept them busy, but even then, you could see through the gaps where they had begun to form.
The last one had been Jay. He'd been over one night, aware of how everyone had begun to drift away. He said nothing, but the forlorn expression on his face as he left told you enough.
Only Jake came over as often as he used to. But even his visits were shorter, dropping by to check up on you, before he left. Layla had been steadily growing more anxious over the last few months, and he'd also got himself a girlfriend.
You'd met her once, when Jake invited you out to eat, after you'd spent one too many weekends staying at home. She was pretty, but she was also sweet and kind—the kind that was perfect for Jake.
You smile at the thought of her. At least Jake has someone to take care of him now.
The air seemed especially cold tonight, and you pull your scarf closer to yourself. The early September chill had begun to seep in, just as warmer jackets and scarves had begun to make their yearly reappearances once more.
The street buzzes around you, lamp posts diffusing golden light over the pathways. Golden, you pause under one, looking up at the sky where a single, lonely star twinkles by itself. Just like him and his hair.
Everything about tonight seemed to be connected to Sunoo.
You pass by the fourth corner of the seventh street, where stands a giant billboard with an advertisement for his favourite brand of soda.
Then comes the park, with a couple laughing and spending time with each other in the swings. 1 AM. Two cans of vanilla flavoured soda resting against the metal poles of the swings.
You continue to walk.
The animal shelter by the lakefront appears. It's still operating, low hums of the generator melding with the soft meows and yips of its residents, cut by the gentle human voices that speak to them. Pink carrier. He'd been the one to pick it out. A very grumpy, old, and annoyed orange cat meowing—actually, howling—in your backseat the entire time you drove back to your apartment.
You flit past the entrance.
The grocery store at the second avenue. The neon signs have been replaced by something that's easier to read. LEDs, perhaps. You're not sure. Midnight grocery runs. You were never really sure about whether you wanted the strawberry chews or the lemon ones, so he'd put both in, sneaking in a bag of mint chocolate too. You always looked away at the cashier's counter.
Your feet remain in continuous motion.
The café on the third exit of the roundabout. The decor is finally more tasteful now, the horrendously large lights replaced in favour of softer, warmer lanterns. He always said that his eyes hurt, even when he sat in the booth farthest from the lights. Still, he came back—and forced you to come with him—every time because he adored their brownies.
The barista flips the sign to ‘CLOSED’ just as you walk past the door.
The florist tucked away in the third alley. You've never really been here. It's just on the way during an easier shortcut on the way back home. They usually display their flowers in the windowfront. Sunflowers, daisies, orchids, dahlias. Tonight, it's roses.
More specifically, white roses.
Your feet come to a halt by the storefront.
Your reflection stares back at you. He'd tucked the delicate bouquet of white roses into your lap the moment you got into his car. “It's a Thursday, and what kind of person even brings white roses to a first date?” He'd smiled so wide his eyes crinkled at the corners. “The kind that takes his date to a restaurant by the sea for a first date.” You smiled back.
The florist peeks her head out of the door, tapping your shoulder. You blink, turning to look at her. She's probably not older than nineteen, that youthful flush still colouring her skin. She gives you a shy smile, pointing to the flowers. “Would you like a few?”
You stare at her for a few minutes.
Then, you smile. “Sure. Make it pretty, please.”
She gives you a pleased smile, and ushers you inside from the cold.
Looking at her deft fingers carefully arrange the bouquet to your liking, your chest warms, the metal of the little pendant with the koi fish warming with your skin. You pay and thank her, heading back outside, the scent of roses clinging to your skin now.
The air is colder, and your scarf comes loose by just a bit. The streetlamps still shine golden. You look up at the sky, which has grown cloudier now.
But now, a second star shines besides the first one. Its glow is dimmer than its counterpart, more silver than gold, but it still shines through the clouds.
You smile at the sight, clutching the bouquet closer.
Yes, Sunoo had made his decision.
It was now time to make yours.
The phone in your palm rings once, twice, thrice.
“Hello?” Jake picks up on the fourth ring. Layla's excited yips mix with the soft coos of his girlfriend in the background.
Your smile grows wider at the sound.
“Hey,” you greet. “Where are you?”
“At home, why?” His voice crackles through the speakers. “Layla's finally a bit calmer now, so my girlfriend and I thought it'd be a good idea to have a date night.”
“That's good. Enjoy your time. Tell her that I said hi.” You hum softly.
“I will,” his voice is soft. “But did you need something? Why'd you call?”
“Oh, it's nothing much. Just wanted to tell you that I was going on a trip.”
“A trip? Now?” You hum louder. “Yeah. Wanted to get some self-reflection in. It's been a while since I've spent time by myself.”
Jake is silent for a bit, before he answers you again. “Have fun, then. When are you leaving?”
“Probably tomorrow,” the excited lilt returns to your voice. “Will you let the others know? It's pretty late, so I'm not sure that they'll pick up my calls.”
“Sure,” Jake replies, as if it was no second matter. “I will.”
“Thanks, Jake.”
The line is silent for a bit longer. “Take care.”
“Mhm, you too. Love you, Jake.”
He's quiet once again.
“What, you don't love me anymore?”
He scoffs at your playful jab. “Yeah, I don't. Not one bit—of course I love you too, you stupid bug. How long will you be gone for?”
“A while.”
“Short or long?”
“A bit long, I think.”
He pauses, and you hear the soft clink of a mug being set on the counter, as his girlfriend whispers to him that she's going to go set the movie up.
“… Have fun, bug. I've been a bit sick of seeing your face so much, too.”
You don't answer immediately.
The amused lilt of his voice makes you smile some more.
The wind picks up its speed, and a few rose petals scatter along with it.
“Yeah, don't worry about that,” you close your eyes, as the scent of roses grows stronger with each pass of the breeze.
Jake’s laughter echoes in your ears, the sound sweet as ever. Oh, how you truly did love Sim Jaeyun.
“I do plan on not coming back any time soon.”
The ink on the pages blurs from his tears, blotting the white sheet with splotches of running pink, glittering spots.
Jake holds the pendant in his hand, though with the way his fingers tremble, it threatens to slip out of his grasp, much in the same way his life had since today morning.
The sky had been somber, and the birds didn't chirp the same way they usually did, like they were grieving something they'd lost too.
Sunoo's letters had arrived that morning. Six of them. One for each of them. Labelled with their names and addresses in shaky handwriting, but still undeniably his. To Heeseung hyung. To Jay hyung. To Jake hyung. To Sunghoon hyung. To Jungwon. To Riki.
If he was going to be honest with himself, he wasn't even going to open his. The wound that Sunoo had left behind by leaving so abruptly still stung and festered, but Layla had fetched it from the table for him when he'd set it away.
And god, he would've regretted not reading it.
The letter itself had started simple.
Sunoo asked him about his life, about his girlfriend, about Layla. He talked about the sea by the place he was staying at, how the stars shone so brightly in the sky at night. He talked about the way the mint chocolate he'd get was so bland, he missed the ones from the grocery stores back here. Typical Sunoo.
Then he spoke about how sorry he was. And Sunoo seemed sorry for a lot of things.
He said sorry for missing their hangouts. For talking less and less to them. For not giving Butterscotch more kisses when he could. For missing Layla's birthday party. For not picking up his calls. For not picking up everyone else's calls. For not replying to their messages.
But he seemed really apologetic about one thing.
He said he was really, really sorry for not telling them about the illness.
The same one that had taken his final breaths today, with a severe heart failure. The hospital had called a few hours after. Said Sunoo passed in his sleep. That he was peaceful.
And the only thing Jake could think about after that call was you.
So he'd come over to your apartment as soon as he could, only to find it empty. The apartment itself was clean, with nothing out of place.
His phone rang with messages from the others, telling him that they'd be coming over soon, too.
For a moment, he thought about searching for you. Then, he remembered that you were out on a trip.
So he decided to call, because he knew you didn't read texts very quickly.
With his phone raised to his ear, the line was ringing, lying in wait for the other side to pick up, when he saw it.
An envelope, left behind on your vanity.
He tried his hardest to ignore it, but his curiosity won over anyways. So he walked right to it, and flipped it over. There was no address on it, and he was about to put it back down, when a familiar chain slipped out of the envelope.
He sets his phone down. The voicemail with your voice still rings out.
Jake's breath hitched at the sight. He carefully peeled away the glue, opening it up… and there it was. The pendant he gave you for your birthday.
The one you never took off.
The one with the two koi fishes you'd dubbed as him and Sunoo.
His eyes stung a little.
Your letter was written with a pink glitter pen. Much like Sunoo, you too talked about the sea and the flowers at the cliffside. About the way the birds came to chirp in the morning by your window, letting you know that they wanted you to feed them.
Then you talked about the illness. How the diagnosis had come two days before Butterscotch's passing. It was advanced cardiac cancer, the doctors had said. They'd do everything to help, but the chances of recovery would be low.
About how hard it was sometimes, to see Sunoo suffer under the weight of his own failing body. About how he wanted to move away to a different place for his treatment, so that his friends wouldn't have to see wither away, even if it meant that they'd hate him for it. About how you went over to him every weekend, just to see the way that the treatment procedures at the hospital seemed to sap his energy away day by day.
You wrote about Sunoo's letters, too.
About how you had to hold Sunoo's hand to support him as he wrote his six letters, and that he'd asked for his shaky handwriting to be excused for.
Then you apologised, too. About keeping it all a secret from him, from the others. That it was Sunoo's wish to be remembered as bright as he could be, and that there was no way you couldn't let the sun shine when it wanted to.
His vision grows blurrier, the letter grows harder to read.
You knew about it all.
Had known from the start.
The pendant slips from his fingers, clattering to the vanity table, as he reaches the end of the letter.
The sound of your voice ends, as the call hangs up.
Jake holds his head in his hands. His phone buzzes once more, lighting up with another call from the hospital. He stares at it for a bit longer, letting it ring.
Finally, with agonising slowness, he picks it up.
The person on the other end introduces himself as a doctor, and tells Jake that he's sorry for his loss. He thanks him quietly, and nods along.
The sound of the front door opening reaches his ears, as five sets of rushed footsteps head in the direction of your bedroom.
Riki bursts through first, his eyes red and face flushed. Jungwon and Sunghoon follow him after, as Heeseung wraps an arm around Jungwon to steady him.
The last one to meet his eyes is Jay.
The person on the line asks him to take care of his health, and to take his time to grieve. He agrees, and finally sets the phone back down.
“Why didn't he tell us?” Riki is the first one to break, sobbing into his hands. Sunghoon helps him sit down on your bed. Jungwon looks like he's going to throw up, and Jake feels like he will too. Still, he swallow the bile, and sits up straighter on the vanity stool.
Heeseung brings two glasses of water for the two youngest, trying to coax them into drinking some. Jay, his face strangely calm, turns to Jake. But he knows better—the hollowed look in Jay's eyes is something Jake understands entirely. “Was it the hospital that called you now?”
Jake nods, as Jungwon's sobs and Riki's wails grow louder. Sunghoon and Heeseung are tearing up too, despite the fact that they're still trying to comfort the other two. Only he and Jay are the ones who haven't cried yet.
“What did they say now?” Sunghoon asks, as Jay tries to calm Jungwon down. Jake answers quietly, that it was a check up call. But before he can say anything further, Heeseung cuts in.
“Where's she?”
Jake swallows softly. “Away.”
Heeseung nods. “Did she know?”
“Yes.” Jake's voice is calm as he answers. “But Sunoo asked her to keep it a secret.”
The older three frown at that, as the meaning of what you'd meant by “respecting” Sunoo's decision clicks into place.
“We were so wrong about both of them.” Jay mutters softly, his own eyes growing red.
“No.” Jake disagrees with that, as the last part of his conversation with the doctor echoes in his mind. “No, we weren't.”
“What do you mean?” Jungwon hiccups. Heeseung frowns, breathing heavily. “Now is not the time for cryptics, Jake.”
“I know,” Jake holds up your letter for them to see. “Remember how back in high school, we always used to joke about how she and Sunoo always searched for each other first?”
He points to the last line of your letter, and Jay sobs at the sight of it.
“We got one thing right.” Heeseung scoffs, wiping his tears. Sunghoon cries into Jay's shoulder, and Jake feels his own tears fall freely down his face. He smiles sadly, and it bleeds into a sob. “Yeah, we got one thing right.”
He picks up the pendant again, and clutches it to his chest.
Today, he'll grieve.
Tomorrow, he'll have two funerals to prepare for.
He looks back down at the letter, and smiles again.
Your handwriting is still there, etched into the paper like an epitaph to a headstone, only written in pink glitter, because he knows that it's the closest thing you had lying around.
Yeah, he really did get three things right. It was always a fucking Thursday with you and Sunoo, wasn't it? He spots the bouquet of white roses in the vase on the table next to your bed, the petals just beginning to brown at the edges. And those fucking white roses. The air freshner's scent of the sea wafts around the room. And the fucking sea. It was always those three with the two of you, wasn't it? A choked laugh bubbles out of him, as his eyes finally land on the little box displaying Butterscotch's faded pink collar.
[I love all of you. I especially love you a lot, my dearest childhood friend, Sim Jaeyun.]
The way the two of you are so in love sickens him so much.
[But I've already made my choice.]
Because no matter where either of you go….
[And both you and I know that there's nowhere else I'd be, other than his side.]
I just wanna pamper riki with kisses all over his flushed face when he’s sick, blow little raspberries against his lips, rub his cheeks, pet his hurting belly, just pure fluff(but intimate rather than jokes and games) and sweet talk(babying..?)
This is a request ig!!😁😁😁
I mightve made it to be too corny idk😓
includes: 1,103 words of straight fluff I think that’s it
I luvvvv me some Ni-ki
♱⋆ཐི˚₊‧⁺⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱𓆩^._.^𓆪♱⋆ཐི˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱
It’s rare that Ni-ki will let you do anything cutesy to or with him.
He isn’t dull; being playful isn’t out of the question; but his version of that is play fighting or playful banter.
But if you want to tickle the most ticklish person you know, you’ll just end up with your wrists pinned down and a very unamused Ni-ki firmly telling you “no”.
Or, if he’s having one of those moments where he’s rambling about you and how much he loves and appreciates you, you can’t even aww in peace because he won’t let you cup his face, much less squish his cheeks.
That’s why you’re enjoying this so much.
Who knew he’d be so…soft…just because he’s sick?
“Don’t go…stay with me.” He whined, wrapping his arms around you a little tighter.
You’d already spent the entire morning with him, but you really need to leave now if you want to make it to work on time.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can, promise.” You assured, gently running your hand through his hair.
Speaking gibberish into your stomach from the medication he’s taken, ni-ki refuses to let you go and thinks to convince you by nuzzling his face into your shirt.
If he were a cat, his tail would be curled around whatever part of you he could get to if it meant you’d feel forced to stay.
You can’t be mad, even if you really want to be; when are you ever going to get the chance to do this again?
“Come on…let’s go back to bed…” you sigh, keeping one hand tangled in his hair while the other pulls your phone out to call in.
Ni-ki is quick to stand up and drag you back into your room, not caring to let you get out of your work uniform before he’s pulling you into bed with him.
He waits until after you’re off the phone to ask for anything; and even then, it’s the same thing he’s asked you for all day—the one thing you’ve denied him all day.
“I want kisses…” he says softly, laying on top of you so you can’t push him away or look away and prevent him from kissing you.
“No.” You say firmly, shaking your head.
“Just one…” he whines, leaning forward only for you to stop him.
“Don’t be mean…I’m sick, you need to take care of me…” he says softly, trying to guilt you into giving him kisses.
“I’m no good to you if I get sick, which is what will happen if I kiss you.” You explain, taking the chance to cup his face.
Oh my god, he’s really letting you.
Ni-ki sighs and leans into your palm, closing his eyes for a moment.
Poor thing, he’s so warm, and his flush still hasn’t calmed down even after all the cool towels you’ve put on his forehead.
“Why don’t you take your shirt off? Aren’t you hot?” You ask, slicking his hair back for him so it wasn’t bugging him.
“If you want to see me without my shirt, you can just say that, baby…” Ni-ki teases, but he can’t even sit upright without groaning in pain from the body aches.
You roll your eyes, sitting up with him to grab some of the medication off the nightstand.
“You just took the nausea meds, right?” You ask, reading the labels to find one that might help him now.
“Nausea and for the fever.” Ni-ki corrected gently, bunching his shirt up and letting it fall to the side.
“Liar, I just replaced the one for the fever, it still has the seal.” You sigh softly, breaking the seal to take the amount you need.
“I can’t keep taking it, the pill is too big,” he complains, but he still holds his hand out for you to drop the pills into his palm.
While he does that, you notice the shirt and pick it up without really thinking about it.
It’s clean; he took a shower not that long ago and had to change it, so it’s fair game.
“There-“ he begins, straightening up only to catch you mid-shirt change.
“Good job, baby” you coo, pulling your hair out of the collar and pulling the shirt down all the way.
“I hope you know how much you really suck.” He scoffs, letting himself fall back into the bed with a small thud.
“You’ll thank me when you wake up tomorrow and you feel brand new.” You say, reaching over to rub his stomach quickly.
It was more like a pet—you didn’t think anything of it, not even because he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
But you’re much colder than he is, and it felt good enough that he wanted you to do it some more.
So just before you can pull your hand back, Ni-ki grabs your wrist and brings it back towards him.
“Keep doing that…” he says, placing your palm flat against his side.
“What?” You ask, raising a brow at him.
“Rub my tummy.” He says, scooting closer towards you so he isn’t too far but still lying on his back.
“Your tummy?” You repeat, still not doing anything he wants you to.
“Stomach, belly, abdomen, whatever.” He shrugs, guiding your hand in a circle over his bellybutton.
“Why?” You ask, taking over but remaining a little skeptical.
“It hurts.” He says simply; it’s not a lie, he does feel nauseous again, but it’s not so bad, and he just wants your hands on him.
“And rubbing it is going to help?” You ask, a little more amused when you realize he’s just messing with you.
“Yeah…definitely.” He nods, scrunching his face a little as if he were dead serious.
“Let’s see…demands kisses…asks for tummy rubs…won’t let me leave the house in peace…” you list slowly, crawling closer towards him to lay beside him.
“Are you a kitty, Nishimura Riki?” You ask, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek as you lay on his arm.
“Shushhh…focus…” he says softly, putting your hand on his stomach again.
“I hope you wake up tomorrow, and you remember everything you’ve said and done these last few days, and you feel the worst kind of embarrassment.” You say, getting comfortable like this while continuing to rub his stomach.
“So mean…” he pouts, wrapping his arm around your shoulders.
He falls asleep rather quickly soon after this; he’ll say it’s the rubs to get more, but it was definitely the fact that he took his shirt off.
That’s the only explanation as to why he slept so comfortably and for so long.
⚠️‼️ my content is usually kpop centered- fanfics etc. But this needs to be talked about- because i feel like there’s more important subjects to protest about than Heeseung leaving enhypen and whatnot.
just spent an hour reporting pedophiles advertising child abuse material under a little girl’s comment section.
I get it, and i respect the work OT7s are doing but this level of dedication should also be applied to other causes.
every day i see people mobilize thousands of notes, threads, hashtags, and campaigns over celebrity discourse. who’s dating who, who deserves an apology, who should leave a group, who looked at someone the wrong way during an award show.
meanwhile there are children online being treated like fucking prey, and it barely gets talked about outside of the people directly affected by it.
i’m not saying people can’t care about entertainment. clearly i do too. but sometimes i look at the amount of energy we collectively pour into fandom drama and wonder what would happen if even a fraction of that outrage was directed toward protecting actual kids.
i don’t know. maybe i’m just angry. maybe i’m tired but when tf are things going to change?
every time i think i’ve seen the worst of the internet, i stumble across something that proves me wrong. hundreds of comments. links being dropped in plain sight. grown adults treating a child’s page like a motherfucking hunting ground.
what’s even more disturbing is how visible it all is. ts is not hidden away in some dark corner of the internet, but sitting right there for anyone to see. people report it, platforms remove some of it, and then ten more accounts appear the next day
when are platforms gonna start treating the safety of children as an actual priority instead of something they react to after the damage is already done?
children are being abducted/ trafficked everyday all day and somehow NOTHING is fucking moving and this upsets me beyond words.
so there’s one question i ask and it’s : what the fuck are authorities doing???
⚠️⚠️⚠️‼️
if you’re reading this and wondering what you can actually do:
• report accounts, comments, and links that target children. it takes a few seconds, but those reports do matter.
• don’t ignore it because “someone else will handle it.” that’s exactly how harmful content stays up for days, weeks, or even months.
• if you see a child being flooded with predatory comments, let a parent, guardian, or trusted adult know if possible.
• report websites and accounts that appear to be distributing child abuse material to the appropriate authorities in your country. in many places, there are dedicated reporting platforms for exactly this purpose.
• educate yourself on online safety and talk about it. predators thrive when people are uncomfortable discussing the issue.
• most importantly, don’t scroll past it. i know it’s upsetting. i know it’s easier to pretend you didn’t see it. but children don’t get the luxury of scrolling away from the people targeting them.
you don’t need to become an activist overnight. you don’t need a huge platform. sometimes helping starts with taking five minutes to report something that everyone else ignored.
and if enough people did that, maybe these people wouldn’t feel so comfortable operating in broad daylight.
annaxmalina
origamiaround
jacobvanloon
stormborns
andulkaphoto
baratheonpilled
germansingergirl
2087
turnnoffyourmind
dailybridgerton
kianamaiart
