[starvine]

leanie writes! 20, she/they, intj (last time i checked whoops!)

all of my work is fictional and not meant to be an accurate depiction by any means. if you don't like it... scroll! <3 mdni, 18+ blog. multifandom.

.·:*¨MASTERLIST | RULES | AO3 | WIP

hard thoughts are always welcome! hate is never tolerated.

[starvine]

clocking in at the writing bullshit factory don't worry yall

[starvine]

when i saw that someone from enha would be on the show i was like i kinda wish it was won but then i was like maybe they'd send noo or jay BUT THEY ACTUALLY SENT THIS MAN

NEED them to send sunoo next actually you just gave me an idea

[starvine]

.·:*¨𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔨𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰

working title: nympho | current wc: 2.3k words

❥ wang yixiang x reader

— unstoppable force meets immovable object. in other words, you're a bit of a maneater and nicholas is sort of a manslut. after spending a night together, where you don't hook-up, the entirety of your college campus begins to believe the end of the world may be nigh.

working title: untitled | current wc: 9.1k words

❥ michael jackson x reader

— a series of vignettes about your and michael's relationship throughout the years told through a series of songs.

last updated: june, 2026

ⓒ starvine

[starvine]

otw era michael jackson you will always be my baby i would do anything for you

[michaeldiary]

　　﹕   (✿˘͈ᵕ˘͈)   ┈  mr. steal your bitch.

　　┊   ♡   ﹒ otw michael! 𖹭

　　┊   ♡   ﹒ summary : after a fight with her commitment-phobic situationship at a pool party, (name) hides in a laundry room to contemplate her life choices. unfortunately for her, michael has been looking for her like a lost puppy for the better part of twenty minutes and accidentally confesses he’s memorized her entire personality. things escalate from there.

　　┊   ♡   ﹒ byi : love triangle, sibling rivalry emotional infidelity / cheating themes, arguments and relationship conflict, age gap (reader is four years older than michael), complicated relationship dynamics, emotionally messy people making messy ass decisions, slight smut, reader uses michael’s hand, shy / submissive michael, lowkey pussy drunk off kissing alone.

(Name) and Jackie exist in a relationship that’s somehow both serious and.. not serious at the same time. It’s ridiculous, yeah. To everyone around them, they’re practically together. They arrive places together, leave parties together and know each other with a level of emotional and physical intimacy that usually only belongs to committed couples. Jackie calls her when he’s lonely, when he’s bored, when something exciting happens and she’s the first person he wants to tell. He knows how she takes her coffee, which songs and movies make her cry, and exactly what expression means she’s seconds away from telling him to get out of her face because she’s annoyed with him and overstimulated. Their lives have become intertwined in a hundred ways, making it very difficult to explain why they aren’t.. officially anything at all.

The problem isn’t that Jackie doesn’t love her. No. In fact, that’s what makes the situation so fucked up. Let’s keep it a buck, Jackie is a dog. But if someone asked him whether he loved (Name), the answer would come without hesitation: yes. The issue is that love and commitment have never felt like the same thing to him. Jackie has spent most of his adult life moving freely through the world, unburdened by permanence. Women come and go, opportunities come and go, cities come and go. And somewhere along the way, freedom stopped feeling like a luxury and started feeling like a necessity. Marriage doesn’t scare him because he doubts her or anything like that. It scares him because it feels so final, like a door closing on every other possibility and a version of himself disappearing forever.

And what makes Jackie selfish is that he already knows exactly what he has. He knows (Name) isn’t temporary. He knows she’s the kind of woman a man marries once and spends the rest of his life trying not to lose. He can picture a future with her effortlessly: a home, a family, growing old together. Those visions sound like heaven on Earth, but that’s on hold for right now. So instead, he keeps one foot in the future and one foot out the door. He continues seeing other women, fucking these women because giving them up would mean admitting his life has already made its choice. He wants the comfort of knowing she’ll be there when he’s finally ready, while refusing to offer the security that would justify her waiting.

And because (Name) loves him, she stays longer than she should. She keeps giving him chances he hasn’t earned because she sees the man he could be and mistakes that potential for a promise. That’s the mess at the center of their relationship—the “I can fix him” mentality of a woman who deserves better and the “I want options” guy who thinks the best option is going to wait forever. The gag is neither of them are confused about how they feel about each other, the feelings are actually the easiest part. Jackie already knows he wants to marry (Name) someday. The problem is that someday keeps moving further away. Every time he asks for more time, he assumes she’ll still be standing exactly where he left her. Deep down though, he knows there’s a very real possibility that one day she’ll wake up, realize she’s spent years waiting for a man who already knows she’s the one, chooses to not choose her still, and decide she’s tired of waiting for him to catch up. And he’ll be damned if he lets another man take you away from him.

What makes Jackie so difficult to leave is that every complaint (Name) has about him is real, but so is every reason she loves him. The problem has never been that Jackie doesn’t care; he cares just enough to keep her holding on. Every time she reaches her breaking point, every time she decides she’s tired of waiting, tired of sharing him, tired of feeling like she’s standing in line for a future that never seems to arrive, Jackie somehow senses it. He becomes softer. More attentive. More present. And suddenly he’s calling just to hear her voice. Suddenly he’s showing up at her door with flowers, gifts, sweet treats. Suddenly he’s holding her a little longer when he hugs her goodbye, looking at her with that look that makes her feel like she’s the only woman in the world.

And Jackie knows exactly what to say and exactly what to do.

He knows how to hold her when she’s upset and slowly talk her down from the ledge of every reason she has to leave. He’ll tell her he’s trying. Tell her he’s been thinking about things. Tell her he’s getting older now and starting to see life differently. He’ll talk about the future in vague, beautiful pieces. A house somewhere quiet. Waking up next to her every morning. Growing old together. Knocking her up. All these things when he’s digging in her guts with nine thick inches of dick, mind you. So, poor girl doesn’t even know left from right or up from down because he fucks her so good—pressing down on her tummy so he can feel himself rutting into her.

These are the kind of conversations he’s avoided with her for years, and they suddenly spill from him so naturally that she starts to wonder if maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment she’s been waiting for.

Maybe he’s finally ready.

The insane part is that Jackie usually believes himself when he’s saying it. In those moments, looking at her, holding her, fucking her, imagining a future that feels so comforting rather than.. restrictive, and he genuinely means every word. That’s what makes him so convincing because isn’t delivering these bullshit lines. He’s speaking from whatever emotion he’s feeling at that exact second and when Jackie loves, he loves completely. The problem is that his certainty only seems to exist in the moment. Once the emotion fades, once life resumes, once the pressure disappears, so does the urgency to change.

That’s why (Name) keeps getting pulled back in. Because every version of the future she’s ever wanted exists somewhere inside Jackie. She can see it. Sometimes he lets her see it too. She catches glimpses of the husband he could be, the father he could be, the man who would spend the rest of his life loving her. Those glimpses are powerful enough to make her stay another month. Another year. Powerful enough to convince her that maybe all he needs is a little more time.

But.

If Jackie is the source of (Name)’s uncertainty, Michael is the complete opposite. There is nothing uncertain about the way Michael feels about her because his crush is so painfully obvious.

Everyone notices it eventually. The way he watches her when he thinks she isn’t looking. The way conversations he’s half listening to seem to brighten the second she joins them. The way he suddenly becomes hyper aware of himself whenever she’s nearby, straightening his posture, fixing his clothes, stumbling over words he’d normally say without thinking. Michael is utterly, hopelessly gone, and the worst part is that he doesn’t have the slightest idea how to hide it.

Unfortunately for him, (Name) knows.

She figures it out much earlier than he realizes and finds it almost impossible not to tease him about it. He’s just so cute—and granted, there is a little age gap but it’s nothing crazy. Michael is four years younger than her so naturally, she’s endeared by him because he makes it so easy to dote on him. He blushes when she compliments him. Gets flustered when she touches his arm. Completely short circuits whenever she cups his jaw and tells him how pretty he is. She’ll smile at him across a room and spend the next ten minutes watching him try to recover. There’s something almost irresistible about how sweet he is, how transparent he is. Michael wears every emotion openly, and when he looks at her, it’s like watching someone hand over all their secrets without realizing it.

What Michael loves most about her isn’t one singular thing. It’s the totality of her. Her confidence. The softness. The way she carries herself like a woman who knows exactly who she is and what she wants. He notices everything, from the sound of her laugh to the way she fills a room simply by walking into it. Even her presence seems capable of rearranging his priorities. There have been moments where he’s caught himself standing beside her and become so acutely aware of his own lankiness that he’s genuinely considered spending more time in the gym. And she’s never suggested he should, but being around her makes him want to be the best version of himself. He just.. has these thoughts worrying about if he could be able “handle” all of her from her hips, to her thighs, her breasts—he doesn’t think he has a chance in hell but still. He understands why she’s with his big brother.

But anyway, around (Name), Michael becomes strangely domestic without meaning to. He remembers little things. He carries things for her before she asks. He saves her a seat. If she’s tired, he’s immediately concerned. If her feet hurt after a long night, he’ll end up sitting on the floor in front of her, gently rubbing the ache from them while she talks about whatever happens to be on her mind. And there’s no expectation of getting something in return. Taking care of her simply comes naturally to him. Sometimes he doesn’t even realize he's doing it until somebody points it out and embarrasses him.

Unlike Jackie, Michael isn’t holding anything back. His affection is constant, uncomplicated, and sincere. He looks at (Name) like she’s already something precious. Like she doesn’t need to become anything more to earn his devotion. And while she finds his crush endlessly adorable, there’s a small part of her that tries not to think too hard about it. Because every time Jackie leaves her waiting, every time he asks for more time, every time he chooses freedom over certainty, Michael is there in the background offering the exact thing she’s been asking for all along without ever demanding she choose him back.

And that’s.. not good.

The party had settled into that golden hour that made everything look softer than it really was. The pool shimmered beneath the setting sun, throwing ribbons of orange light across the patio. Music drifted from the speakers, low enough to blend into the conversations and laughter around them. People leaned against the bar with drinks in their hands, clustered together in little groups, their skin still warm from a day spent in the sun.

(Name) couldn’t enjoy any of it.

The farther she got from the pool, the quieter everything became. The music was still there, buried beneath the sound of splashing water and laughter, but it felt distant now and muted. She stopped near the side of the house where the shadows had started to creep across the stucco walls, holding her glass that had been bleeding condensation

Of course he followed her.

Jackie rounded the corner a minute later, irritation already written across his face. His sunglasses were pushed onto the top of his head, one hand resting on his hip as he looked at her.

“Now what you stompin’ off for?” He asked, stopping a few feet away. There wasn’t much concern in his voice anymore. Mostly annoyance. “I been lookin’ for you. What’s your problem?”

(Name) stared at him. “My problem?”

“Yeah, your problem.” Jackie gestured vaguely toward the party behind them before letting his hand fall. “You've been givin’ me attitude all afternoon.”

She laughed in disbelief. “I’ve been giving you attitude?”

Jackie immediately sighed and tipped his head back.

“Nah, see, here we go.” He dragged a hand across the back of his neck and looked away toward the pool for a second. “I knew it was gonna be somethin’.”

“No,” she shot back, shaking her head. “Here you go, Jackie.”

“Baby, I was standin’ there talkin’.” Jackie pointed vaguely toward the party behind him before looking back at her. “That’s all I was doin’.”

“You were flirting with those girls in front of my face. Do you understand how embarrassing that is? How pathetic you make me look in front of your family and friends?” (Name) asks, a bewildered look on her face.

“I was not.” He laughed once through his nose and adjusted the sunglasses sitting on top of his head. “See, that's what I'm talkin’ bout."

“Jackie, literally nothing is funny right now.”

"I wasn—” He stared at her for a moment before throwing one hand into the air. “You know what. Sometimes I think you make your mind up before I even open my damn mouth.” He took a few steps closer, frustration beginning to creep into his voice. “You decide what happened and then that’s it.”

“Oh my God.” (Name) looked away, rubbing her forehead.

“I'm serious.” He responds.

“No, baby. You’re not, you’re actually being very unserious right now and it’s about to piss me off.”

“Baby.” Jackie pointed toward the backyard again. “Half them folks over there was standin’ around talkin’. Was I supposed to sit by myself in a corner all day?”

(Name) laughed, but there wasn't an ounce of humor in it. “You always got a smartass answer.”

“‘Cause you always got an accusation.” He folded his arms across his chest and shifted his weight onto one leg. “It gets old.”

Her expression hardened. “You know what gets old? Watching you do this to me every single time.”

“Do what?”

“Act like I’m crazy.”

Jackie's face tightened immediately. “Ain’t nobody callin’ you crazy.”

“You imply it enough.”

He rubbed both hands down his face and let out a long breath. “Lord have mercy.”

“No, seriously.” She stepped closer now, her drink sloshing dangerously in the glass. “You flirt with women right in front of me and then somehow I’m the problem for having eyes—Jackie, we’ve had conversations about you sleeping with women outside of me. So, I don’t know why you’re playing dumb. Yes, I’m going to feel upset when I see you whispering in another girl’s ear and touching on her!”

Jackie looked away for a second, jaw working and clearly irritated. “See?” He pointed at her. “That right there. That’s what I'm talkin' about.”

“No, Jackie, what’s crazy is that you genuinely think this is normal.” For a moment neither spoke and music drifted through the evening air. A burst of laughter erupted somewhere near the pool. Jackie’s gaze dropped to the ground before returning to her face.

Jackie's patience finally snapped.

“Nah,” He spread his arms wide and took a step back. “The fact that I gotta stand here defendin’ myself over a conversation.”

“It wasn’t just a conversation, Jackie!”

“For God’s sake.” He looked up at the sky before looking back at her. “I didn’t sleep wit’them girls yet.”

Silence.

The second the words left his mouth, the fight drained from her face and the disappointment landed slowly. He saw it happen, saw her shoulders sag, saw her look away.

“..Yet?” (Name)’s voice was so small.

Jackie’s expression immediately shifted. Knowing. He told on himself. “Aw, c'mon.” He stepped forward, one hand reaching out. “That ain’t what I meant, babygirl..”

“But that's what you said.” She’s tearing up.

“You know what I mean.” He watches how she can’t even look at him anymore—but she never could when she was about to cry.

“(Name)..” Jackie opened his mouth, closed it and opened it again. She set her drink down on a nearby table with a sharp clink and grabbed her heels. “Baby, hold on.”

“’M going inside, I’m all partied out..” She said quietly, brushing past him.

“You really gonna walk away over this?” Jackie asked, following her a few steps.

(Name) turned before Jackie could stop her, her shoes dangling from two fingers as she headed back toward the house. The concrete was still warm beneath her bare feet, damp in places where pool water had been tracked across the patio. Each step left a faint wet print behind her. Her pace was quick, bordering on a storm, shoulders stiff with frustration as the sounds of the party swelled and faded around her. The loose ties of her bikini skirt fluttered against her thighs while her hair clung slightly to the back of her neck from the lingering heat of the day.

She didn’t look back. The only indication that Jackie had spoken at all was the brief swallowing of her throat. The movement of her body carried the urgency of someone trying very hard not to cry, not to turn around, not to give somebody one more chance. Even the rhythm of her walk felt determined, her heels knocking softly against one another where they hung from her hand while the sunset stretched her shadow long across the wet concrete ahead of her.

By the time (Name) made it inside the house, the party felt like it belonged to another world.

The music was still there, but just muffled through walls and glass. Every so often she could hear a burst of laughter or the distant splash of someone jumping into the pool, but it all sounded far away now. Detached like she was listening to it from underwater.

She wandered through the kitchen first, passing half empty bottles and abandoned cups, countertops were crowded with evidence of a good time. People drifted in and out of rooms without really noticing her and she wasn’t sure where she was going. She just knew she needed to be somewhere Jackie wasn’t.

Eventually she found herself standing in front of the laundry room, the door was partially open and the room was small, warm, and quiet. Smelled nice too.

Perfect.

(Name) slipped inside and nudged the door shut behind her. The hum of the machines immediately wrapped around her, steady and comforting in a strange sort of way. There was something nice about the simplicity of it. No music. No conversations, just white noise.

She climbed onto the dryer and sat down, setting her heels on a towel hook beside her. For a moment she simply stared at the opposite wall. Her drink remained in her hand, condensation continuing to gather against the glass before dripping onto her fingers.

The adrenaline from the argument was beginning to wear off. But that was always the worst part, because the anger never stayed. It always dissolved into something that felt uncomfortable to sit in.

Her shoulders slumped slightly as she leaned forward, massaging her own neck with the opposite hand. The dryer vibrated faintly beneath her. Somewhere down the hall, somebody laughed. A door opened and closed.

She barely registered any of it. Instead, her thoughts drifted back toward Jackie despite her best efforts. The argument replayed itself automatically, each line hurt more now than it had been in the moment. The dismissiveness. The frustration. The way he’d looked at her when he thought she was overreacting. The way she’d almost let him pull her back in again.

Almost.

The glass felt cold against her palm and she watched a droplet of water slide slowly down its side before falling onto her thigh.

For a long time she simply sat there, disassociating.

Michael didn't realize he was looking for her until he couldn't find her.

The party had settled into that dreamy part of the evening where everything felt warm and golden. Music drifted across the backyard, people gathered around the bar with drinks in their hands, and laughter seemed to rise from every corner of the patio. Normally, Michael would’ve been right in the middle of it. Instead, he kept catching himself scanning the crowd. Looking toward the pool. The patio doors. The groups of people clustered beneath strings of lights. Every few minutes his eyes searched for the same person before he could stop them.

At first he didn’t think much of it. Maybe she’d gone inside. Maybe she’d gotten caught talking to somebody. But as the minutes passed, an uneasiness began settling into his chest. He’d seen the look on her face earlier. Seen her watching Jackie. Seen her walk away. Michael had always been the sort of person who noticed things, especially when it came to her. The longer she remained missing, the harder it became to focus on anything else.

Eventually he gave up pretending he wasn’t distracted and slipped inside the house. The cool air immediately swallowed up the noise of the party. He wandered through the kitchen, then the living room, barely registering the people he passed along the way. His attention remained fixed on one thing. Finding her, and the house suddenly felt much bigger than it had an hour ago.

When he finally noticed the faint light spilling from the closed laundry room door, something in him relaxed before he even opened it. Sure enough, there she was. Sitting on top of the dryer in her bikini with a drink still dangling loosely from her fingers, staring at absolutely nothing. For a moment Michael simply stood in the doorway. Relief washed through him so quickly it almost felt silly. She wasn’t hurt, at least from what he could see. She was just somewhere far away inside her own head. And somehow, after spending the last fifteen minutes searching for her, the sight of her sitting alone in a laundry room felt like finding exactly what he’d been looking for.

For a moment, Michael simply stood in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame as he looked at her. The dryer hummed softly beneath her while she stared down at the drink dangling from her fingers. Outside, the party carried on without them. Music drifted through the walls, accompanied by distant laughter and the occasional splash from the pool.

“Hi.” The quiet greeting was enough to pull her from her thoughts. (Name) looked up, and some of the tension in her shoulders eased when she saw him standing there.

“Hey, lovebug.” The nickname immediately softened his expression. Michael stepped into the room, letting the door close shut behind him. His eyes moved over her face for a moment before he asked the question she’d known was coming.

“You okay?”

(Name) glanced down at her drink and shrugged lightly. “I’m okay.”

Michael didn’t respond right away, he just looked at her. The silence stretched long enough to make it obvious he didn’t believe her. But she smiled anyway, small and unconvincing. “Really. I'm fine.”

His hands disappeared into his pockets. “Did Jackie make you cry?”

The question caught her off guard enough to make her laugh. It wasn’t a happy laugh. More surprise than anything else. “What?”

“Did he?” Michael's expression remained completely serious. He wasn’t teasing, genuinely wanting to know. (Name) looked away toward the tiny window above the washer.

“No. But almost..” A truthful answer. “Tired of crying over the same thing..” She says under her breath.

His jaw tightened slightly as he looked down at the floor. “He makes you sad a lot.”

The words seemed to surprise him as much as they surprised her. Almost immediately he looked away, like he’d accidentally said something he'd been keeping to himself for a very long time. The laundry room fell quiet again, filled only by the hum of the machines.

“Michael.” He looked up. “I don't wanna talk about Jackie.”

Something softened in his face immediately. “Okay.”

And just like that, he dropped it. No pushing. No questions. No attempt to convince her otherwise. He simply moved farther into the room and leaned against the washer across from her, content to sit in the quiet with her if that’s what she needed.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Michael remained leaning against the washer across from her, his hands tucked into his pockets while the dryer beneath her hummed steadily. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt strangely safe.

Then, without looking at her, he said it. “I wouldn’t treat you like that.”

The words were so quiet she almost thought she’d imagined them. Michael was staring at the floor when he said it, the toe of his sandal nudging absentmently at a crack between the tiles. He looked embarrassed before he’d even finished the sentence.

(Name) blinked.

The comment tugged at something inside her despite herself. She was still upset. Still angry. Still carrying the emotions of the argument with Jackie. But there was also something undeniably cute about Michael standing in a laundry room trying very hard not to confess the world’s most obvious crush.

A small smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, yeah?”

Michael immediately looked like he regretted opening his mouth. “Forget it.”

“No.” She shifted slightly atop the dryer, tilting her head. “Go ahead.”

His face flushed. “There ain’t nothin’ to go ahead with..”

“Michael.” He groaned quietly and looked away and smile on her face grew. “And what do you know about making me happy?”

She meant it teasingly, lightly. You know, playfully. The sort of question she expected him to stumble over. But, Michael surprised her.

“A lot, actually.”

(Name)'s smile faded a little and Michael swallowed.

“I know you like extra ice in your drinks even when everybody tells you it waters ‘em down. I know you pretend not to care what people think until somebody you love says somethin’ mean and then you think about it for three days.” He gave a nervous laugh. “I know when you’re genuinely happy because you start talkin’ with your hands more.”

(Name) stared at him and Michael wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was staring at the floor.

Still talking.

“I know you get quiet when somethin’s wrong, even when you’re tellin’ everybody you’re fine. I know you hate being embarrassed in front of people. I know you act tougher than you are.” His voice had become quieter now, thoughtful.

“I know you like when somebody remembers little things.” Michael finally looked up and he second he saw her expression, realization hit him. His eyes widened like he’d suddenly become aware of everything he’d just admitted. Inadvertently admittedly his feelings for her.

“Oh.” He immediately pushed himself away from the washer. “Oh, man.” A nervous laugh escaped him. “’M sorry..”

“Michael—” (Name) can barely get a word out before he’s stumbling over his words.

“No, that was weird.”

“It wasn’t.”

"It was." He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, already retreating toward the door. ”I shouldn’t’ve said all that.” The poor thing looked mortified but really, he’d accidentally handed her pages from a diary.

“‘M sorry,” he repeated. “Forget I said any of that.” He reached for the doorknob. That’s when she hopped off the dryer.

“Michael.” This time her voice stopped him and his hand froze.

Slowly, he turned around and (Name) was looking at him with an expression he’d never seen directed at him before. For lack of better words.. it was suddenly feeling a little too grown. He’s only ever been envious of this look because it’s what Jackie gets. Never in his life would he have thought he’d even been remotely close to unlocking.. this..

(Name) stared at him for a few seconds before tilting her head.

“Can you keep a secret, papa?” Michael blinked, caught off guard by the question. Then he nodded immediately. Once. Twice. So quickly it was almost funny.

“Yeah. ‘Course I can.”

A smile tugged at her mouth. “C’mere.”

He hesitated for only a moment before crossing the room. The closer he got, the more nervous he seemed to become. By the time he reached her, his hands were practically glued to his sides. (Name) reached up and slipped her fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck, and the movement stopped him completely. His breath caught as he looked down at her, doe eyed and uncharacteristically speechless.

Gently, she pulled him closer. Michael followed without resistance, one hand finding the edge of the dryer to steady himself as she closed the distance between them and led him into a kiss. It was soft and tender, the kind of kiss that felt like an answer to a question neither of them had been brave enough to ask out loud.

When she pulled away, Michael remained exactly where he was. Frozen. His eyes searched her face for a long moment, disbelief and hope flickering across his expression so openly that it nearly hurt to look at. As if he genuinely couldn’t decide whether what had just happened was real. And somehow, that look affected (Name) far more than the kiss itself ever could.

Their lips find each other again hungrily, moving in sync with one another. The air is thick with nervous energy as their figures collide lips meeting in a clumsy, urgent rush. No soft buildup this time around, no gentle lean in; just teeth accidentally clashing before they find the right angle. (Name) tries her best guiding him through it but he seems to be really eager to even be touching her.

One hand grips the back of his neck tightly—fingers tangled in curls that’s slightly damp from the pool while her other presses flat against his chest, his heart pounding like it might burst. Mouths open messily, not quite synced and when tongues finally meet, it’s sweet from candy and salty sweat. A quiet mmph escapes him as their noses squish together again and again.

The second kiss left Michael strangely still.

When they pulled apart for air, he didn't go very far. His forehead settled against hers almost immediately, his eyes closing as though he were trying to gather himself. One hand remained braced against the dryer beside her while the other hung loosely at his side. The laundry room hummed around them, the sound of the machines blending with the distant music and laughter filtering in from the party outside. Neither of them seemed to notice. Michael, especially, looked completely disconnected from everything beyond the small space they’d carved out for themselves.

“We should stop.” The words came out so quietly she almost thought she'd imagined them.

“Huh?”

Michael swallowed hard. His eyes stayed closed for another second before he finally opened them. “We should stop..” It didn’t sound like something he wanted. It sounded like something he was forcing himself to say.

For a moment he simply looked at her. Really looked at her. Then his gaze dropped, as though holding eye contact made it harder to think. His forehead remained resting against hers, neither close enough nor far enough to make the situation any easier.

“I’m havin' a hard time thinkin’..” A shaky breath left him. “I know how I feel about you..” The confession was quiet and matter-of-fact, because at this point it had become impossible to deny at this point.

“And I know you just had a fight with Jackie.” He shuts his eyes tighter. “I don’t wanna be somebody who takes advantage of that..”

The honesty of it landed harder than she expected. For all the longing written plainly across his face, there was still that stubborn gentleness in him. The part that cared more about doing the right thing than getting what he wanted.

Yet he still hadn’t moved away.

If anything, he seemed incapable of it.

His eyes drifted shut again and he let out another slow breath.

“But if we keep kissin’..” His voice faltered for the first time all evening. A faint flush climbed into his cheeks. “I don't think I’m gonna want to stop..”

The admission hung between them in the soft hum of the laundry room. Michael looked almost embarrassed by his own honesty, but he didn't take it back. He simply remained there with his forehead resting against hers, looking completely overwhelmed by her, a man who’d been in love for far too long and was finally running out of ways to hide it.

She reaches up and caresses his face, eyeing him with those pretty eyes he’s only ever dreamed of even though he can’t bring himself to open his own eyes just yet. She peppers kisses all over his face before leaning over to whisper in his ear.

“Do you wanna touch me, Michael?”

Michael nods against her. “I-I do,” He swallows. “But I’ll need your help..” He says shyly, he’s not very experienced quite yet—not like his brothers.

The moment stretches, humid and thick with anticipation as (Name) smiles, fingers hovering just above Michael’s wrist where his hand rests at his side. Her grip is firm but warm as she drags Michael’s palm down the curve of her hipbone, over fabric damp with choline and pool water. She presses hard until his fingers slip beneath the elastic waistband; the hot skin of her pussy meeting his fingertips that jerk reflexively at first contact.

She gently guides his wrist up and down, “Like this..” She says resting her forehead against his shoulder.

“Soft..” Michael whispers as he plays with her, but its short lived before there’s a knock at the door and they both scramble.

“(Name), baby. You in there? I wanna talk. ’Ya got me feelin’ bad..”

Jackie.

© michaeldiary. 2026. do not copy, repost, translate, or feed into ai.

[starvine]

realizing a writer you love deactivated their account has got to be like when they snipe your favorite character in a show

[starvine]

took an edible. my water and vape are next to me. my laptop is open. i’m writing.

[yelphadora-deactivated20260602]

Don't Waste your Time...

summary: in which Michael and Paul politely confront each other about the girl that's got them running round in circles

era: after off the wall but just before he released thrillerrrrr, thriller night (yes, I'm annoying). Based on the dynamics in 'The Girl is Mine' duet

word count: 10.7k (this is a hefty one but I promise it's worth it)

warnings/tags: Michael x female reader, implied Paul x female reader (discussed, never shown so the following tags only really apply to Michael) implicit smut, kinda angsty, suggestive themes, sub!Michael, praise kink and pet names galore, jealous Michael, Marlon and Randy are questionable hype-men, tw for j*seph, no Y/N use, avoidant reader, reader insert is kind of mean but realistically if you're stringing two people along, own your meanness x

a/n: few things to preface: I am not a Beatles fan (cue canned booing and tomato throwing) okay I'm SORRY- I've tried, and I will try again. Maybe. Anyway, since I don't know all that much about Paul, I've based his personality off of how I perceive the lyrics in the Girl is Mine. Apologies if it's OOC, but tbh this is a fictional representation of two men I have not and will not, sadly ever meet. Also, I know he was married around this time, so suspend your belief pls THANKS

Also- I do NOT and HAVE NOT used ai at any point when writing this story. It's a shame I have to clarify this, but I will. You can pry my em dashes from my cold, dead hands. Enjoy!

(images taken from pinterest)

“I mean, don’t you think she’s a little too old for you, Michael?”

The question irritated him; it was the smile with which Paul asked it, small but deliberately obvious, pridefully matching his raised brow. 

“Then isn’t she a little too young for you?” Michael bit back. His venom surprised him.

Paul held his hands up with a guilty laugh. “Some might say. But the difference in age between me and her is far less than yours.”

“Why does it matter? Age is just a number.”

“Sure it is,” Paul said with a shrug. “But running around with little boys isn’t going to keep her satisfied forever, is it?”

The statement involuntarily made way for a memory: Michael, half-naked, flush to her bare chest while she rocked him and cooed that he was such a good-boy, wasn’t he—

Heat instantly rose to his cheeks. Embarrassed, he dipped his head to focus on his starter; a bland array of leafy vegetables and the occasional tomato. The menu had called it The Green Guffin and Michael had no idea in the slightest what it meant so naturally he chose it. Next time, he vowed not to order a dish just because its name resembled some kind of sacred object from a sci-fi film.

“I’m not a little boy,” Michael grumbled, dejectedly scooping up a forkful of lettuce only to drop it down again.

“That’s exactly what a little boy would say,” Paul said playfully. He picked up his wine glass with one hand, and the bottle with the other. An impressive flick of the wrist sent the bottle flipping then landing upright in his palm once more. A smattering of applause sounded from the nearest table.

“Thank you, thank you very much,” Paul drawled to them, words garbled like a drunken Elvis impersonator. The red drink sloshed against the glass as he tipped it forwards. Michael watched him with a curled lip.

“Want some?” Paul offered.

Jutting out his chin, Michael replied, “No thanks. It’s not good for the body.”

Paul was groaning before Michael had even finished his rejection. “See, this is what I mean. You’re too stiff.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Oh I don’t drink, Paul. Alcohol is for heathens and evil people.” Paul had slipped into a higher pitch, waving his hands around in mockery. “You’re boring, Mike,” he then said flatly. “Too boring for her.”

“Excuse me?” Michael repeated a little pathetically, because he wasn’t sure how to counter Paul’s unfortunately accurate impression.

Boring? 

Over the span of his life, Michael had been called many things. Even if he deducted every insult from his father, or every affectionate nickname his fans had given him, not once had the description boring been attributed. Not ever.

Clearly, Paul was deflecting. If anything, he was the boring one, with his outdated T-shirt and shaggy brown hair that might have been considered attractive twenty years ago. At least Michael liked to stand out, albeit he was a little self-conscious in his black, sparkly shirt that had felt fitting when he’d tried it but now seemed so juvenile under Paul’s amused gaze.

“I might be boring, Paul,” Michael started, with fake smugness. “But that makes me sensible. For marriage, and whatnot.”

The noise that ripped itself from Paul’s throat could only be described as a guffaw; a loud, bellowing guffaw. The kind that makes people halt their movements in fear, their eyes shakily sweeping the room for the noisemaker. And that’s precisely what everyone did.

“Marriage?” Paul said voluminously with an incredible lack of self-awareness. People were starting to exchange hushed judgement. It wasn’t every day you saw Paul McCartney laugh in Michael Jackson’s face.

“Yes, marriage. And shush!” hissed Michael.

“She would never marry you.”

“Could you stop talking so loudly! And…” He hated how much the next question clung to his tongue in wretched anticipation. “Why not?”

“If that woman ever ends up marrying anyone, I’ll eat my big toe. In fact, I’d eat yours too,” Paul declared. He swallowed a mouthful of his wine with haste.

“Why?”

“Women like that don’t settle down. They can’t. They just keep sleeping around until they’re old and no one wants to fuck them anymore.”

Michael grimaced at the swear. “Please don’t curse. And you’re wrong.”

Winking, Paul necked down the remaining drops of wine. Michael watched him blankly, trying not to dwell on the choice of word (fuck—so…vulgar, so impolite. He didn’t want to link that word to her, scared it’d set him off in ways he really didn’t need right now) and instead thought about how exactly he’d gotten here in the first place.

The Goldit had never been Michael’s ideal choice of fine dining; he’d heard all about its promotion of fantastically healthy meals, designed to keep all of Hollywood as gaunt as possible. He was a little surprised to find that Paul, a closet vegetarian, enjoyed nibbling on glorified rabbit food. 

“I just can’t stand the idea of eating animals, you know? Feels like murder,” was one of the first things Paul had reproachfully told Michael when he’d glanced at the horrible menu. “I mean, how can you have a pet yet still eat meat? It’s so hypocritical.”

The last comment did rouse some guilt in Michael’s chest. He’d brought home KFC yesterday.

At least what the Goldit lacked in their flavoring, they made up for in their visual lustre. Black walls were painted with leaping gold swirls, while the floor almost entirely omitted the darkness and opted for shiny gold squares, separated with borders like a disco dance floor. It seemed that the aesthetic might have been purposeful, as hanging from the middle of the room was a twinkling chandelier, round and twisting like a disco ball. Momentarily, Michael was thrust back to his days at Studio 54, where he danced so much his toes cramped, where the blinding lights catching everyone’s sequins transformed them into otherworldly creatures.

He must have gone quiet when he’d first observed his surroundings, because Paul suddenly said:

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Michael had agreed. Then he remembered why he was in this beautiful restaurant in the first place, and he got annoyed all over again.

That day—it replayed in his head like one of those slasher sequences where there’s no dialogue, just screeching music and horrified faces. Except in real life, there’s just confusion and excuses.

Michael had been so happy moments before. Standing on her doorstep had felt like he was on top of the world—it didn’t matter that the container in his hands was struggling to withstand the heat of the freshly baked cookies, burning into his skin. Who cared? He certainly didn’t. All he could think about was her, her, her—

“Mr Jackson?”

Maya’s head protruded from the ajar door. Her hair, normally tidily swept away, spilled out of her hair net in waves. Sweat slicked her forehead. She looked exhausted.

“Hiya, Maya,” Michael said, smiling despite how unfunny she found the rhyme. "How are you?"

“Are you supposed to be here this early?” Maya said with a frown. The thin slits of her eyes flicked upwards then downwards with a peculiar expression.

Now, Michael wanted to slap his former, none-the-wiser self because it was so obvious he could cry. But Michael had been too eager to embrace (Name), to feed her cookies, to feel her—

He started grinning just from the mere thought. “I’m a little early, sorry. Too excited, I guess.”

“Hm,” she huffed. “You wait here.”

Ominously, her head retreated and the door slammed, leaving Michael all alone, the sun’s swelter beating down on his head.

Michael had started to get nervous then (Intuition, Michael!, his present self was screaming) but that was just the effect (Name) had on him; one that left him giddy and sick all at once.

So when the door opened once more, this time more widely, and when Maya told him, “I guess you can come in,” he didn’t pay any heed to that strange persisting expression, nor the stilted delivery of her words.

Sidestepping around Maya, Michael felt a surge of relief at the familiarity of everything: the white walls covered in abstract art; the hallway mirror, low enough to barely catch his forehead; the smell of freshly-washed carpet; the kitchen's beige cabinets being within sight immediately.

(Name) always laughed when Michael told her this. “What do you mean ‘you’re glad things stayed the same’? It’s been a month! You think I’m just going to get up and rearrange everything?”

Michael would simply shake his head at her not quite getting it. Really, he didn’t quite either.

“The madam is in the garden,” Maya announced dully. She was watching Michael like he’d grown two heads and a beak.

“Thanks, Maya,” he said. He moved to plant a kiss on her plump cheek, a routine they’d come to adopt, but this time Maya swerved, causing Michael to stumble awkwardly.

“Sorry, I—” And she looked at him with a crumpled brow before spinning on her heels to advance up the stairs.

“Oh—um—” Michael fumbled unintelligently. He wondered (should have wondered longer) if something had happened. But the hot cookies were starting to punish him with a painful searing, so he put the thought aside and rushed to the kitchen. 

Ouch. His mother was right. He could envision her now, sighing at the tender skin on his fingers.

“I told you not to use that pot. Didn’t I tell you?” Somehow, Katherine would be whispering and shouting simultaneously. It was an admirably scary skill.

Michael would have carried them straight out of the oven in his bare hands if it meant that he could watch (Name) eat them. It was a very weird discovery, and he did feel like a pervert admitting it to himself, but he loved to watch her eat. Something about the way she’d elegantly gather up the food into whichever utensil she was using, or her fingers (that’s when it felt particularly dirty), and push the contents into her open mouth, with the occasional emergence of her pink, wet tongue, darting out to lick the stains around her—

Alright, he needed to stop. 

Steadying himself on the kitchen island, Michael counted to twenty-seven. He always did so when his thoughts veered towards an…impure direction. It worked like a charm—he regained his regular breathing and that one specific organ stayed…relaxed.

Why the number twenty-seven, Michael didn’t know. Maybe the oddness of it clashed with his ingrained perfectionism. Maybe the number was really unsexy for some reason.

The open windows welcomed a warm wind that sifted through Michael’s curls and caressed his exposed skin. The coolness reminded him of the promise of her being outside, likely clad in clothes too dainty to be considered appropriate. Goosebumps formed on his neck as he rushed to open one of the cabinets, reaching for a plate.

Behind him, a click sounded: the door to the garden. Disappointment settled on Michael’s shoulders; he’d wanted to surprise her, maybe wrap one of her frilly aprons around his waist. She liked seeing him act domestic, said it made her feel special. But it was stupid to be upset, he knew that.

Gleefully, he turned to greet her.

“Hi, mam—”

In Michael’s opinion, shock is a word that’s used too lightly. Were you really shocked when you found out you were on shift with the colleague you hated? What about when you realized the dress for the wedding reception didn’t fit as well as you'd remembered? Or, and this might be some truly harrowing stuff: discovering your DNA has ancestry from a country you’ve never heard of. Shocking? No, not quite, but perhaps close.

Now, Michael—Michael had experienced shock. His rise to fame had been one of a quieter shock, the kind he’d learned to put to the side and only recognize on the nights where he badly needed to feel better about himself. His father Joseph had taught him about shock before Michael could even spell; the lashings, the kicks, the punches. Pain burrowing into his very bones, pure and unadulterated.

There’s a kind of whiteout that happens with it. Your vision departs for such a tiny fraction of a second that most don’t realize it even left. Then the blood cells in your body start to flow so quickly that your heart can hardly keep up, and it’s beating at a frustratingly irregular pace. Your muscles tingle, especially in the tips of your fingers and toes, and you feel like you want to faint and run away at the same time.

Michael experienced all of these symptoms when he saw Paul McCartney in her kitchen.

“Michael?”

Paul, in only his underwear, held half a sandwich in his hands. One would expect him to drop it in equally matched shock, but Paul clutched the item even tighter, oozing peanut butter and jam onto his fingers.

All the saliva in Michael’s mouth had dissolved away, turning his tongue inexplicably dry. Just like his teachers had taught him when he was young, he tried to sound out the vowels and consonants one by one, hoping that something would come of it. Nothing did.

“Michael?” Why was Paul saying his name like that, like he was aghast at Michael’s being there, when he was the one nearly naked in her kitchen—

“Why are you naked?” Michael blurted out, because the very notion had somehow brought him out of his muteness.

“Why am I…?” Paul looked down as if this was the first time he’d ever seen his own body. “I’m not?”

“You—you are,” Michael croaked. He held onto the tabletop behind him and prayed for the strength not to collapse.

“No, I’m wearing underwear. They’re a bit small, but they’re—anyway, that doesn’t matter. Why are you here, Michael?” 

“Why are you here, Paul?” Michael retorted, although he knew exactly what he was doing there and yet he still dreaded hearing it all the same.

The door clicked again. In unison, Paul and Michael’s heads swivelled.

With slow, measured steps, she entered the kitchen like a figure of nobility. She might as well have been, because Michael’s eyes ventured to her right away and refused to release her. Despite the confusion swirling in Michael’s mind, everything quietened when he saw her skirt exposing her long, gleaming legs. His heart dropped to his stomach when he saw Paul’s equally enraptured attention.

“No, no,” Michael groaned hopelessly. Clenching his teeth, he clapped the sides of his head with his hands.

“Michael—”

“No!” he cried. “No, no!”

She was close to him now, so close he could kiss her. He hated her. He wanted her to hold him.

“Angel,” she started, and he hated how that word in that honey-dripped tone was stirring something primal inside of him. “Let’s talk about this, hm?”

Michael almost conceded, but Paul’s piping up (“What the hell is going on? Someone explain?!”) reminded him of how bizarre it all was so he ran to the door, sweaty palms slowing the twisting of the handle. He practically vaulted into the garden.

Gusts of wind leapt at him, pummelling him with their crispness. They offered him seconds of stillness while he inhaled and exhaled.

He’d always liked her garden, for its immense size and rows of colorful flowers. (Name) wasn’t an avid gardener in the slightest, always harping on about how tedious it was to plant. Maya had taken the brunt of the hard work, shovelling the seeds, snipping the green shrubbery, laying down the stone tiles which formed a path cobbled path.

At least (Name) could take credit for the small stone fountain directly in the garden's center, coughing up streams of water. Michael approached it, feeling drawn to the cherub angel aiming a bow and an arrow.

“You love it, don’t you?” she’d once said, catching him in his motionless from behind to snake an arm around his waist. “You’re always staring at it.”

“It’s beautiful,” he’d responded. She never agreed, growing to resent the excessive purchase.

“Don’t overindulge when you’re up and coming, Michael,” she’d warned. “Don’t be like me.”

Overindulgence. The signs were there and he missed them all.

The pain hit Michael then, thwacking him in his gut. Like a hit dog, he keeled over, moaning.

Was this heartbreak? The kind that had grown men singing about girls they hadn’t seen in years? 

I understand it now, Michael thought to no one in particular.

I do.

He was sitting on a patch of grass when she found him, hunched over with his wiry legs pulled to his torso and his arms wrapped around his calves. 

“Oh my angel,” she said, simpering. Drifting over, she descended to sit next to him.

“Don’t,” he said grimly. He turned to look away.

“Don’t, what, angel face?”

Why was she doing this to him? “Don’t call me…those names,” Michael said through gritted teeth.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not your angel. Not anymore.”

In retrospect, it sounded like a canned line from a badly made romance flick. But, damn, it hurt like hell to say, and it pained even more to see her dismissal.

“Alright.”

His head whipped around in disbelief. “Alright? That’s it?”

She shrugged. “What else do you want me to say?”

Michael shot her a piercing stare. She didn’t flinch, just teased her hair a little. 

“You’re cruel,” he said harshly. A burning sensation pulled at his eyeballs; great, now he was going to make a fool out of himself and cry.

“No, Michael. I think you’re the cruel one, because you don’t listen.”

Her assurance, her casualness—it seemed she really did believe she’d done nothing wrong. Michael was astonished.

“How am I—?”

“Don’t you remember? When we first agreed to start seeing each other? After those first few nights…” Her hand crept to his back, shooting a cascade of buffering nerve impulses down his spine.

“I-I remember.” It was getting really hot out here all of a sudden.

Tutting, she said, “I don’t think you do, Michael. Because that night, when you asked me what we were, you know what I told you?”

He shook his head.

“Casual. I said we were casual. You know what that means?”

“Please don’t be patronizing,” he said shortly, although his stomach’s contents were performing aerial flips and cartwheels.

“Casual—meaning it’s not serious. Why are you being so serious?”

“Because it’s not casual to me!” Michael almost yelled. Her narrowing eyes forced him to shrink his growing anger. “I’m sorry.”

She scoffed. “Well, that’s not my problem.”

“Really?” His voice was timid, broken.

“If you have an issue with my boundaries, then you can leave.”

That was the first time she’d ever suggested it. Leaving. Leaving her, and all the memories they’d made.

Michael tried to envision it: him standing up, maybe a little—not a little, very—angrily, then stalking home. From then on, he’d continue doing what he always did: rehearse, record, rehearse, record. The only disruptions to his routine being the familial interactions that could range from tolerable, maybe even nice, to downright fearful when his father entered the room. And that was all.

To Michael, that sounded like a recipe for madness.

“No,” he said quietly.

“No, what?”

“I won’t leave.”

It happened so instantaneously that it might as well have bludgeoned Michael in the face: the flicker of her expression from irritation to genuine warmth, brightening her eyes and rounding out her cheeks.

“Well, aren’t I lucky?” she said with a grin. “My angel isn’t abandoning me after all.”

Michael couldn’t share her happiness, for a bitterness still festered inside of him. It made him ask:

“Why…him?”

“Hm?”

“Paul.” It sounded like a slur, a taboo not to be talked about. 

“You’re asking me why I’ve made Paul my friend?”

Rolling his eyes, Michael spat out, “You don't need to lie to me anymore.”

Confused, she held up her hands. “What lie? Paul is my friend, the same way you’re mine.”

Friend.

That afternoon was starting to feel like an experiment to see how many heartbreaks Michael could survive suffering within a short period.

A single tear escaped from his eye, dropping onto the green grass. It reminded him of a story he’d read as a child, where the protagonist's tears could grow huge, magical trees. Michael wished he had the same skill, wished the tree would erupt from the ground and take him up in its branches so that he’d never touch the ground again.

“Michael?”

He quickly wiped the remnants of the tear away.

“How long?” he asked hoarsely, because he’d already been stabbed in the heart multiple times, why not add a few more?

She stroked her chin with her forefinger—the fact that she was having to genuinely think about how long she’d been sleeping with the man, gosh Michael what are we doing here?—and finally said, “Maybe a year? A little more, a little less?”

A year? Michael had only been seeing her for eight months.

“So…before me?” This conversation was sickening.

“Yes, a little before. We met—oh, don’t look at me like that,” she snapped.

“Why him? Tell me, please,” Michael pleaded.

She held his imploring gaze for a few seconds. Sighing, she said, “You’re asking me why I’m sleeping with him? Are you sure you want to know?”

Was he?

He didn’t know; nothing made sense. Yes. No. Yes and no.

“A little,” he replied sheepishly.

“Then I’ll tell you a little. Paul’s charming. He’s talented, he can be sweet. He’s British.” Her eyelashes fluttered at the last fact.

If being British was all it took to disarm beautiful women, then Michael was scared for the standards of women worldwide.

“But he’s so…” Michael threw up his hands in frustration.

“So…?” A laugh was breaking through her voice.

“Old!”

“Old?! He’s only a few years older than me.” Pouting, she crossed her arms jokingly. “You must think I’m archaic.”

“No, no. It’s different. You’re… you. Paul McCartney?” Michael was going to try and conjure up some kind of insult, about the singer being a washed popstar, an uncool B-celeb, but he found that his admiration won over. “Are you a Beatles fan then?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Would you be upset if I said yes?”

This time Michael was pouting. He picked at some grass and threw it in the air. “Everyone’s a Beatles fan, so no. Actually, maybe a little bit. Yes, I would."

“Okay, good. Because I’m not.” She shuffled closer, hip against his.

“Y-you’re not?” Michael stuttered, recognizing the all-too-familiar shift in the air.

“Never was, really. I am, however, a huge fan of this one guy.” She was nuzzling against his shoulder now. “Used to be in this kiddie band. Don’t know if you know them, they’re kind of underground.”

Swallowing, Michael let her pepper light kisses across his neck and jaw. “T-try me.”

A final bite on his ear lobe, pulling it down. “Michael, what game would you like to play today?”

The fateful question. 

Months into their…friendship, as she'd painfully called it, and Michael still got too embarrassed when she addressed the… sensuality of it all. Embarrassingly, she came up with the idea to call them games, developing slightly mortifying names for them.

“How about…the Lone Ranger?” Her fingers fiddled with the hem of his shirt.

“Mhm…” That feeling, the one which made him feel both tired and awake at the same time, flooded his senses. His head flopped backwards in growing pleasure.

“Twist the Snake?” She mimed the cranking action with her hands.

“Oh gosh…” Waves of hotness rolled down his body.

 “Wet Willy?” One of his fingers was guided to her mouth where she took it in, moving her head up and down. 

“Oh…oh…” He couldn’t formulate a single clear thought. It was too obscene, the things she was doing to him, the things she made him feel—

The slick sound of her tongue, the feeling of it rubbing against his finger…

He was grateful when she pulled off with a pop, because he was already teetering precariously on the edge of something dangerously filthy.

“Oh…I know,” she remarked, eyes twinkling. “How about Rock the Boat?”

Michael was nodding before he’d even registered it.

Her small hand slipped into his and pulled him up. Dazed, he followed her, until a fear stopped him mid-step.

“He’s not still here, right?”

He couldn’t see her face from behind, but he noticed the stiffening of her shoulders.

“Of course not. I told him to leave when you ran outside.”

“Are you…sure?”

“Am I sure?” She turned, with an affronted countenance. “Am I a liar?”

“No…” Michael said quickly, fearing he’d wrecked the charged tension between them. “I was just…worried. I’m sorry.”

After a fixed look that lasted several seconds too long, she turned back to lead him in silently.

Michael tried not to think about Paul. He did a good job at first, a really good one, blocking him out. Her kisses stole the memory away from him fleetingly, deep and desperate, like she was trying to consume him whole.

Michael didn’t think about him when they played their games—not in Twist the Snake, where he achieved a high score (the loudest he’d ever been, sorry to her neighbors) nor with Wet Willy, which brought on an onslaught of uncontrollable twitches that took minutes to get over. Michael didn’t think about him when his tongue was filled with the reward of the Lone Ranger, rendering him panting like a starved man.

But it was Rock the Boat, the final game, when he’d noticed it. With his back against the mattress, he could see her in all her majesty; her back, arched from the lack of control in the heat of her release. He saw her mouth fall open, and it really did look like she was forming the letter P—but then she called out a loud Michael and that was the end of it.

And that’s when Paul entered his mind intrusively—the idea of Paul being in this same position, or worse—him being the one to dominate, to lead her, nearly turned Michael off completely. Disgust crawled into his skin and made him blanch, but then she slapped him right across the cheek mercilessly, and the sting made him cry as he hurtled towards his finish, and that was the end of it.

“And then, the dragon swooped down with a thunderous roar, chasing the villagers away…”

This was his favorite part of their meetings. Not the greetings, not the games (though they were a high contender). No, it was the time they spent in bed together after, her hand stroking his curls, his head on her bare chest, her melodic voice reading bedtime stories as he drifted asleep. The domesticity of it was so intimate that it set his skin on fire, scorching from the unbearable sweetness.

“You’re usually asleep by now,” she remarked. She placed the book down on her chest. “Something wrong, angel face?”

Michael was wide awake, pondering if this would be the last time he’d see her.

No. It was less of a decision, but more of the knowledge that he could not commit to abstaining from her presence.

Michael had always ensured he’d stay away from recreational substances, partly from his own beliefs, mostly from his father Joseph’s threats. What he didn’t know was just how addictive a woman could be.

“Did Paul know?” He despised himself for the question, for causing her hand to fall away from his hair with a sigh. “I’m sorry… but did he?”

“About you?” she asked impatiently. He nodded silently.

“Of course he didn’t. He was angrier than I’d ever seen him.” There was a little melancholy in her creeping words.

“Did he…do anything?”

“To me?” She threw back her head and laughed raucously. If Michael could choose one sound to bottle up and listen to forever, he was sure it would be that.

“Paul couldn’t hurt a fly, let alone me. No,” she reminisced with a small smile. “He just stomped off like a little child, saying that he’d never see me again.”

Michael tried to picture Paul McCartney stomping anywhere, but he couldn’t make the image clear.

“Enough about Paul,” she said, a little testily. Her fingers thankfully returned to his scalp, the pressure so delicate yet heavy all at once. “You must be tired. Sleep.”

He wanted to—he really did. But a harrowing sensation was hollowing his heart for no apparent reason, and he had to say something, he just had to—

“I love you.” There, he said it. It was out in the air now, soft and hesitant.

She planted a kiss on his hair, but didn’t say anything. She planted a kiss on his hair, but didn’t say anything.

She planted a kiss on his hair but didn’t—

It tortured him for days after. Every time he tried to relax, to come up with a polished lyric or a clean beat, his mind was invaded either by Paul or her dead stare when she told Michael to leave, or her silence when he’d told her he’d loved her and—

She planted a kiss on his hair, but didn’t say anything.

Michael didn’t like talking about his…dalliances, to anyone. Especially not to his family.

Sometimes, if he was feeling courageous, he’d casually ask his producer, Quincy, for advice on the best kind of gifts to give. Occasionally he’d ask Bill, his bodyguard, why women didn’t like to say what they felt outright. And they’d both give him a knowing smirk despite Michael’s lack of real confirmation.

But this time Michael was desperate. He couldn’t sleep, not that he ever really could. The few hours he succumbed to on a nightly basis were dwindling quickly. 

His eating habits, already irregular and restricted, were growing non-existent. With every unfinished plate, Katherine’s eyebrows furrowed more and more.

“Are you sick, Michael?” she whispered one day, placing a palm against his forehead.

“I’m fine, Mother,” he said, retreating from the room speedily like his heels were on fire.

Michael couldn’t take it anymore when his brothers Randy and Marlon visited home, jostling through the house obnoxiously.

“What’s up, Big Daddy?” Marlon jeered as they pushed into his room without permission.

“Is knocking not a thing anymore…?” huffed Michael. He was lying stomach down on his bed, elbows propping himself up.

The bed sank as Randy’s weight strained against it. “Is that any way to greet your brothers? It’s been months!”

“Wish it’d been years,” Michael grumbled. He didn’t really mean that. It was his stupid notepad’s fault; still blank after an hour, a visual reminder of his lyrical drought.

“Damn!” Marlon clutched his heart dramatically and slowly slid to the floor. “Michael, man. You’re killing me with cruelty.”

“Yeah, man. Killing us.” Randy joined in the theatrics, slithering down until his back was on the comforter. For added annoyance, he made a retching sound and closed his eyes.

“Randy, man. You’re too much,” Marlon said, shoulders shaking with mirth. The room filled with their boisterous giggles.

Michael tried, he really did. He even added a laugh of his own, but then he was suddenly so overwrought with agitation that he started crying.

It took them some time to notice amidst their idiocacy. They were so busy poking and prodding each other that when their brief silence enabled the sniffling to be heard, they were bewildered.

“Michael?” Randy shot up immediately, touching his shoulder. Marlon sat up too.

“I’m sorry,” Michael murmured. He wiped his eyes and briefly wished the walls would cave in.

“What’s wrong, Mikey?” Marlon asked tenderly. It was an odd sight to behold, Marlon being caring. Michael tucked the memory into the forefront of his brain so he could tease his brother for it later.

“It’s nothing, really,” Michael started. He resisted for two whole seconds before he blurted out everything.

The confession hung in the room’s still air, withered and saddening. Michael reluctantly stole a glance at his brothers; Randy was looking blankly at the overflowing shelves stuffed with toys and records; Marlon was staring at Michael like he’d supplied an admission of murder.

“So you’re telling me,” Marlon began, voice quivering. “That you’ve had a secret girlfriend for eight months?”

“And she’s cheating on you with Paul McCartney?” Randy added quizzically.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Michael corrected. “So, I guess it’s not cheating either.”

“Michael, Michael, Michael.” Tutting, Marlon lifted himself on his heels, crouched like an ancient master from an old karate movie. “Do you know who you are?”

Michael stilled his trembling lip. “Michael Jack—?”

“Michael Jackson. You’re Michael Jackson! Why are you letting this B-list actress mess you around like this?”

“Well, she’s not really B-list,” grumbled Michael. “She’s been in some real popular movies lately—”

“That’s besides the point, Michael, and you know it.” It was Randy, surprisingly harsh.

“Yeah, well.” Michael’s shoulders drew upwards in a frustrated shrug. “I love her.”

Marlon, still in his weird karate crouch, hobbled over like a crab. “You don’t,” he said sharply when he’d reached the bed frame. “And you need to cut her off, now.”

“No.”

“No?” Marlon squawked. “Gosh, Michael, what if Joseph finds out?”

Both Randy and Michael were quick to hush Marlon with hissing. Most families would find it odd that the Jacksons regarded their father as some kind of boogey-man, but it really did feel like the old man could be summoned with the mere mention of his name.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m shushing,” Marlon surrendered. He collapsed onto his back with a scoff. “I can’t believe this…”

Michael couldn’t quite believe it either, the fact that he’d told any of his siblings, and especially these two. He should have approached Latoya first, then she could have enlightened him to the wiles of femininity. 

He noticed Randy’s thoughtful stare from the corner of his eye. “What?”

“I can’t believe you’ve finally found a girl,” Randy said, his head oscillating from side to side like a disapproving mother. The corners of his mouth wavered with amusement. “I’m happy for you.”

“Randall! Don’t encourage him!” cried Marlon.

“Why not?” He turned to Michael with a question. “You said you love her?”

“More than anything,” Michael replied. In the past minute alone, she’d ebbed and flowed across his thoughts at least a dozen times.

“And you won’t leave her?”

“...No.” The answer was unstable, unsure. He hoped neither of them perceived it.

“Well, there you have it, Marlon!” Randy clapped his hands together triumphantly. “He’s made up his mind.”

“He’s lost his damn mind, that’s what he’s done,” Marlon spat disdainfully. He was still laying spread-eagled on the cluttered floor when he sprang up suddenly. “What about Paul?”

What about Paul?

Michael had asked himself that very question countless times.

It was worrying, how quickly the pinpricks of jealousy had evolved into obsession. As soon as Michael had returned to Hayvenhurst, he’d slipped into his father’s room of records, constantly glancing back in anticipation of a wallop. Thankfully, no such came, and Michael found exactly what he was looking for: Abbey Road.

The Beatles, The Beatles, The Beatles. There were few musical acts that brought a heightened awe upon Michael; James Brown, Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly…and regrettably, the Beatles. 

This would have been a lot easier if they had worse music.

It was like self-harm; the record player spinning the music into reality, Paul’s soulful voice carrying into the room. Michael’s darkening mood, one of both rage and sorrow, that couldn’t stop him from tapping his foot in time with the rhythm. Some of the songs were so good Michael found himself wishing they were his own.

He thought about how she’d described Paul—charming, talented, sweet. She didn’t say handsome though—that was a one up, right? She was always calling Michael her handsome boy, her beautiful angel—that meant something, right?

If it meant something, she wouldn’t be sleeping with Paul too.

No! He didn’t want to think about that, about them, doing... those things. It felt slimy and horrid. 

He didn’t want to share her, didn’t want Paul to see the same blemishes and marks that scattered across her bare skin, the ones that felt personalized for him and no one else. The fact that the same places, the same…orifices he’d learned inside and out were also familiar to Paul, revolted him.

“It’s not a good look, you know,” Marlon said, ever the pessimist. “Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson fighting over a girl? The public would kill her if the press ever caught wind. You saw what they did to Yoko.”

“Good thing they won’t know,” Randy reassured with a deliberate squeeze of Michael’s forearm. “You haven’t gone around tattling on yourself, have you Mike?”

“No.”

“Then that’s that. All you need to do is keep your lips sealed.”

“So, what, you’re telling me you’re okay with sharing a girl? Really, Mike?” Marlon asked with a pointed look. “What about marriage, kids? How’s that going to work?”

The gloominess of the situation seemed to finally land on Randy with a frown. “He’s got a point, Mikey. Things won’t ever be normal for you.”

Normalcy was always what Michael yearned for. Ever since he was a child, being planted on stages and forced to perform like a circus animal while his mind flew far away, to water balloon fights and climbing trees in a backyard. His past had never offered him that comfort, and so the future did; a house with a farm and a connected playground for his children to play in—that became his dream, his reason to keep trudging on.

And no matter how hard he tried to picture anyone else, the wife in these daydreams, the mother of his children, was always her.

“I’m not leaving her,” Michael declared firmly. The stuffed Disney animals on his shelves caught his eye; they all seemed to be cheering him on, their magic emboldening him. “But I’m also not sharing.”

“So what does that mean, Michael? You’re going to, what, fight him? You’re going to fight Paul McCartney?” Marlon had chuckled at himself, until he registered Michael’s determined expression.

“You can’t be serious.”

Randy’s eyes had grown equally as wide. “Marlon…I think he’s serious.”

Night-time had fallen on the estate faster than anticipated. Katherine and Joseph had shuffled to an early bedtime, not without suspicion at the loud bickering bouncing off Michael’s bedroom walls. The argument ceased when a heavy knock thudded against the door.

It was Joseph.

Like a predator, he slinked inside. His hooded eyes travelled around the room, sizing it up. They eventually settled on Michael, whose breaths began erupting shallowly.

Not a word needed to be said before the brothers were making excuses.

“He wants us to practice something with him,” Marlon had insisted. “For his new album.”

“Yeah, yeah! We were just…debating on a tune,” Randy added with tense enthusiasm. 

Joseph, clad in a silk bathrobe, was somehow still intimidating despite resembling an older woman with expensive taste. He hovered in front of Marlon, his breath almost visibly ejecting from his nostrils like steam. “Is that so?”

“Yes, Joseph.” They all said it immediately, obediently, except for Michael, who was deathly still.

“Michael,” Joseph called out, his voice crawling menacingly. “You’re being awfully quiet, boy.”

“Sorry, Joseph,” he said hurriedly. 

“You working on your album?”

“Yes, Joseph.”

“You working hard?”

“Always, Joseph.”

“Good,” he purred. One more sleazy glance at the room and Joseph said, “Ain’t you a little too old for all these toys?”

At first, Michael didn’t answer, fearing his lips would betray him and forget the quickness with which Joseph could make a weapon out of just about anything.

“I said,” Joseph reiterated with a hiss. “Ain’t you a little too old for toys?”

“Yes, Joseph.”

The answer satiated him, like a beast enjoying an offering of prey. Michael knew there wasn’t a point to the question; it was as unnecessary as a lion revealing its claws to the gazelle too far away in the distance.

“Alright. Night, boys. And don’t be hooting and hollering no more. It’s late.”

“Goodnight, Joseph.” This time, they all were simultaneous in their dismay.

The door closed, and a chorus of audible breath-releasing rose.

“That was close,” Randy said breathlessly. “You alright, Mike?

Shakily, Michael nodded and uncurled his fingers from his tight fists. It was a grievous reminder that no matter how many years melted away, no matter how old and tall Michael grew, Joseph could still pull his confidence down as easily as a child knocks down a set of building blocks.

“This is your fault, Randy!” Marlon whisper-shouted.

“What did I do?”

“I ain’t no hooter, nor hollerer, so it had to be you!”

“Oh please. You know that’s all Michael.”

Michael rolled his eyes and interrupted before the crescendo of immaturity reached a peak. “Oh, stop it, both of you. I want to get this done.”

“Right on, captain.” Marlon sauntered over to the plastic pink table they’d stolen from their sister's room. Atop it sat the telephone, shiny and blue. “Let’s run this through one more time.”

He picked up the phone, chest puffed outwards as he immersed himself in the role. Randy imitated a ringing sound, then clicked his tongue like the imaginary call had gone through. Sighing, Michael stuck out his thumb and pinky finger, holding it to his ear.

“Hello?” Michael said drearily.

“Uh, ‘ello? Who’s this?” Marlon replied, in perhaps the most atrocious attempt at a British accent Michael had ever heard.

Trying to quell his rising hysteria, Michael said, “ This is Michael Jackson. Is this Paul?”

“Ah, Michael! ‘Ello, guv’ner! How’s you?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Marlon, he doesn’t sound like that. Not even remotely.”

“Who’s Marlon? I only know Paul.” Marlon said, batting his long eyelashes flirtatiously. Michael groaned.

“Ugh. I’m good, Paul, how are—?”

A guttural noise bubbled between them, like an incorrect buzzer from a late night quiz show. It took Michael a few disorienting seconds to find the source of the sound; Randy’s mouth.

“We talked about this, Michael. No niceties, no ‘how are yous’. Just go straight in.”

“Isn’t that a little rude?” Michael questioned queasily.

“Isn’t that the point?” was Randy’s rebuttal. 

Nibbling his bottom lip, Michael continued half-heartedly. “Paul, I’m calling about (Name).”

Marlon’s mouth dropped open melodramatically. “(Name)? You mean, my girl?”

Suspending one’s belief while Marlon’s face blew up like a pufferfish was decidedly difficult. “No, Paul.” Michael strained to hold back his laughter. “She’s my girl.”

“Ooooh,” Randy chimed in. Even he was struggling; the vein in his temple was salient against his smooth skin. 

“Your girl? No, no. She’s mine,” Marlon sing-songed.

This was ridiculous. If Paul really did start spouting such cheesy lines during their supposed confrontation, Michael might as well just suggest they sing and dance like they’re in Grease.

“Paul,” Michael said cautiously, cringing at his next rehearsed line. “She’s mine. You’re going to…you’re not going to see her anymore. Or…or else…”

Marlon raised his eyebrows in encouragement.

“I’ll…I’ll…I’ll beat your…ass.”

The threat sizzled away pathetically like a drop of oil on a frying pan.

“Seriously?” Marlon said, aghast.

“I’m sorry.”

“Michael? Seriously?”

“Told you he couldn’t do it,” Randy said pleasingly.

“Shut it, Randall. Michael.” Marlon strode over to seize Michael by the shoulders strictly. “Michael, you are black. You are from Gary, Indiana. So when you say you’re going to beat this white guy’s ass, you say it with conviction. Amen?”

“Preach, preacher!” Randy exclaimed.

“But, Marlon,” Michael uttered in a hushed tone. “I’ve never beat nobody before.”

“But you do know how to dodge. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee? You know, Ali?” Marlon faked a punch, smirking when Michael did indeed, dodge sharply.

“That’s the spirit!” Randy yelped. “But seriously, guys, let’s wrap this up. I’m getting sleepy.”

“You old hen,” Marlon clucked affectionately. “Alright, you got the number, Mike?”

“Yep.” Nausea wreathed in his belly.

“Then let’s give the ol’ guv’ner a call, shall we?”

If someone had told Michael that one night, he and two of his brothers would be congregated around a telephone as he tremulously dialled Paul McCartney, he would have looked at them funny.

The ringing ricocheted through Michael’s ears. An apprehensive look at his brothers showed Marlon frozen in an awkward thumbs up and Randy silently laughing.

Gosh, was he really going to do this? 

He wondered what she’d make of it—would she be upset, claiming it as a crossed boundary? Or would she take it as a compliment, an indicator of the way she drove men crazy?

“Oh, angel. Look at you being all competitive,” he could imagine her purring. “It’s making me excited.”

“Hello?” 

Michael almost dropped the phone.

“Um…hello?” Why did he sound like that, all girlish and barely audible? Clearing his throat, Michael adopted a lower register and said, “Is this Paul?”

“That depends. Who is this?” Maybe it was just the muffled quality, but Michael was starting to think that Marlon’s stuffy impression wasn’t so far-fetched. He sounded pompously British.

“Paul, it’s Michael.”

A few crackles and rustles filtered through the receiver. With more clarity, Paul said, “Oh.”

“Michael Jackson,” he added unnecessarily. “Paul, I wanted to tell you that—”

“Did she put you up to this?”

Michael stopped shortly. “…No, she didn’t.”

It sounded like Paul was scratching something, maybe his scalp. If it was, Michael was concerned about the dryness. “How did you get my number?”

So many questions. “You gave it to me, remember? At New Years in London? Last year.”

Marlon and Randy were signalling something; Michael gave them a sidelong glance and saw that they were gesturing, tapping their thumbs against their fingers—you’re talking too much.

“Well, Paul—”

“New Years, huh. I don’t remember that,” Paul pondered. “Maybe I was too drunk.”

Paul had been stumbling around the dance floor, and at one point unzipped his fly because he mistook a woman’s designer bag for a urinal. Michael debated reminding him.

“Maybe. Paul,” Michael rushed to say, screwing his eyes shut because what the hell? He had nothing to lose, only his career, his livelihood, his unbruised face—

“Paul, I’m calling about (Name).”

“I wouldn’t have guessed.” Paul sounded amused.

“I just wanted to say…that she’s mine, and, and if I ever catch you with her again, I’llbeatyoass.”

The words tumbled out just as piteously as Michael had predicted. He wasn’t even sure if his enunciation had been clear in any of it. Guiltily, he looked up to see Marlon face-palm and Randy stare in horror.

“I beg your pardon?” Paul said, positively tickled.

“Please don’t make me repeat that.”

“What, the part when you told me you’ll beat my arse? I’m too scared to! I'm shivering timbers, mate.”

Paul’s drawling arrogance made Michael grit his teeth. “I’m not joking, Paul.”

“Michael Jackson wants to beat me up,” Paul mused. “I should get that as a tattoo.”

“It’s not funny.”

“It is a little.”

“It isn’t.”

Paul released an exaggerated sigh that Michael swore he could feel brushing against his ear. “Look, Michael. Yesterday was a shock for me too. This isn’t something we should argue over the phone about. We need a civilised conversation.”

“Civilised…conversation?” Michael parroted. Randy was mouthing something—it’s a trap!

“Yeah. Let’s get dinner, you and me. Ever been to The Goldit?”

Michael shook his head, then stupidly realized Paul couldn’t see him. “No, I haven’t.”

“Really cool restaurant, downtown LA. Very healthy. I’ll take you there.”

Like he was chewing air, Marlon opened his lips hugely to mouth—he’s going to jump you! Call 911!

It did seem too convenient, him going to a place Paul chose, where Paul could easily call whatever shady men he knew to have Michael put down by sunrise. 

“I...I don’t know, Paul. Can I trust you?”

“I’m not the one who threatened to, what was it again? Beatmyass?” Paul mimicked.

(Name) had called Paul charming…Michael only saw an annoyance who thought he was too witty for his own good.

“Besides,” Paul went on. “You can bring your security. I’ll make sure the people there are the kinds who don’t talk.”

“You don’t have to,” Michael said, stomach clenching with biliousness.

“Oh, but I must. Otherwise, I’m going to get my butt kicked.” He laughed breathily. “What do you say, tomorrow at seven?”

Michael always had a problem with saying no. A born people-pleaser, he flattened like a carpet just to keep people around him happy, no matter how strung out and dirty he got when they walked over him.

This was why, despite everything in his gut, his heart, his mind and even after processing the wide-eyed head-shaking that his siblings exhibited, he still said:

“Alright, Paul. Tomorrow.”

“You should have told me you weren’t hungry.”

Paul was pointing at Michael’s still-full plate; he hadn’t even realized he’d spent the last twenty minutes chasing a piece of broccoli with his fork.

“Sorry,” Michael replied bleakly, deciding that it was better to appease Paul’s vegetarianism than supply the truth–the ‘Grand Green’ (the restaurant seemed to have an affinity for adding ‘green’ to their menu items, like it was some kind of trophy) was likely seasoned with nothing more than the bitterness and tears of The Goldit’s employees, rendering it absolutely revolting. Michael swore his tongue began recoiling purely of its own volition, slithering away from the souring taste of the dripping vegetables.

Paul looked at him with a knowing twinkle in his wide eyes, speckles of light bold against their brownness. “Meat eaters,” he said with a disapproving cadence. “Go on, break my heart. Tell me about how much you love eating dead animals.”

While his words skipped into the open breezily, there was some accusation behind Paul’s stern look. “I…I don’t really think of it like that,” Michael said defensively. “I love animals. I have a pet snake, Muscles, and I had a pet rat–”

“No need to justify yourself. Just take it into consideration," Paul said, winking.

He liked to do that a lot. Wink, smile…whatever. It just came so easily to him; it was his eyes that helped, Michael reckoned— the doe-shaped largeness, the drooping eyelids that somehow made him look both tired yet very attentive. They gifted him an earnestness that even Michael himself struggled to not get sucked into. And then there was the roundness of his pale face, impressively boyish even after all these years.

Not like Michael, not like Michael at all, with all his sharp edges and lines jutting this way and that. Michael wondered if that mattered to (Name). Did she ever run her fingers over the defined slope of Michael’s nose and think of Paul’s narrower one? Did she ever mentally contrast their complexions, one darker, the other lighter, or dwell on the way Michael’s curls were harder to run through than Paul’s straight strands?

“I hate that you don’t see how pretty you are,” she’d told him one afternoon, while they lounged on the fold-up chairs in her garden. Michael hadn’t heard her clearly at first, too focused on the way the wind hiked her billowy dress up just high enough to reveal the skin above her knees. Then she’d repeated it in a far more suggestive manner than originally, and Michael buried his face in his hands.

“Stop,” he groaned.

“Never.” She clambered over to perch in his lap, making it all the harder to ignore the stirring between his legs. Count to 27, he commanded himself. 1…2…

“And how lucky am I,” she’d murmured, hands clasped like some kind of warped prayer. “That I get to see the most beautiful face up close.” And then he’d stopped counting because her lips were on his and that was all that mattered.

The most beautiful face. She’d said it so convincingly that he’d begun believing that maybe it wasn't totally impossible.

Michael wondered if she’d ever told Paul the same.

Sickened, he dropped his fork with a clatter and said, “Paul, I—”

“Oh God,” Paul overrode, clutching his cheeks in faux fear. “Is this the part where you finally beat me up?”

“No, I—what?” Blinking, Michael was reminded of his brothers’ departing words following their many (unsuccessful) attempts to go with him. 

If he even remotely looks like he wants to fight, you better start swinging, Mikey. That was Marlon, skittering back and forth with his fists raised.

Don’t hesitate. Just go bam, bam. Randy had retracted his own fist and let it pummel the air in an uppercut. If you think you’re losing, call for Bill, he'll show him.

Michael’s eyes searched the room for Bill now, relieved when he spotted the impressively large man at the bar, one hand on the narrow table, the other in his pocket. He gave Michael a nod when their eyes met.

Bill was big, far bigger than both Michael and Paul, maybe even more so than both combined. Michael couldn’t quite visualize Bill in a fight though. It seemed that the old fart had grown too soft around Michael, with all his dad jokes and his baldness, and Michael was very glad for it.

And Paul—well, Paul certainly wasn’t as spindly as Michael, and there was a possibility that he could secretly be a master in combat, like one of those secret villains from a fairy-tale. But the same Paul who sat directly across with cheeks flushed from the alcohol and endearingly raised eyebrows did not exactly rouse much fear.

So Michael decided to be honest. “Paul, you should know that I never meant that. I would never…it was just…I said in the heat of the moment, and I'm sorry.” By heat of the moment he meant his brothers’ incessant prattling.

“Really?” Paul sat back in his chair, in a state of exaggerated disbelief. “I never would have known. I was really scared.”

“Don’t,” Michael said, and he could almost hear his brothers’ chorus of booing in his mind. “But if you brought me here in hopes I’d change my mind, or leave, it won’t work. I won’t.”

Lethargically, Paul sized Michael up like he was a particularly hefty fish that had flopped onto the boat. “Well, that’s all fine and dandy because I won’t either.”

It shouldn’t have, but immense exasperation rippled through Michael abruptly. All at once Paul’s circular face and its openness warped into something that vexed him.

“Now, now,” Paul warned, noticing the grimace on Michael’s visage. “Why are you annoyed? I didn’t say anything you didn’t say.”

“Because!” Michael started, angrily gesturing until the stares from the surrounding tables resonated. Simmering down, he lowered his voice. “Because, it’s not fair.”

“Not fair?” Paul glanced around gape-mouthed. “Not fair to who?”

“To me.”

“What’s not fair, is how my relationship was intruded on by you,” Paul said accusingly. He was gesticulating back just as hastily now, his unappetizing meal long forgotten. “I met her first!”

Michael ground his upper row of teeth against the lower set, an ingrained habit when he felt that helpless anger welling up and no healthy way to release it. “I didn’t know!”

“Well neither did I!”

“Why can’t you just go find some other girl then?” Michael spluttered. The question was admittedly foolish, and Paul’s scoff seemed to indicate an agreement with that fact.

“Why don’t you? Go find someone your age, get married—”

“I don’t want to!” Michael cried out. “I love her. I’d die for her, Paul. I would.”

Perhaps he’d been a little too histrionic in his delivery, but Michael meant every word. He’d offered this honesty to her many times before:

“I’d do anything for you,” he’d say when she served him a lovingly baked meal, cut into circles and stars because she knew he liked it that way.

“I’d drop everything to run away with you. Just say the words,” he’d once declared effusively when they were entangled in each other’s arms in bed, sleepily materializing a fantasy land where everything was perfect.

“I’d die for you. I would, I would,” he’d chanted as he pressed himself against her thigh just as she had instructed, the friction eliciting a string of pathetic noises that he knew she loved to hear.

He never ceased his devoted babble, undeterred by her laughs and her flippancy. Her knowing was always enough. 

“I love her,” Michael said again, no louder than a whisper. He looked down at his fingers, long and slender. Some of them had red grooves dented on their sides; the cookies had burned into his skin after all.

“You think I don’t?” Paul’s voice became just as muted. Forcing his gaze upwards, Michael found a stricken arrangement of Paul’s facial features; his frown was prominent with deep lines etched around them; his brow hanging low.

Silence wedged itself between them imposingly. It amplified every sound in Michael’s sensitive ears; the hum of conversations becoming increasingly subdued as more guests tried and failed not to make their eavesdropping obvious; the clink of glasses as the bartender doled out drinks to customers; the clash of plate against plate as the waiters hurried back to the kitchen, and finally Michael’s own pulse, slowing from its frenzied climb as he reconciled with the fact that his heart was not the only one hurting. The empathy sprang up like a eureka moment except there was no victory in its discovery, only a shared gloominess.

With much effort, Michael finally said, “I thought you were going to leave her.”

Paul’s laugh was humourless and tense. “I thought so too. I always do.”

Ah, Michael thought unhappily. She’s his drug, too.

“So what now, Michael?” Paul asked laboriously. The bright, effortless mood he’d started with had vanished and left behind something akin to mournful fatigue. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not happy sharing my girl with another lad. I’m not a polygamist.”

“I’m not either.” Then a slightly frightening thought pushed to the front of his mind. “You don’t think…she is, right?”

“No,” Paul said. He picked up a spinach leaf and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. “You know what I think? She’s bored, and she’ll tire of one of us eventually.”

There was no severity in his mannerisms, and yet Paul’s words descended on Michael with a threatening air. “How…how do you know that?”

“I just know. She’ll either get rid of one or ditch us both. And I don’t know about you,” Paul continued, eyes hardening. “But I’m not going away easy.”

Surprisingly, Michael found that his own anguish was seeping away. In its place an urgent determination crept into his heart and planted a seed. “I won’t either,” Michael said resolutely. The root was starting to flower.

Slowly, a smirk emerged on Paul’s pouted lips. “You’re saying this is a competition?”

“I didn’t say anything,” but Michael, strangely, was smiling too.

“Um, excuse me?”

They both turned in synchrony; a waitress with blonde hair gathered into a braid was hovering at their table. Her hands tapped against her thighs spasmodically.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, not sounding very sorry at all. “But is it alright if I could get an autograph?”

“From me or him?” chirped Paul.

“Both!” she said eagerly, before clearing her throat and adding shyly, “If that’s alright with both of you, of course.”

“How annoying,” Paul crooned, although he was already folding a napkin into a little square and had pulled out a pen (he carried around a pen? Maybe Michael should start doing that too). “I was hoping I’d get to one-up Michael in at least one thing this evening. You want anything specific, darling?”

“Just your name is fine. Oh, and you could write ‘I love you, Jan’, but that’s like, totally not necessary,” she gibbered.

“Does ‘Jan is my girl, back off Jackson’ work?”

The blush didn’t hesitate to rise to her cheeks, squeezing them until they stained dark red. “Yes, gosh, yes, that—that works. Please,” she rambled. 

Paul clearly thought he was so clever, tittering at Jan’s unknowing reaction. When he’d finished scribbling, he passed the napkin and pen over to Michael who accepted, grinning perfidiously at the young waitress. She staggered faintly, steeling herself against the table.

“And what would you like me to write, ma’am?” he asked innocently.

“Anything,” she breathed. The poor girl looked like she was having a hard time standing upright.

Michael tapped the ballpoint pen against his chin, ruminating on (polite) ways to trump Paul. Then he knew.

Etched onto the napkin as promised, Paul’s name was signed under his chicken-scratch handwriting. Michael scrawled his message below Paul’s, fighting back a smile when he handed it over.

“Thank you! Really, I’m—” she halted unexpectedly and gawked at the napkin in her palms.

“Jackson,” Paul began admonishing. “You didn’t write anything to offend this young lady, did you?”

“Of course not, Paul,” Michael said cheerily. 

“Then what did you write?

“My name, and then I wrote…” he ducked his head, suddenly flustered. “I wrote: ‘Jan, you know I’d love you better than he ever could’.”

The stretch of quietness that followed was a form of torture. Paul’s lips were pursed but there was no supervening quip nor any witty line.

“What?” Michael exclaimed, a little fearfully. “What did I do?”

Sniffing, Paul faced a now entirely red-faced Jan. “Jan, darling? Actually—that’s a nice name. Short for anything? Janice, Janet?”

“J-just Jan,” she stammered.

“Alright, Just Jan,” Paul joked. “I want to ask you a question. Be totally honest, there’s no gun against your head, though in America I understand that’s not always the—never-mind, bad joke. Anyway, me or him?”

“Paul!” Michael hissed. “What are you doing?”

“It’s a social experiment, you see,” Paul said leisurely, as if he hadn’t pivoted the conversation so quickly that Michael was nearly dizzy. “You can answer, there’s no judgement.”

From the way in which her knees knocked together audibly, it was uncertain how long Jan could endure the conversation before collapsing. “I-is this music-wise?”

Paul’s unkempt hair swished as he shook his head. “No. Let’s say later tonight, I run up to you and ask for your number, because I’m just dying to see your pretty face again. But then Michael,” Paul jabbed a finger at him exasperatedly. “Michael here thinks he’s so much better than me and asks for your number since he likes you too. Who are you choosing?”

Eyes darting to and fro, Jan murmured under her breath, “How is this real…?” Michael overheard and shot her a look: I’m not quite sure either. 

“Well?”

“Is both an option?” she proposed meekly, flinching when both men piped up with a “No!”; Michael, laughably; Paul, with genuine passion.

“Only one.” Paul held up his index finger.

A little more nervous goggling, and she finally made up her mind. “Just for the record, this isn’t being filmed is it?”

“Oh yes,” Paul proclaimed sarcastically. “There’s a hidden camera in my eye. Didn’t you know? It’s new technology.”

When his only response was a funny look, Paul sighed, “No, it’s not being filmed. Go on.”

“Well, I’d choose Michael.”

He didn’t care; honest to the heavens above he didn’t. Until Paul started groaning about how he knew it, how traitorous it was for a so-called Beatles fan, and then it clicked.

He’s jealous, Michael realized. And he’s testing the waters.

“You told me to only pick one of you!”

“Yes, I did, which is why you could at least appeal to my ego a little, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, Jan,” Michael said brightly. He beamed at her until she could no longer maintain eye-contact, mumbling something about needing to get back to work, and she darted away.

“This doesn’t mean anything, by the way,” announced Paul. 

“Then why did you ask?”

“Incentive for me. Now I know I have to work twice as hard to make sure you don’t win.”

Sharpened clarity edged around Michael’s vision, accompanied by a light-headed buzz. He was familiar with the sensation; he’d felt it as a young child when he once saw Marlon master a single spin so easily that Michael was compelled to master a double. He’d felt it all throughout their Motown days, wherein he’d hear the most soulful and entrancing vocal tones carrying over the radio that he had to refine his voice so it was that much better, that much more perfect. What had Katherine called it?—oh yes, his God-given, natural born, combative spirit.

“May the best man win, Paul.” And they shook on it. 

Thanks for reading! This fic is my lovechild, borne from procrastination and guilt. Lowk thinking of writing one for 'You Rock My World'...decisions, decisions.

Thanks for all the love on 'The art of sexiness' too! Wasn't planning a part 2 for that butttt I am a doormat for praise. Bye!

[starvine]

fyi i kept thinking of jungwon in youngji's show

he’s evil. he’s sexy but he’s evil. also that silly lopsided smile when he gets caught doing something bad? evil.

[starvine]

whatever the fuck is wrong with u i love it

you’re funnyyyy

[starvine]

the jungwon fic.

all of your asks are cracking me up thanks so much for all the love

[eu1joo]

— parachute (18+) | nicholas wang

synopsis | in a fear-driven, adrenaline-soaked haze, you confess your feelings for your best friend. who cares that he's spiderman?

details | spiderman!nicholas x female!reader, bffs to lovers, mentions of farting, pining, burglary, hostage situation, violence, mentions of weapons, descriptions of injury, blood, so much dialogue, i fucking love dialogue, cursing, banter, angsty moments, self-deprecation, love confession, mutual pining, mentions of alcohol and substances, making out, 18+ SMUT MINORS DNI, groping, oral (f receiving), riding (p-in-v), unprotected sex (not for you. this is fake.), creampie (not for you. this is fake.), lowercase intended, no use of y/n

wc | 9.5k

from the author | i love spiderman and i love friends to lovers and i love nicholas and i love you, dearest reader

you slid your hand into the bag next to you, although it felt more like a deplenishing, foil carcass as you picked at the chip crumbs left in the bottom. every evening was like this; you sat at your desk, illuminated only by the vibrant, swirling colors of maps and graphs and charts. it wasn’t much, but it was honest work. if you were lucky, all you had to do was flip through traffic cams, monitor live street footage, and polish off whatever snack had been calling your name all day.  

“you gotta train on sixty-first,” you announced, seemingly to no one in the comfort of your bedroom as you popped a pathetic third of a chip into your mouth, “don’t get hit.” 

the little green dot on your computer screen redirected, hooking a sharp left and avoiding the elevated subway track altogether. you rubbed your hands together, partially because you were satisfied with your expert directional skills and partially to clear your fingers of leftover crumbs. in the headset hugging your ears, lively static roared, followed by nicholas’s breathless voice. “can you crunch those chips any louder?” 

“i changed my mind, actually. take a shortcut through sixty-first.” 

nicholas had been the city’s favorite web-slinger for a couple of months, but he had been your best friend for way longer. you were grateful that he trusted you with his secret; you’d met him for a late-night frozen yogurt run, and he had pulled his t-shirt collar to the side in line for the toppings, revealing the royal blue and red that littered every front page of every newspaper. of course, you thought he was pranking you. not because you didn’t think he was capable of being a superhero- there was actually no doubt in your mind about that- but because he was a terrible liar. throughout your entire friendship, nicholas couldn’t so much as swipe a sip of your soda without looking extremely guilty. his hands were always the first giveaway, since they were too steady when he was lying. he overcompensated by seeming too sure of himself, palms pressed flat to his sides, chest puffed. like a caricature of an honest man. but that night, in front of the chocolate sprinkles and the gummy worms, his fingers trembled as he pulled the shirt collar away from his neck. his voice waivered when he asked, “are you upset with me?” 

you hadn’t been upset with him; you could not have possibly been. instead, you were upset with yourself. of course, you had noticed his absence when he skipped your friend group’s weekly game nights. you’d searched for him at every party, even when he had texted you some loose excuse about dog sitting or working extra hours, but you had never asked him about the dog or how his shift went. you’d never showed any interest about any of it. your ignorance to his situation made you feel like an awful, terrible friend, one whom nicholas still, for some reason, confided in. he had trusted you to not only keep his secret but to help him navigate his newfound responsibility, all from the comfort of your apartment. you had been upset with yourself, too, for the dull ache in your chest when you realized he wasn’t confessing something else to you in line for frozen yogurt.

you watched the green dot continue its consistent strides across your screen, the balmy beep of his vitals in the bottom left corner pacifying any nerves you might have had over the speed of his swings. his pulse was impressively steady at such heights, spiking only just before his webs made contact with the next rooftop, as if his new instincts might fail him. “you’re funny,” his voice cut through again, zero traces of humor in his tone, “you chew loud as fuck, though.” 

“i can hear every time you fart in the suit, by the way,” you added, fishing for another chip just to add fuel to the fire, “you’re disgusting.” 

“i’d like to see you try doing this shit without letting a little something slip,” nicholas countered, and you could hear the smile in his voice. you tracked the moving dot before you with the sounds of his webs stretching beneath his weight, “and i bet you’ve heard worse than that in your little eavesdropping sessions.” 

“yeah, i wish you’d stop doing that,” you sighed into your mic, leaning back in your chair. 

“what?” nicholas’s smirk was audible, his arrogance dripping through your headset, “having sex with other girls? are you jealous?” 

“having sex in the suit,” you pulled the mic as close to your mouth as you could, just to get it through his skull. one aspect of nicholas’s superhero persona that you didn’t fully expect was the amplified sex appeal. he had always been attractive, even when the two of you were in school. your classmates, all the way through university, would befriend you with the sole intentions of asking you to set them up with him. so while you were very popular for all the wrong reasons, nicholas bled charisma in sweatpants and a hoodie and basically had to scrape suitors off his arm at every turn. you admitted it- nicholas was hot, and, if it were possible, he was even hotter bound by spandex, the ridges of his muscles and slopes of his body taut and accentuated by the textured fabric. 

nicholas hesitated, most likely waiting for the ringing in his ears to subside. “if it helps, i take the suit off. mask stays on, though. don’t you worry.” 

you were all too familiar with the fact that he kept the mask on during his activities. only one time had you been concerned with the stationary nature of his tracker and the quick increase of his heartrate and slipped your headset over your ears. you’d received your answer before you could even ask what the holdup was, the moans and panting enough to tell you all you needed to know. you had swiped the headset off your ear so fast that you almost ignored the heat that pooled in your stomach, the twitch in your finger that wanted to reach for the headphones again. your mind betrayed you that night, conjuring flashes of nicholas’s sculpted torso, damp with sweat, and his thighs flexing, shifting that one delicious vein on his hip you’d mentally traced a thousand times. you should have known he would have turned the spiderman image into some kind of fetish, and you should have known you’d fall for it. and more. “it doesn’t help, and i am worried,” you said, , “it is my only job to make sure you don’t get, like, sniped or flattened. the least you could do is send a text.” 

“right, you’re right,” nicholas sighed to himself, “i’ll text next time and let you know i’m getting my web shooters unclogged.” 

“shit,” you muttered, sitting up straight in your desk chair. you swiped the almost empty chip bag away from your keyboard, blowing a direct gust of air over the keys to clear it of stray crumbs. 

nicholas sucked his teeth, “didnt like that one? what about ‘my spidey senses are tinglinggggg’?” 

you scrolled through the panel of security footage on your screen, the black and white boxes winking with commotion. people shuffled past, frantic and panicked. bulky figures stood brazen in the center of a convenience store, masks pulls over their faces and weapons in hand. you zoomed in on the pixelated image; hunkered behind barely stocked shelves were civilians. “nicholas,” you steadied your voice, a contrast to his joking, lilted tone, “there’s a robbery at the corner store about five blocks from you, th-the one with the mural and the backwards toilet.”

outside your window, the sun had long been set, but the city was alive, bright. streetlights flickered, bike bells clinked over the constant whir of traffic. the corner store was close to your apartment. you passed it every day on your walk home, and the owner would usually let you swipe a candy bar if you came in late enough. if you were bordering on drunk after a long night of bar hopping with nicholas, he would slide you a cold bottle of water. you watched nicholas, his green dot, shift directions, swinging at impressive and impending speeds toward the store. he asked, “how many?” 

“looks like four,” you gnawed on the inside of your cheek, “they’re armed, nico. try not to escalate anything. it looks like a hostage situation.” 

armed was a bit of an understatement. whatever these guys were up to, this stunt at the store was merely a test run. their weapons were unlike anything you’d seen, far from the typical handgun you’d seen nicholas satiate with a web a dozen times, and even further from a crowbar or pocket knife; these guys weilded otherworldly weaponry. literally. they radiated white-hot power, barrels glowing even in the grainy security footage, the existence of which made you even more skeptical about their intentions. one of the guys wore a device as a backpack, a nozzle connected to a tube slithering around his shoulders. you’d bet it was venomous, too. this type of villain was far beyond your pay-grade, which was a net zero dollars, and even further beyond your scope of knowledge. it seemed… wrong. all of it, but nicholas was already in pursuit, already touching down at the scene. 

you watched with your hand partially covering your face as nicholas, barely rendered in black and white, slipped through a broken window behind the men. his broad frame peeked from either side of the metal shelving as he slinked toward the civilians in the corner, lingering in the plentiful blindspots provided by their masks. through your headset, you could hear muffled and muddled speech, panicked gasps, and nicholas’s soothing voice promising safety. you knew he would provide, even if it put himself in danger. he whispered, knowing you could see him on the camera, “they’ve got the owner up front. think i can sneak these three out the way i came in?”  

“if you can do it while they’re distracted,” you kept your voice low, even though no one could possibly hear you but him, “and be careful.”

distracted was not the word you would use to describe them, though, as they cornered the store owner at the front counter. if they wanted the money in the safe, all they needed to do was melt the lock with the atomic goo shooter they each had resting under their arms. there was zero need for a combination, for a show like this. it was a display of force, of power. it was a trap. and you caught onto it too late, just as nicholas ushered the group of three hostages in a cluster on the back wall toward the gap in the shattered store window. 

your voice roared to life in his ear, “wait, nico-” 

and then everything fell apart. you watched, eyes unfaltering with horror, as nicholas all but threw the civilians out of the store. you knew they’d need stitches from the glass lining the window and the shards on the sidewalk outside, but at least they were alive, something you could only hope for nicholas as he ducked behind a shelf, shooting a web from his hand and pulling another toward him as a barricade. in your headset, you could hear him grunting, and you could hear the commotion in tandem with the shaking, blurry footage before you. it’s spiderman! get him! the men corralled around him, zapping their weapons in an intimidating performance. nicholas cleared his throat, his pulse spiking, “you gotta catch me first, idiots.” 

the scene erupted in mayhem; nicholas pulled two displays down on top of the guys, using their magazine covered bodies as a trampoline as he cleared his way to the other side of the room, throwing various snack and tourist items at the remaining two guys, the plastic wrapped sweets and handheld fans bouncing gracefully off their chests. you heard the hum of their weapons before you saw it, and you could only imagine how bright the glow was up-close. in a blaze of destruction, you watched nicholas evade the hot kiss of fire, basically running on top of the closely arranged shelving, his arms working faster than his brain. thankfully. “hey! that’s not fair,” he yelped, “i dont have a big fancy plasma ray!”

and then it all went dark- the footage ceased, leaving nothing but an empty, static hum. you flipped through the other cameras nearby, still hearing the clattering and zapping and whirring of whatever extraterrestrial technology nicholas was up against, but ultimately found nothing. you fullscreened his vitals, “i lost visual. get out of there, nicholas. im serious.” all you could do was wait. you slipped the headset off your ears, but you could still hear the faint grunting and smart-ass one-liners, watching as his heartrate spiked with the clatter, as his blood pressure dropped, as his respitatory rate climbed higher and higher. you had tunnel vision on that little blinking green dot in the center of chaos. it seemed to stir in circles, an endless loop from one corner of the room to another. you wondered how many times it could spin before it would eventually stop. 

you wondered and wondered until, finally, it did. after what felt like hours, the commotion on the other end ceased, the digital green fleck stalling out in an alleyway a block down. you weren’t sure when he had left the shop or how you’d missed it, but, thankfully, he was out of there. he wasn’t running, but his heart was thumping a mile a minute. and so was yours. you slipped the headset back on with a pit low in your stomach and whispered, “nico?” 

his breathing was ragged on the other side, and you could barely make out what he was saying, as if his earpiece got knocked loose, “how about, ‘getting a bit sticky tonight’?” 

“what?” 

“so you don’t intrude on my hookups,” he winced, “what if i texted you that im ‘getting sticky’? does that sound good?”

“that sounds fucking awful,” you admitted, the heaving of your chest evening out the more he talked. at least you knew he wasn’t too injured to be a dumbass. “they’re all terrible.” 

he chuckled to himself, and the sound made your breath catch in your throat. he had always been the full package: handsome, genuine, funny. the two of you could make a joke out of nothing and laugh until your sides stitched, smacking one another when your cackling fizzled into gasps. you’d be absolutely breathless, wiping your tears with your shirt. then, nicholas would wipe his tears with your shirt. and it would all start again. that kind of chemistry only found you once, and you’d refused to ever let him go. it pained you to hear his laugh, now, stifled by whatever injuries he’d sustained in the corner store. he coughed, sighing deep. you asked, “are you okay?” 

“took a ray gun to the shoulder,” nicholas’s voice was weak, amplified by the terrible sound quality, “better that than the ass, though. that’s what i always say.” 

“be serious with me. is it bad?” you stood up as you interrogated him, picking mindlessly at your fingernails. it felt like the city had surrendered, suddenly too quiet. the streetlamps hummed louder, traffic slowing. “can you swing home?” 

nicholas inhaled deep, heaving and huffing as he lifted himself off the ground. he choked out a pained noise, and you could practically imagine him doubled over, holding his shoulder like it would numb some of his pain. the beeping on your screen increased rapidly as he stood, his heartrate quickly surpassing yours. “fuck,” he gulped, “no, i can’t. i could try-”

“don’t,” you blurted before he could even consider making any of his injuries worse, for his own sake and for the sake of the community he swore to protect when he put on the suit. and for your sake, as well. the last thing you needed was him losing his strength mid-swing. “walk to mine- my roommate’s out for a few days.”

you expected a fight. you basically heard him nagging, you want me to walk to your apartment, suit out and everything? as if there weren’t spiderman impersonators on every corner. no one would have batted an eye. instead of arguing, nicholas caved with an exhausted sigh. “okay,” he sniffled, and it broke your heart. 

when you saw nicholas again, he was in color: royal blue, black, and so much more red than you were used to. he’d had enough strength reserved to climb your building’s fire escape and rap three times on your window. it was still cracked at the bottom, just enough for you to slot your fingers in and push the rest of the way up, revealing his masked face. a precautionary strand of web billowed in the city’s warm breaths, one he used to tether himself to the building, just in case. you held out a shaking hand to him, and you were thankful your heartrate wasn’t the one displayed on the computer across the room when he took it. his hands were warm even through the material of the suit, damp with what you hoped was sweat. you steadied him as he slipped through the window frame, and he let you. 

his injuries were worse than he claimed. ‘ray gun to the shoulder’ your ass. his shoulder was not the only place he was hit with a ray gun. his suit was tattered to bit on his torso, his shin, and the side of his mask was scorched, tattered down to his neck. you grabbed his face, instinctively, rolling the material around his neck up and up, slowly in case you revealed any new, secret lacerations. when you pulled the mask the rest of the way off his head, his hair poofed to life, falling almost perfectly over his sticky forehead, into his red-brimmed eyes. your fingers gently grabbed his chin, turning his head from side-to-side, scanning for signs of hurt but finding only a scratch in front of his ear and a cut on his lip. blood pooled there as he let a smile overtake his tired face, red teeth still shining as he asked, “what’s the damage, doc?” 

“not sure,” you said, tongue prodding your cheek as you feigned concern, “does this hurt?” you stuck your finger in your mouth, and then you stuck your finger in his ear. nicholas gasped, tucking his head into his shoulder and shoving your hand away. and then, he winced, coughing out a laugh and ghosting his palm over his stomach. seeing him in pain was worlds worse than hearing him. his brows seemed permanently creased, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, both from the fight and having to keep himself upright after. he didn’t have to do that, anymore, at least not by himself. “show me,” you coaxed. 

nicholas stepped out of what was left of the suit, kicking it absentmindedly under your bed if only to distract from the fact that he was bloodied and bruised and standing in nothing but his boxers. and you were so fucking close to him, warm hands smoothing over his neck, down his chest, picking up his hands and inspecting every individual knuckle on his fingers. you bent them, squeezed them. you spun him around to check his sides, traced the dip in the center of his back. that one might have been selfish, but it had to be done. checking reflexes, or whatever. there were reflexes in your back, right? 

his shins were merely scraped, as if he’d tripped in a parking lot. his shoulder, however, was worse than you anticipated, the gash deep and trickling a thick stream of blood down his arm now that the suit was no longer there to absorb it. you told him to stay, like a newly trained puppy, even though you knew he wouldn’t- couldn’t- go anywhere, and you slipped into the next room to grab whatever first-aid supplies you could find. some of the items you grabbed weren’t even first-aid, but you couldn’t think straight knowing your best friend was possibly bleeding out in your bedroom. and when you returned to the room, nicholas had slumped down into the floor, leaning back against the side of your bed. his head was leaned forward, legs outstretched before him. you’d sat with him like that before, once, when the two of you ate a little bit too much of a brownie your mutual friend had made. you stared out the window until the sun came up, unsure if you blinked even once the whole night. nicholas said you did, so you did. 

“still with me?” you half-joked as you crouched down in front of him. you dumped the supplies in a messy pile beside him, scrunching an old towel on the floor under his elbow to soak up the dripping blood. 

“i fucked it up,” he mumbled, voice quiet but broken, “the suit, and the mask. its all fucked.” 

“hey,” you put your hand on his other shoulder, a different kind of burning, and squeezed gently, “we’ll fix it.” 

you reached for a cloth, warm and wet, and wiped at the dried blood on his bicep. soft, delicate swirls on his skin left angry red splotches, like his cheeks when he was embarrassed or too sweaty. and when you inched closer to the wound itself, your touch was tender, like he was fragile. in many ways, he was- he just refused to show it. like any mask, his occasionally cracked, letting you see fragments of the turmoil beneath his cool, unbothered exterior. you dabbed the cloth against the gash in his skin, just once to see if the blood had stopped flowing, and nicholas’s entire body jerked beneath you. he sucked in a breath through stained, gritted teeth. you squeezed his other shoulder again, whispering, “sorry.” 

“you’ll fix it, you mean,” nicholas grumbles, keeping his head hanging carelessly on its axis, “that’s how this works. i mess things up, and you fix them.” he leaned his head back, then, against the side of your bed. for the first time all night, his gaze fell on yours, and he was so tired. in more ways than one. you furrowed your brows, taken aback by the sudden deprecation. 

“you don’t mess things up,” you were careful not to let your exterior split, not to let him see how deep that assumption really cut you. you reached for the bottle of saline solution and gently poured it over his shoulder. nicholas squeezed his eyes shut, balling his hand into a fist under you. a curse or two tumbled from his lips, but you couldn’t hear them over your repeated sorry, sorry, sorry as the liquid seeped in and around the cut. with most of the blood wiped away, it didn’t look nearly as bad. you breathed a sigh of relief, reaching for the roll of gauze next to you. “good news. i don’t think you’ll need stitches.” 

nicholas frowned, watching you roll out a small patch in your hands. “see,” he muttered, “fixing it right now.” even though your hands were shaking, even though you couldnt find the end of the roll to start unraveling it. you were a fumbling mess under his attention, but he didn’t care. he only saw the good parts of you, his gentle and attentive friend. even as you sat between his legs, skin sticking to him from the proximity and the growing heat of the room, he saw only his best friend. 

“stop acting like that, nico.” 

“like what?”

“like you aren’t important to people," your voice cracked with the volume, hushed but desperate. you wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him, but you couldn’t. he’d bleed again, and you’d have to get another towel and start this whole process over again. you wiped your forehead with the back of your hand, attempting to disrupt the tension you’d accidentally brewed, like thick wine. “like you don’t save people.” 

“are you being serious right now?” nicholas tilted his head toward you, pressing you to make eye contact with him, even as he winced from the pull of his muscle. you kept your eyes focused on taping the gauze to his skin, like if you pulled your attention from the area, it would erupt. it would consume him entirely, like he was consuming you, his stare bearing into the skin of your cheek as you gnawed on it. nicholas blinked once, like he couldn’t believe you, “because i can’t do shit without you. all i have is sticky hands, and i had a cool suit before i got fucking knocked around like a ragdoll for an hour. all because i got the security camera shot and you couldn’t tell me what to do.” 

“you’re mad because i help you?” you flickered your eyes to his briefly and entirely on accident. from his tone, you expected fire, but you found only a glossy veneer over the dark, hazy eyes you knew so well. 

“no,” nicholas said, firmly. it was the most sure he’d sounded all night, or possibly ever. “i’m upset because i need you to help me. i need you to watch traffic cams so i don’t get flattened by a bus while i’m running from my problems. i need you to tell me when someone needs help because my spidey senses tap out at, like, two miles. i need you to tell me where to go when i’m all turned around. i’m not the hero- you are.” 

he let the tears fall as he spoke, lip quivering and hands shaking in an honest confession. he’d been vulnerable with you before, letting you see him cry during sad movies and admitting when one of your other friends hurt his feelings in passing. you’d been there for him after every breakup he’d endured and caused. you were no stranger to his emotions, but the culmination of events made this moment much more intense. it didn’t help that your nerves were wired so tight they might snap. nicholas shook under your touch as you taped the last strip over the gauze on his shoulder. good as new. nicholas inhaled, throat constricting the breath until it shook. he let his fingers wander to the hem of your shorts, pulling at the fabric to get your attention, “are you upset with me?” 

the tears welled in your eyes, too, as you wiped one stray droplet from the top of his splotchy cheek with your thumb. you let it dry on the pad of your finger. you said, the most sure you’d sounded all night, or possibly ever, “no.” 

you dragged your eyes up his neck as his throat bobbed, uncertainly, and your lips curled into a reassuring smile as you met his gaze again. there was a film over him, like sepia, like the color had been peeled from his face, until you cupped his cheek with your hand, smoothing your fingertips over the scratch in front of his ear. nicholas didn’t wince, only held his eyes steady on yours, fingers still drawing small circles on your thigh, just below the edge of your shorts. you leaned forward and dropped your head to his chest, resting your cheek on his skin, tacky with sweat, as your arms curled around his sides. nicholas lifted his good hand and placed it, naturally, between your shoulderblades, making languid strokes down your spine as you nestled into him. your voice was small as you spoke again, “you’re more than just spiderman, nicholas. i need you to know that.” 

“i know,” he whispered, “i’m also a major sex symbol.” and then he laughed, lightly. he laughed as much as he could without it hurting deep in his core where bruises would later bloom. 

“i’m being serious, nico,” you muttered, lightly smacking his back, “even if some people only see you as a piece of ass in spandex, they’d love you without the mask, too.” 

in the silence that lingered, you assumed nicholas was thinking about how to turn the fact that you called him a “piece of ass” around on you. it was a prime opportunity to make you regret being nice to him, to make you revoke all sincerity in the foreseeable future, but nicholas’s chest rose and fell in solid, pondering swells. you heard him open his mouth, inhale, and then abandon the idea. he did this three times in the silence, his hand stalling on your spine. and when he spoke, finally, his voice was hoarse, “do you?” 

“do i what?” 

“love me?” nicholas gulped, rigid under you, “without the mask?” 

you didn’t have to think about it, “yes.” 

you loved him completely and in a way even you didn’t fully understand. you would have done anything for him, knowing he felt the same about you because you were best friends. you’d signed a contract as children, one that was sealed in blood from a papercut binding the two of you together forever. you remembered something in there about getting married if you both reached a certain age without finding true love, along with standard bff contract business that swore loyalty to the other person and described snack-sharing laws; he would always take any flavor that was blue, and you would have first dibs on any red. you adhered to every detail in the contract even now, cutting the red and blue gummy worms in half at the frozen yogurt shop after he’d revealed his life-altering secret to you. and it was incredibly difficult to cut the worms after they’d been sitting in the frozen treats, but you did it anyway, sealed in blood. but you were acutely aware that you loved him in ways that exceeded that contract. you’d grown to love him in a real, authentic way. you’d imagined loving him for the rest of your life, and you’d felt ridiculous for it. 

nicholas’s heart slammed against his ribcage, over and over and over beneath your ear. you didn’t need the vitals on your computer to know his heartrate was through the roof. with a croak, he prompted, “in what way?” 

“well,” you tried to control the wave in your voice. in the same way you knew nicholas was lying when his hands were steady, he knew you were lying when your voice faltered. you were forever grateful that you rarely found the need to lie to him. you weren’t lying now, but it felt like you were omitting the truth. your voice was partially shaking as you gave him a half-lie. “you’re my best friend.” 

he traced his fingertips down your spine again. “and?” 

you sat up from your place between his thighs, peeling your cheek from his chest and feeling off-kilter from the warmth on one side of your face. you looked him in the eyes, keeping your expression soft despite your confusion. you could’t decipher his intentions. what would he gain from knowing your true feelings? unless he, too, had been keeping secrets from you. unless nicholas had been harboring feelings for you in a pit in his stomach just like you. unless nicholas had been pushing down the urge to hold your hand as you walked to the corner store just like you. there was only one way to find out, and the benefit of a near-death experience was that all confessions and actions could be retrospectively blamed on the adrenaline spike and confrontation with mortality. you pulled your eyes from his, flickering your attention to his lips for a fraction of a second, the spark of a dull match before the winning strike. but when your eyes returned, his were on your lips, too. and they stayed there. the match was blazing, curling in on itself, scorched and wilting the same way your tongue felt as it let the word tumble out, “and.” 

the way nicholas kissed you was the stuff of dreams, in that every touch was subtle; every choice was perceptive as he slotted his lips, gently, between yours. neither of you moved at first, simply swimming in the idea of it all. the taste of him made you dizzy, how sweet he was beneath the initial tang of metal, like the cheap chocolate coins you’d found at the store when you were younger that were shrouded in a contagious foil wrapper. the first press of his lips to yours was like peeling away the metallic, protective layer. nicholas pulled away, tentatively, before brushing his lips against yours, once and then twice, like he was testing the waters. it was you that made the second move, angling your head to capture his mouth in a kiss just as soft as the first. he sighed into you, his breath tickling your face as his hands settled low on your hips. 

you hummed against him, letting your body finally relax into his kiss, his touch. it felt strange, in the unfamiliar sense and nowhere near the wrong one. nicholas once confessed that it was unusual that the two of you had never “experimented,” that all close friends have kissed once or twice just to see. you’d laughed it off, then, but it was all beginning to make sense now. he was incredibly drunk when he said that, so gone that he probably didn’t even remember it, and you never brought it up, thinking you were preserving his dignity, that he would have been so humiliated to have even suggested kissing you. you wished that you could go back in time and tell that version of you to bring it up. bring it up as soon as humanly possible. you pressed your palms against his chest, sliding them up around the back of his neck at the same time you bumped your tongue against his lips. 

and when nicholas let you in, he let you in fully. the slide of his tongue against yours was electric, softly licking into your mouth and sending charged sparks to your belly like a livewire. you sucked his tongue deeper into you, and nicholas moaned. the sound was softer than you anticipated, less intense than you’d imagined. it was even less confident than you’d heard before, that fateful evening you had slipped the headset on and invaded his valuable privacy. this version of nicholas was unguarded, raw, yours. this version of nicholas was barely holding it together as you climbed further into his lap, threading your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck to pull him deeper into the kiss. it was slow, sweet, and kind of messy, noses bumping in time with your overlapping sighs and moans. it was a perfect song. 

nicholas disconnected from you, resting his forehead on yours as you brushed the hair from sticking to the side of his face. he squeezed your waist, flitting his eyes to yours to gauge your reaction as he breathed, like a whisper, “i love you. i’ve loved you for a long time, i think,” he licked his lips, pressing them together into a thin line, “just didn’t know it.” 

you thought of every time you searched for him in a crowded room, especially the times you never found him. you thought of every protective arm thrown over your shoulder on your walks home. you thought of the years of heartfelt “goodnight” and “get home safe” conversations on the front stoop of your apartment, neither of you having the courage to say i love you, afraid of what it might really mean. even though you meant it with every shared meal, every impromptu sleepover, and every game thrown during game nights just to see the other beaming with pride. 

“i love you, too,” your smile felt like it was going to split your head right down the center, “i think.” you knew. but you understood how scary it must have been for him to tell you how he felt. you, however, were perfectly fine swallowing it down forever. for nicholas, if he confessed and you didn’t feel the same, he would have lost more than just the “brains” of his spiderman gig- he would've risked losing his best friend, too, although you couldn’t imagine a world where you cut nicholas off for any reason, especially for something as sweet as having a crush on you. he knew too much about you, anyhow, had endured too many of your late-night conspiracy theories and stress-induced breakdowns to get off the hook that easily. 

“don’t feel like you have to say it,” nicholas pulled back, letting you fully see his face, his serious, stern expression, “especially since i, like, cried and stuff.” 

“you cried?” you feigned ignorance, casting a curious glance at the ceiling and tapping your chin with an animated finger, “i don’t remember that, sorry.”

“right, right,” nicholas smiled, dropping his head to hide the flush on his cheeks, “i said that i was useless. do you remember that?”

“mhm,” you nodded, brows furrowing. you couldn’t tell where he was going with this, but you feared he was going to spiral again. luckily, you had a lot of practice keeping him afloat. you smoothed your hands down his neck as he manually turned the gears in his head. 

“okay,” nicholas’s hands cautiously slid beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely breaching the curve of your waist where the band of your shorts rested, folded over from leaning onto him. you sucked in a short gasp at the contact, feeling the goosebumps prickle your hot skin. “i said that i need you,” he squeezed your sides, pulling you closer to him. his voice was soft, breath fanning over your neck, “remember that?” 

nicholas tugged your waist until you were situated fully against him, straddling the plush expanse of his thighs, now painfully aware of just how clothed you were in comparison to the thin boxers hugging his figure. there had to be a way to wear clothes under the suit, but you didn’t care enough to find one, selfishly drinking in every inch of his soft, partially scraped and bruised skin. you’d never been able to touch him, not really. nicholas, on the other hand, was physically affectionate with you in ways you couldn’t even comprehend, constantly draping an arm over your shoulder or kicking your leg, playfully. you were afraid of what would happen if you did the same, if your arm would burst into a torch or your head would explode, like fireworks. because that would happen to you, of course. but now you were free to roam with selfish hands. you raked your fingertips up his sides, and the flames never came, but the fireworks did; they sparked low in your core as nicholas urged you even closer, settling you right above the obvious tent in his boxers. “is this okay?” he whispered, just for you. 

outside, the city stirred in short bursts of life. the warm breeze evolved into a rainstorm, the mellow pattering of droplets on the fire escape punctuating the sounds of your breathing, your gasps. “perfect,” you whispered back. you held his face in your hands, committing him to memory, breaking every rule you’d set for yourself since your feelings for him started shifting from friend to something else. you allowed yourself to kiss him again, slotting your lips into his, parting them and sliding your tongue over his. chocolate coins, blue gummy candy, cold water, rain on asphalt. you moaned into his mouth before you had even moved your hips, overwhelmed by him alone. but when you finally sank down, pressing your aching core against the strained outline of his cock, you felt the flames ignite. they started at your fingertips, threading through his hair and keeping his mouth moving hungrily on yours, and they traveled up your arms to your chest, where your heart threatened to either leap out of your ribs or fall flat into your stomach. and the flames settled in a blazing bouquet of heat right above your hips, where the friction of nicholas’s twitching cock nudged your clit in mind-numbing strokes. even through your shorts, you felt all of him, but you wanted more. 

“fuck,” nicholas’s hips twitched beneath you, tipping his head back with his eyes squeezed shut, “need to feel you. c-can you ride me?” 

“nico,” you rocked your hips, slowly, over him, shaking your head, “i don’t want to hurt you. let’s take it slow, yeah?” his wounds were still fresh, and you could only guess the places he’d be bruised tomorrow- his stomach, his ribs. the last thing you wanted to do was put him in any more pain, strain his body. 

“you won’t hurt me,” he whined, “well, you might, but i don’t care. i’ve been taking it slow for years.” nicholas dropped his hands from your waist to your ass, taking two fistfuls of your flesh and squeezing, mumbling against your lips, “i don’t want to wait anymore.” 

who were you to deny him? who were you to deny yourself? 

“okay, nico,” you breathed. you realized that this was one of many firsts: your first time with nicholas, your first time being on top with anyone, and, most prominently, your first time being nervous around him. he was magnetic and forgiving, and you were rarely afraid to be yourself around him. you doubted the existence of a judgmental bone in his perfect, fragile body. nicholas knew how to make you feel at home, how to ease your mind in unfamiliar situations. he held your hand when you first tried ice skating, and he didn’t laugh when you busted your ass eight times on the frozen rink. he helped you back up, both hands interlaced with yours, and kept you steady. you hoped he would do the same now, and you weren’t far off, his palms sliding, comfortingly, down your calves as you stood up from his lap to shimmy out of your shorts. 

it felt like autopilot, the way you’d played out these initial moments in your head dozens of times, all in a dreamlike haze and never reaching the good parts. it was like a poorly filmed highlight reel of nicholas’s mouth on your neck, clumsy hands getting caught in your bra, and the empty collision of bodies. you’d wake each morning feeling more frustrated than the last, logging onto your computer in the evening to casually track his every movement like you weren’t going to dream that night of elaborate weddings and lingering stares. but nothing compared to the reality, the electric nerves and adrenaline of having his calloused fingers striking, like matches, on your legs. your dreams couldnt imitate the fuzzy, fluttering pit in your chest as nicholas stared, fully rapt, fully captured by you, watching with his mouth softly agape as you stepped out of your underwear. 

if you could have slithered into his brain, you would have drowned beneath the overwhelming shroud of regret, swirling around in his skull like a swarm. the buzzing would have rattled you senseless. nicholas had more regrets than he cared to count, many of which concerned the type of socks he wore inside of his shoes and buying collectibles when his bank account begged him to buy some produce instead. his gut had regrets, too. but at the very center of the swarm, the queen, was how long he’d went denying his feelings for you. he had brushed his butterflies off as misfire, as sheer happiness. other people felt tingly when they hung out with their friends, too. he convinced himself that it was totally normal to lose all rational thinking within three feet of you. on any other occasion, he would have just asked you, as though you were his own personal search engine, but he couldn’t call you and ask what the movie you had just watched was about because he didn’t pay a lick of attention to anything that wasn’t you. when nicholas researched it himself, his i cant think straight around my best friend searches yielded results like you’re fucked, pal. and he so was. he regretted being in so deep and pushing it down, fucking other girls to get a reaction out of you like an asshole. because you were kind, you never gave him one. because you were perfect, you gave him shit for it, way less than he deserved. and now, he was sitting, weak in every way and completely at your mercy, grateful you were trusting him with your body, that you felt the same way for him. he regretted that, too, that he’d wasted so much time thinking you could never love him back. he wanted to lean over, pat the side of his head two times like a cartoon character, and let all his regrets spill out like scrabble pieces for you to see. instead, he slid his hands up the backs of your thighs, diligently, like it was second nature to pull you closer to him, and pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee. he whispered against the tender, sensitive skin there, “my beautiful girl,” and hoped that would remedy the buzzing in his head. 

it did nothing to dull the buzzing in your belly, however; the intimate gesture only turned your insides over and over. his hair tickled your thighs as his pressed gentle kisses up and up, until his breath was ghosting over the soaked, puffy lips of your pussy. you resisted the urge to squeeze your legs together, already kind of embarrassed by how wet he had made you from nothing but jutting the outline of his cock against you and confessing. it was one thing to hear that he loved you; it was an entirely different thing to feel it, the warm, feather of a kiss he pressed to the top of your pussy. a shudder racked down your spine, mirroring the vibration of his voice as he asked, “is this okay?” 

you peered down at him, threading your fingers in the back of his hair. “perfect,” you said, again, and nicholas smiled, the expression bleeding all the way into his eyes. he dipped his tongue between your still slick folds, slowly drawing the hot muscle over your clit with a groan, one of pure gratification. like licking brownie batter off the spoon, he plunged his tongue deeper into you, curling it around the sensitive bud at the precipice until you were rocking, gingerly, on his mouth. 

he said, “so fucking sweet, baby,” and you felt your knees tremble beneath you, “soaking wet, sliding around on my tongue.” you curled your fingers in his hair as he hummed into your heat. the rumble of his voice went straight to your empty hole, pulsing around nothing. his lips drove you insane on a normal day- sweet, plump, and so expressive that you could read him from across the room- but, now, as he sucked your clit between them, his tongue flitting against it and twisting that molten coil inside of you, you were positive that he could have simply kissed you to orgasm. not that you would know, since he detached his lips from you just as the pleasure began to build, just as your chest began to swell unevenly, just as your hips moved with a mind of their own, chasing your high on his tongue. “not yet, angel.” 

compared to the smug expression on his face, you were undoubtedly scowling. nicholas reached for your hand, sliding it out of his hair and to his lips instead. he pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles, hoping it would dissolve the exasperated glare you were boring into him but knowing it would make him feel better about his selfish decision to want to feel your orgasm rather than taste it. although, he planned to do that, too, on a separate occasion when his shoulder was healed and he could prop your legs up around his neck and push you over the edge until you couldn’t think anymore. but for now, he soothed your annoyance with a small smile, trying to ignore how painfully hard he was in his boxers. there were many ways to fix that, but he was only interested in one. he tugged your hand until you were back on the floor with him, on your knees between his legs, just as you were earlier as you cleaned his wounds, as you tended to him like a book with a weathered spine. he would never deserve you- nicholas was certain of this. he was also certain that he was going to die if he didn’t feel you around him soon. 

and you felt the same; nicholas noticed the way you glanced down at his lap, at the outline of his dick constricted by thin material, mind running wild. from what you’d felt, you were positive he was going to split you in two, but you also knew he would piece you back together afterwards. you leaned forward, feeling your slick leak onto the inside of your thighs as you dipped your fingers into his boxers, pulling them down just enough to uncover his cock. he was beyond hard, tip leaking onto his stomach from a torturous ensnarement and shining glossy red like a coveted valentines candy. you thought about the contract, about how you had dibs on anything red. 

you thought he would come right then, as you wrapped your fist around his base. it was like he hadn’t been touched in ages when you knew from personal experience that he’d been messing around in the suit. but he never sounded like this when you’d accidentally tuned in, so unguarded and desperate that even the slightest graze of your hand made his hips buck. he sucked in a sharp breath, pinching his eyes closed. “you’re killing me.” 

“just returning the favor, dickhead,” you taunted, mourning your ruined orgasm as you stroked him, slowly. you let your lips brush against his, whispering over the sound of his panting, “or, what? did you want to come, too?” 

“f-fuck you,” nicholas rolled his eyes and then his hips, chasing your hand as you teased him, “or fuck me. please, fuck me.”  

only because he said “please,” and not at all because he was gorgeous, pliant putty in your hands did you succumb to his wishes, both of them. sure, you’d fuck yourself and, sure, you’d fuck him, all at once. you felt your walls clench in anticipation, pussy dripping as you positioned yourself over him. the descent onto his cock was agonizingly slow but absolutely necessary, letting your walls adjust to the stretch of him while reveling in the searing pleasure. nicholas leaned into you and captured your lips with his, attempting to swallow your moans. instead, he whined into your mouth, keeping his lips against yours as your jaw went slack. you felt so fucking full, having nearly taken all of him, unexpectedly thick and veiny. you felt him grating inside of you, slowly lighting up every nerve ending, stretching you to hell and back. you steadied yourself, gripping the edge of your bed behind him, surpassing his broad, stone-carved shoulders right in front of you. goddamn ray gun. 

you moaned into his mouth when you’d reached the base of him, when your centers met at last, at least physically. emotionally, you and nicholas had been intertwined more intimately than this for what might have been years, each of you too stupid to realize the other had been right in front of you the entire time. you realized this, looking straight into his eyes, hips brushing, your bottom lip stuck between his teeth: this was right. nicholas felt it, too, fingers splayed on your back in a comforting grasp. he was keeping you closer, if it were even possible. he pressed a sweet kiss to your lips, which you couldn’t help but sigh into, and mumbled, “beautiful,” he wrapped his arms tighter around your waist until you were practically flush against him, “so fucking beautiful, and mine.” 

and then, you moved, a faint roll of your hips that wrecked the both of you instantly. it was intoxicating, the throb of his thick cock inside of you. a moan ripped through you at the sensation, “fuck, nico.” 

“i know, baby,” he gulped, “you’re so tight.” 

baby. it felt natural, hearing him say it. his voice was deep and hypnotic, a slight rasp to it after the nights events. you wanted to take care of him, even now, with the tip of his cock nudging the depths of your body. so, you rode him slow, partially to keep his injuries from progressing but mostly because you wanted to feel him for as long as possible, wanted to savor the breathy groans and whines that spilled from his mouth every time you lifted almost completely off of him. you wanted to savor the feeling of his nails digging into your ass as he watched the point where your bodies were joined, where your pussy swallowed him, welcomed him. your pace was driving him wild, his hips lurching gently up into you, driving him deeper inside of you in a way you didn’t consider possible until it was happening. your entire body was on fire with him: the taste of him on your tongue, the caress of his palms down your spine, and the blistering pleasure coiling in your stomach from the steady tilt of your hips. 

“taking all of me so well, sweetheart,” nicholas groaned as you began to stutter, your movements growing messy as your climax approached. he slipped his hand between the two of you and pressed his thumb to your clit, sliding the pad of his finger along the swollen, sensitive bud in circles. the way you clenched around him only made him increase his speed, his pressure, drawing that coil inside of you tighter. “does that feel good? hm? tell me.”

“feels so good, nic,” you whined, “so, so good. i’m really close.” 

“come on my cock, baby, please,” nicholas pressed his lips to your neck, sucking and nibbling on your skin as if you needed any convincing, “wanna feel you squeeze me, make a mess on me.” 

“wanna feel you, too,” you mumbled, and nicholas pulled his face away, shocked, like he couldn’t believe what you were asking him. but he didnt argue, only held onto your hip and rolled his, faster, to meet yours as you bobbed on his cock, his thumb still orbiting your clit in a pleasure-driven frenzy. “feels so good, nicholas. please don’t stop.” 

and he didn’t until you were doubled over, face buried in his chest as your orgasm barreled into you. you chanted his name over and over like a prayer, pussy fluttering and squeezing him even more than before. you kept your hips rolling, riding out both your orgasm and his as nicholas threw his head back, mouth agape. you felt him twitch inside of you before you felt the warmth pool in your core, hot, thick ropes of his cum pumping into you. “holy fuck,” he groaned, “still cumming. fuck.” everything was hot. his skin was still damp, small beads of sweat collecting on his neck, and you felt your own body clinging to his as you stilled on his lap. 

most prominently, however, you felt something strange, something cold where nicholas’s hands had latched onto you and had remained latched onto you for a concerning amount of time. curiously, you pawed at his wrist, attempting to disconnect his skin from yours, but it just wouldn’t budge. 

and then you realized: he was stuck. 

“nicholas,” you raised, “did you fucking web on me?” 

his cheeks bloomed red, a shy smile taking over his lips as his chest heaved, recovering from his intense orgasm. of course, you would have some shit to say to him immediately. but he wasn’t sure what you were talking about until he tried to pry his fingers from your flesh. as if he had superglued his hand to you, your skin stayed attached to him as he gently lifted his fingers. in a clump at the base of your spine, and draping in loose strands over your ass, was silk- a cluster of webbing, sticky and fresh. 

nicholas blinked, just as shocked as you, “uh, yeah, i did.” 

“you didn’t think to mention that before?” 

“honestly, it’s… new.” 

he was still working to pull his hands from you, slowly lifting and flexing his fingers in small, delicate motions. he was obviously embarrassed in a way you couldn’t understand. you thought he had more control over the web thing by this point, but, honestly, as long as it wasn’t in your hair, mouth, or eyes, you didn’t care. it was kind of… hot? 

you traced his jaw with your finger, biting back a shit-eating grin. “would you say i… unclogged your web shooters?” 

nicholas laughed, finally pulling his hand free before pressing a light kiss to your lips, “i knew you liked that one.” 

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

@wenomakiluvr @guliexe @cheolscherries1812 @jungwonsgff @heesoulnotes

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[starvine]

i love you spiderman nicho

[yelphadora-deactivated20260602]

The art of sexiness

summary: Michael wants the girl he likes to see him as sexy, and an impromptu photoshoot leads to awkwardness, awakenings and questions

era: 'cause this is thrillerrrr, thriller night, and no one's going to--okay I'll stop. More specifically, the 'it's a wonderful day!' interview

warnings/tags: suggestive/sexual content, poetic descriptions of degeneracy, sub!michael, inexperienced and touch deprived michael, jealous michael, female reader, hair pulling, praise k!nk, unravelling/coming untouched

If someone had told Michael that on a sweltering day nearing the end of summer, a pretty girl would be preparing for a potential nude photoshoot in his bedroom, he would have thrown his head back in laughter.

“I didn’t say nude, Michael. Just take off your sweater.”

“You’re mad,” he said, because he was starting to think she was.

“Aren’t you hot, anyway? It’s like a furnace in here.” She fanned herself with a pointed look.

The room temperature was reaching an unimaginable high, with the kind of heat that clings to the skin like film. Days like these were ones where his siblings strode around the compound practically naked while he stayed snug in his long sleeves and shirts, a barrier of comfort. Thank God they had taken their shamelessness with them to the beach trip Michael had opted out of.

“I’m fine,” said Michael, trying to sound convincing despite the single drop of sweat forming on the tip of his nose. He swiped it away quickly.

She shook her head at his stubbornness. “You said you wanted sex appeal, right? Well, no one’s going to get that if you’re dressed like a kindergartener on his first day.”

For a moment, Michael was shocked into silence. A kindergartener? He liked this outfit. He thought it made him look gentlemanly.

Leave it to her to give him the cut-and-dried truth.

Apart from his parents and maybe his siblings if they were feeling particularly bold that day, no one in the world spoke to Michael with such bluntness. A small part of him, the section of his personality that took on the celebrity persona, the Michael Jackson of it all, was affronted. Who was this girl to come into his room, and insult his choice of outfit?

But the rest of him was flooded with hotness, not from the punishing sun rays filtering through the window shutters, but from the irritating fact that she clearly still regarded him as childish. A kindergartener?

The surrounding stuffed Disney characters really didn’t lend much to his argument.

He didn’t like that at all. He was nearly twenty-five. Things had to start changing.

And so, Michael released an exaggerated sigh and shimmied out of his red sweater, revealing a plaid shirt which was still stubbornly long-sleeved.

“Seriously?” she said incredulously. The upper corners of her lips twitched as she continued. “How much do I have to pay you to take the shirt off too?”

A gazillion dollars is what he wanted to say. Instead he pouted. “I don’t need to take off my clothes to be sexy. Just—just tell me what to do, with the poses and stuff.”

Rolling her eyes, she held up her hands in defeat. “Fine, you win. But unbutton it a little.”

Michael fingered the top button of his shirt nervously. He always had it fastened up to his neck; at first, purely out of preference, but now the depigmented splotches scattered across his lower stomach and wrists roused a fear in him. Whatever it was, it was growing visible by the day. The doctors and their empty promises had provided nothing but surface-level consolation–that they would find out what it was, and they most definitely would help him.

And he would smile every-time, despite wanting to do everything but.

“You don’t have to,” she added quickly. Her demeanor shifted slightly; the playfulness seeped out of her posture leaving behind wary unease as she fiddled with the hem of her skirt.

She was right–he didn’t. That should have been the end of it.

But the way she watched him with captured attention…it was making him feel sick and heady all at once. Tearing his eyes away, he searched the room for comfort, finally finding it in the Mickey Mouse plush toy, wedged between the other Disney characters on his cluttered shelf. Desperately, he tried to send a thought beam towards it.

Mickey, help!

Of course, no response came. Michael tried to imagine what Mickey would advise. Maybe something like:

“Just believe in yourself!”

Well, that wasn’t very useful. How about:

“Imagination is magic!”

C’mon, Mickey! That wasn’t relevant at all–

“Maybe two or three buttons will be okay, so long as you’re comfortable.”

He shouldn’t have–oh. That might have been legit.

Two or three buttons. Michael could do two or three. Two or…actually, he’d stick with two.

Exhaling shakily, Michael unfastened one button, then the other. It only exposed the skin some centrimeters below his collarbones and yet he took several seconds to recover and breathe like he’d just come down from a runner’s high.

Her laugh trickled like piano keys. “So dramatic,” she muttered, but there was an intensity in her eyes as she fixed them upon the newly visible skin. He tried to ignore the churning sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“Alright, Mr Jackson. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Evidently nothing.

“Just, try to relax. Shake your shoulders, or something.”

Stiffly, Michael jiggled his arms and legs.

“Um, sure. Okay, I want you to look at me like you want to devour me.”

Too much.

Wincing, Michael stiffened. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I–I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Michael.” He despised the fatigue in her voice, the tightness in her grip on the camera. She was tired of him.

The past twenty minutes had been a downward spiral. Michael had tried–he really had–but her presence had made it impossible to calm down. He felt like he was being tickled with barbed wire every time she suggested another supposedly sexy pose.

“It’s not like you’ve never done a photoshoot before,” she said with a sigh. “What about the Thriller album cover? That was attractive!”

She didn’t even know–she just didn’t know that these ‘compliments’ and encouragement weren’t being taken to heart. They were circulating in his ears and shooting straight downwards.

“How about we try a version of that, Michael? But sexier, hm?”

Dumbly, he nodded and allowed her to push him back on the bed (he had to screw his eyes shut to will away the arousal that the action brought him) and position him on his side, lounging. It was similar to the Thriller cover pose, except that photoshoot didn’t feel like battling a seductress while she bit her lips and–oh gosh why did she do that–and snapped a photo with a blinding shutter.

“Okay! This one isn’t too bad!” she announced optimistically. “Getting better!”

“You said that with the last pose,” Michael pointed out wearily.

“Yeah, well–well–I don’t know.” She placed the camera down and rubbed her eyes blearily.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Move up.”

Hesitantly, Michael rolled over and felt the bed sink as she joined him with her legs crossed. She didn’t say anything, only stared at him intently.

Fleetingly, he drank it in– her gaze, her focus– because he wasn’t sure if her pupils were really dilating or if it was a cruel trickery of light. But then she was growing too quiet, too still, and the intoxicating feeling was smothering him and making him very, very scared.

He had to look away.

Why did she have to be…her?

The very fact that he was here, and she was here, with the possibility of depravity hovering inappropriately over his head was because of her. Inviting her over had been a mistake; he’d known it as soon as he’d opened the door, the fruity scent of her perfume wafting into the house. Her greeting him with a “Hi, cutie,” had brought a bitter taste to his mouth which only got stronger throughout the day with every tug on his cheek or ruffling of his curls.

The final straw came hours later, when they’d been sitting on opposite ends of the living room couch, legs intertwined in a way that made his skin prickle with alertness.

Michael had been flicking distractedly through a fairytale collection when a throaty noise caught his attention. Lowering the book, he peered at her hungry gaze. She looked like she wanted to dive into her magazine. The sight twisted his intestines.

“What is it?” he asked distastefully. When she didn’t answer, he prodded her with a socked toe.

“Hm? Oh, sorry,” she replied almost obnoxiously. Leaning forward, she brandished the magazine–some silly gossip one that Latoya had left on the coffee table–and showed him a double spread of a shirtless Leo Andre.

“Isn’t he just so sexy?”

Michael had stared and stared with the hope that the burgeoning feeling of annoyance would flee. It didn’t.

Leo-freaking-Andre? Seriously?

He shouldn’t be jealous–jealousy was a sin, and a very damaging one at that. But, really?

It wasn’t like he didn’t get it. The worst part was that he did–sorta. Sure, the guy was a talentless hack who couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag, but he was attractive. Maybe even sexy, with his blue eyes and evenly tanned skin. He didn’t look real, more like a prince who leapt out of Walt Disney’s mind.

He looked entirely opposite to Michael.

Michael didn’t care. Why should he? Just last week, there was a television poll for the most handsome celebrities of the year, and Michael won. Take that Leo Andre.

But handsome wasn’t ‘sexy’. They weren’t interchangeable. And he certainly didn’t feel handsome a lot of the time.

Noncommittally, Michael shrugged and pushed the magazine back towards her. “He’s okay.” He hated how he sounded like an insolent child.

She lingered closely, her perfume wrestling with his nose. “Okay?” she repeated disbelievingly. “He’s gorgeous!”

“I guess.”

“What’s your problem? I hate it when you get all moody on me.”

“There’s no problem,” Michael said monotonously. He picked up the book to cover his stinging eyes. No way was he going to cry right now; he’d rather die.

In his mind, he replayed the moment like a horror movie.

Sexy. Leo Andre. Everything Michael was not.

It wasn’t like he needed to be. Thriller was getting more and more popular by the day. Motown 25 was still being talked about months after. He was doing fine without posing provocatively for women’s magazines.

Yet.

Yet he still felt like he was being pummelled in the gut all because his childhood crush said a terrible actor was sexy. Boohoo Michael, there’s people dying.

Seeming to take the hint, she settled back onto her end of the couch with one more furtive glance. An awkward silence stretched its legs between them, until her hoarse chuckle shooed it away.

“Mr Michael himself.”

Internally, he swore to ignore her, but she kept on making more strange sounds with her throat that eventually he snapped, “What?”

“They’ve got a spread about you. Called ‘husband material’.”

“What?”

“Look.” She shuffled back over and dropped the magazine into his lap. The spread’s background was a bleeding, bright pink, with various photos of Michael scattered across the page; one was him from the Billie Jean music video, another was him posed with Bubbles. Under each picture there was some kind of description, calling him handsome, kind, cute–

“Ugh,” he said as he pushed it back towards her for a second time.

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Okay, you definitely have a problem. Spit it out.”

“There’s no–” Michael started, but then he realized that sharp gaze of hers had grown to know him too well. Lying was pointless, so he picked his words carefully.

“There isn’t a problem, I promise. It’s just…I’m just…” His tongue seemed to have swelled to twice its original size.

“You’re just…?”

Was there even a way to say this without humiliating himself? I hate how everyone–especially you, actually only you really–thinks I’m super unsexy?

“Husband material…it’s not really a compliment. Well–it is, but it feels…”

This time she offered no aid to his fumbling, only an arched brow.

“Patronizing,” he finished indecisively. Her unfazed look made him add, “Not that it matters. It doesn’t. I’m really grateful for everything and–”

“I get it.”

The admission halted his collapsing thoughts. “You do?”

“Yeah. I mean, kinda?” She scooted closer and Michael’s heart stuttered when he realized he was near enough to notice his reflection in her gleaming eyes. “But I also don’t.”

“W–what do you mean?”

“You’re talking about sex appeal, right?”

Oh, gosh.

Somehow, despite her not actually referring to it, the word sex tumbling from her mouth was more perverted than anything Michael had ever heard. It ignited something in multiple areas of his body; his chest, his gut, his–

So, so dirty.

His mother was right to warn him about how perverse the world of fame could be, but she failed to help him anticipate that he’d be the corrupted one, drawing his long legs into his chest and praying that it wasn’t obvious.

His lack of verbal reply didn’t deter her. She placed her hands on his knees (he wished she wouldn’t touch him, why did she have to touch him, he hoped she’d never stop) and mused, “You want people to think you’re…sexy? But why? Every girl in America would genuinely murder for a night with you.”

Every girl…?

Michael looked for something, anything in her eyes that indicated that she was including herself in the sentiment. And sure, there was a softness blurring the outer edges of her irises, but that had always been there. It was an expression of fondness, platonic love, and it made him feel sick.

Every girl isn’t you, he would have said if he had the nerve.

“I…I don’t think that’s true,” he remarked dejectedly. “For some, yeah. But I think a lot of them still see me as…pure maybe. Like the same kid from the Jackson 5.”

“With hair so big, he could reach the stars,” she said with a smile, and he knew she’d say exactly that. Twelve years ago, and she still remembered one of the first things she’d said to him.

“Yeah,” he grumbled, not even attempting to match her enjoyment. “But I’m not a little kid anymore.”

The words hung real and heavy in the warm air between them. Michael hoped she didn’t take it rudely; they’d always agreed to be honest with each other, and he found that as the stars became more and more within reach, he needed that grounded honesty once a while.

“You’re right,” she said finally. Her hands moved from his knees to his calves seemingly absent-mindedly as she collected her thoughts, but the movement set him on fire. He’d almost kicked her off in fear of himself when she said, “I have an idea. You’re going to have to walk with me, though.”

Immediately, Michael made to rise when she knocked him back gently. “I meant, mentally. Not actually.”

“Oh,” he said, embarassed.

Reaching for the magazine, she turned back some pages, humming an off-key tune. She made a satisfied noise and uttered a question that he’d hoped she wouldn’t. “Before I tell you, has any of this got to do with Leo Andre?”

A perfect answer would be a breathless, “Yes. I was incredibly jealous that you showed him attention because I love you, I do. I think I always have.” And then she’d kiss him and he’d sweep her away from Hayvenhurst and they’d ride on horseback towards a Happily Ever After.

But just like any other fairytale villain, cowardice isn’t easily overcome. “No,” Michael scoffed. “Why–why would it be?”

She eyed him suspiciously, perhaps because he was an idiot, or a bad liar, or both. “You did get a little moody when I showed you his photo.”

This would have been a wonderful opportunity to crack a joke at Leo’s expense. Something about his stilted performances, about the way he seemed to mouth-breathe constantly. But all humor died on Michael’s tongue. “I guess…I guess it’s because I was already annoyed. About–about the…”

“Sex-appeal?” she offered. He wasn’t sure what he was going to finish his sentence off with but it definitely wasn’t with that. He nodded anyway.

“That’s good, in a way. Not that you’re annoyed, just that…” she trailed off blankly. “What I’m trying to say is…Leo Andre’s our inspiration, you’re my muse.”

“Sorry?” he asked, trying to ignore the bubbly feeling at the possessive.

“I’m going to be your photographer!” she exclaimed.

“Huh?”

“Sex-appeal begins gradually. Madonna wasn’t built in a day, you know? You have to kind of…take baby steps until you master it. So today is the first baby step. We can practice taking pictures.”

Michael gawked at her. Two nightmarish scenarios filled his mind; one, with him stark naked and her jeering at him, mocking his body and its frailty. The second, less pessimistic but almost equally as frightening: him, stark naked and her hovering over him with a lusty gaze, her fingers straying too close until they’d sunken into his flesh and his eyes had rolled into the back of his head.

Which one was worse? They both brought him terror, but the second moreso, because he knew it would take all his strength and will to refuse her.

“I…I don’t know,” he said as he fought down incoming nausea. “I don’t think I can.”

“I’m not saying you should strip down like he did. Unless, you want to, because then by all means, be my guest,” she teased with a grin.

“Still, I…” His mouth went drier than sandpaper.

Almost instantaneously, her shoulders sagged with defeat. “It’s fine. Sorry, it was a weird suggestion anyway.” Then she withdrew to her corner of the couch but this time it felt like the distance was even further than before.

He could see the beginnings of disappointment forming on her face: first, it rested on her brow and crumpled it; then, it pulled the corners of her lips downwards into a frown; finally, it wrinkled her nose upwards. The same countenance for twelve years.

There were fewer things Michael hated more than disappointing people. Those things were spaghetti, his father’s fits of rage, and…he was sure there were more. Or maybe there weren’t. Maybe that indicated how much he hated disappointing people.

“I’ll do it,” he declared with zero confidence. Even a mouse wouldn’t have heard him with how quietly he’d squeaked it.

“Huh? Did you say something?” she said, craning her neck.

“No.”

“Oh,” she faltered. “Thought you did.”

Michael let her turn back to her magazine reluctantly while he considered whether this was worth working up courage for. Ah, screw it.

“Actually,” he asserted voluminously. “I said I’d do it. The shoot.”

Rapidly, she dropped the magazine and balled up her fists. “Really?” Her voice had climbed up several octaves.

“Yeah,” he said softly, reclining back when she practically pounced on him and squealed.

“I don’t even know why I’m so excited. Actually, nevermind, I lied. I do.”

“Because you’re a bully?” Michael half-joked.

“Because, the global superstar Michael Jackson,” she purred, pinching his cheek. “Still can’t say no to me.”

If he was paler, Michael was certain he would have blushed an embarrassing shade of scarlet. He wasn’t totally sure there wasn’t any red bleeding into his brown skin anyway, because the comment had sent him reeling, spinning and lurching all at once. He could not reply so he closed his eyes and tucked his chin into his chest, for once uncaring of her gaze which no doubt observed the hypnotic effect she had on him.

When Michael looked back up, she was still staring.

“Don’t,” he said weakly.

“Don’t what, Michael?” she questioned quietly. Her tongue made a brief appearance, snaking out to run over her lips before retreating.

He ducked his head. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

He didn’t answer. He nestled his head on the green comforter and started to mentally count down from one hundred.

He’d reached seventy two when she asked, “Is it me?”

He stopped. What little air remained in the stifling room was snatched away.

Michael had to gulp to remind himself how to breathe. In, then out, in, then out. He probably looked real strange, lying down and opening his mouth like a fish.

“Michael?”

He never noticed how crooked the Pinocchio figure looked on the shelf. Normally, he had an eye for keeping things neat and tidy, no matter how busy. Come to think of it–the whole shelf needed rearranging.

“You ignoring me, Jackson?” she said lightly, and this time she was impossible to ignore because her hand had come to rest in his hair, shifting tenderly.

Michael wished for the kind of self-restraint the knights in his stories displayed: resilience in their resistance of obedience as they rally against all odds to save the princess. Even the princesses themselves were to be admired–refusing to even insult their captors despite provocation.

But Michael was unfortunately not a knight or a princess, and so when he released a breathy gasp at the feeling of her fingers on his scalp, he could only sigh at the predictability of it all.

“Sorry,” he was quick to say, but even that apology sounded like he was fighting for air. He covered his eyes with a hand. And still her fingers remained.

“That–that’s alright,” she stammered, and was it just him or did she sound affected too?

“It’s not you,” Michael said, his voice weirdly hoarse. “It’s–it’s me.”

“You sure?” she said, her voice also taking on a weird quality. His covered eyes protected him with a layer of darkness, but he did wonder whether she was still peering at him with undivided attention.

“Yeah. I’m not usually like this.”

“I know. Which is why I know it’s my fault.”

“No…I was just nervous.”

“Do I…make you nervous?”

The question was accompanied with a tug of his curls which brought out a louder sound, more akin to a wounded animal. Mortification swelled in his chest.

“Can I take that as a yes?” she said teasingly. Michael could picture the smirk she was sporting. Bravely, he dropped his hand away but still kept his eyes tightly shut.

“N–no,” he panted–he was panting? What was this girl doing to him?

“I’ll take it anyway.”

“I’m–I’m sorry,” he murmured, unsure of what exactly he was saying it for. The bed below him shifted and creaked, and with further investigation he realized that it was his own movements causing it. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing; it just felt like he was pressing down and up, then inching a little left, or a little right. The pressure made him feel like he was going to explode.

“Oh, Michael,” she whispered almost wistfully. He dared to crack open an eyelid; sure enough, her eyes were wide with ardor, her lips plopped open. While she wasn’t unravelling as quickly as he felt he was, her chest was rising and falling speedily, and her hand was gripping his scalp tighter. The sight made him almost lose it–what it was, he wasn’t sure.

Gosh, was this okay? It felt so, so okay, but this foggy feeling clouding up his thoughts couldn’t be a good sign.

“Michael.”

“Hm?”

“Stay right there. Don’t move.”

Her fingers retreated and he almost—almost—moaned at the loss. That coiling sensation in his gut was winding down, the tension less palpable. Good, he thought to himself. He’d never…but from what his brothers had unceremoniously told him, it was messy. Michael didn’t want to have such…filth around her.

He was a little surprised at how easily he’d almost …reached it. Once again, all his knowledge had been jokingly forced down his throat through certain kinds of movies that his Neanderthal brothers had shown him, or the scandalous magazines Marlon used to sneak in.

Michael didn’t know that a few stray touches of his hair could make him lose control. It wasn’t sex (thank God) and yet he was still struggling to catch his breath and he still felt…alert.

Maybe it was just her.

Oh, he was in so much trouble.

The bed sprang up and down, accommodating for her departure and return, this time with the added weight of the large camera.

“Get on the floor. Please.”

No please was needed; he’d already begun sliding to the floor in a daze. The air particles around him hummed and vibrated slowly. He felt like he was in a dream.

“Good. Okay, this is going to sound strange, but kneel. Yes, just like that. Perfect.”

There was something about that mouth of hers. She wasn’t even saying anything that dirty, but it felt so wrong hearing her praises from a position like this. It made him feel sluggish and energetic all at once. His eyelids were drooping and he was struggling to pay heed to her voice.

“Now look up at me. Tilt your head a little, but mainly with your—oh, Michael,” she said breathlessly. She took a photo and he tried not to flinch at the assault of light on his face.

“You look…” She didn’t continue. Look what? Stupid? Weird? Handsome?

Sexy?

Instead, her hand reached to cup his chin caressingly. The action was too fond, too intimate that he squeezed his eyes shut again, and dug his nails into his thighs.

“You won’t look at me?”

He shook his head to the best of his restricted ability.

“I can’t believe this. I really can’t.”

He opened his eyes a little and immediately regretted doing so when he saw how adoringly she was watching him.

“I didn’t know. Why didn’t I know? Twelve years…” She was mumbling, seemingly more to herself than to him.

“I might have been the only girl on the planet that didn’t know,” she went on, shaking her head almost imperceptibly.

“What didn't you know?” he dared to ask softly.

“How fucking sexy you are.”

And then he fell down a mountain.

It sounded dramatic, but the comment sent Michael hurtling over the metaphorical mountaintop and now he was tumbling and tripping down into the white snow. He hit the ground with an odd noise, somewhere between a blissed moan and a strangled yell, and he lay there for some time because the journey took just about everything out of him.

“Michael…”

The voice was so far away that he didn’t bother reaching for it. Let it come to me, he decided.

“Michael, baby…?”

Baby? That felt nice. Maybe he would search for this voice in the darkness after all.

A distant pale light pulsated in the distance. He stretched out his hand and–

She was holding his head in her lap, smoothing his hair.

The brightness of the room was incredibly disorienting. After several blinks, Michael returned to himself and his surroundings, to her gentle touch and the merciless heat and his underwear that felt really sweaty and tight.

Looking down, he spied the wet patch bleeding through his dark jeans. Mortified, he moved to cover it.

“It’s okay,” she said quickly. She pulled out some tissues and offered them to him. He grudgingly accepted and started wiping roughly, wincing from the sensitivity.

“Do you need…help?”

“What?” he snapped. He wasn’t sure why, but his heart was heavy with frustration. Or maybe it was embarrassment. Frustrated embarrassment.

“Nevermind.”

A few vigorous swipes later and she said, “Take it easy, Michael. It’s okay.”

It is?

Michael lifted his head. When he looked at her, really looked at her, the truth of what he’d done rushed through him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, words choking as tears prickled and stabbed at his eyeballs.

“Why? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I—I didn’t?” Why did he feel like a child again, shrinking away while his father debated whether the branch or the cable wire was better?

“Of course not. If anything, I was the one who—” She waved her hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not your fault.”

Visions of his father melted away and left only her. He clung to her shirt suddenly and she embraced him, letting him nuzzle into her chest.

“So…what now?” she asked after a few measured beats of silence. Michael didn’t respond because he didn’t want to think about whatever came after. Now was now, and he wanted to savor every sun-kissed second.

“I learned a lot today, Michael,” she murmured over his hair. “What a scary revelation.”

“Why scary?” he mumbled.

“Because I thought I was different. I don’t want to sound like…one of those girls, the ones who insist that they’re so much better than others. But I really thought that it didn’t work on me. Looks like…I don’t know.”

“It?” he sounded out with his clumsy tongue.

“Yeah. It.”

“I don’t know what it is,” Michael pondered aloud. His eyelids were starting to drift down without his volition.

“Good.”

Was it really? This was all so confusing.

They settled into a comfortable quiet again until Michael asked one last question, emboldened by his drowsiness. “Do you really think Leo Andre is gorgeous?”

Her laugh rang like a church bell. “I knew this was about him!”

“It wasn’t, I swear it.” He was grateful that his smile was concealed by her chest.

“You’re so jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You so are. I could see it in your face.”

That was the last thing Michael heard before sleep took him in its arms.

Perhaps he would have craved to hear what she said last. Would it have changed anything? Who knew?

It was with a tender pat on his back that she said quietly, “He is. But he doesn’t hold a candle to you. No one does.” She was glad to hear the slowing of his breath as he slept, the confession remaining forever hers.

First post here, kinda nervy!

Shoutout to Leo Andre, my fictitious punching bag! If I ever commit to an MCU (Michael Cinematic Universe) then maybe I'll make him my Thanos.

Enjoy!

[starvine]

oh girl you’re INSANEEEE

[starvine]

test the waters - yang jungwon

for your entire life, it's been easy to disregard your father and his beliefs about the ocean and it's creatures. mermaids? ha! those have never existed. but as always, father knows best.

info. merfolk!yang jungwon x reader, cursing, drinking/drug use, vomiting, brief violence (jungwon scratches reader accidentally), like one suicide/drowing joke, SEX!!! (mermaid and human), cunnilingus, fingering, handjobs, dubcon-ish (brief manipulation of readers mind), blood play, jungwon goes into heat because of the moon, reader has some pubic hair because she's grown, dry humping, lots of spit because it's me, both of them are sexy losers, diary of a wimpy kid mentioned, mostly edited (if you see a typo, mind your business).

length. 30.6k words.

reblogs appreciated! <3

When you were a little girl, hands still soft and eyes wide, your father told you stories of the sea. Its dangers. Its powers. Its beauty, and its mystery. 

These were stories of gods and monsters who resided deep beneath the ocean waves. They were creatures responsible for great disasters and tremendous adventures. He warned you of the sea dragons, that were wise and mischievous—they ruled the sea and were not to be crossed. He warned you of Charybdis, who resided in deep waters and showed no mercy to its victims. However, none of these fascinated you, even at your young age. They were just myths. Stories. Legends. Small tales that helped make sense of a senseless world. 

However, your father never let you speak that way about sirens. 

He loathed them. He said that they were the biggest nuisance of the sea, always scheming and always intervening. Killing. Murdering. And all while singing their song. 

He claims to have seen one once, but he can’t remember much about it. From the little he can recall, and a story you’ve heard maybe a million times before, he says that when he was a young man, he was stationed as a crew hand as many young men at that age are in your small coastal town. And late one night, when half of the crew was asleep and the other half stayed awake, drunk, blubbering on the deck, a piercing note glided through the air. He said it started like a whisper, a sweet lullaby. However, it grew. He still claims to remember how the song crescendoed into a primal lust, one that left him craving the taste of death and salt. When he woke up, the sun was barely cresting over the horizon, and his ears were bleeding. 

He was one of the few spared that night. 

Although your father has long since left the sea behind, retiring in a small house further inland, he still warns you to never walk along the shore at night. The sirens are beautiful, each and everyone. However, they are lethal. And beauty and death can never coexist peacefully. 

But just like the sea dragons and Charybdis, sirens, too, faded into tales of a fictional childhood. You grew, and so did your mind. And just as your frilly socks and toy dolls changed into revealing clothes and drunken parties, your opinions on these stories shifted too. There was no such thing as sirens or merfolk. They were myths. Stories. Tales. 

You would never see one for as long as you lived. 

—

Puke. It smells like fucking puke. 

You hold back Daniela’s hair with one hand, a steely grip on your red solo cup with the other, as she heaves into the sand. You warned her, you really did try. 

“Daniela, you can never keep vodka down. We know this,” you say, but she doesn’t listen. She never fucking listens. 

Every summer, the kids in your town throw a big beach party, starting at sunset and ending at sunrise. It’s always a big to-do, and you and your friends have been going ever since you were old enough. And like any party with young, drunk adults, something worthy of a good story has to happen. 

One year, Jay ran the length of the party butt-ass naked, simply because his friend, Riki, said he wouldn’t. Another year, Jeongyeon and her boyfriend (at the time) had a very public break-up. This year, your friends planned on being the center of attention. 

Your friends had made a bet early on, discussing the plan while you all were still at Yunjin’s house, patting glitter onto your eyelids and double-checking your manicures. The plan was to see who could pull the most people in one night, and whoever had the most points by the end of the night, was the winner. A kiss was five points, sex was twenty. Anything in between varied in amount depending on the circumstance and the length of which it occurred. An ambitious plan, however, a little flirtatious fun never hurt anybody. Just like always, Daniela was on a fucking roll. 

However, zealous as she was with her bets, she could also be overly ambitious when it came to having a good time. And, well, that often ended like this: puking in the sand at the biggest summer party of the year. 

So now you had only kissed three people, and Daniela had kissed four. God knows how many the rest have conquered by now, considering you and Daniela had lost them once you heard someone lugged a keg down to the beach. I mean, seriously. A fucking keg? 

“Sorry,” Daniela slurred, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. 

“It’s okay,” you sighed, taking a sip of your drink in hopes it would relieve you from the smell, if even for just a second. “I told you.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” she huffed, standing up straight. “Do you have a mint?” 

You reached into your back pocket, grabbing a spare piece of gum you had stashed before leaving the house. “I only have two more left. Try not to puke anymore before the night’s over.” 

She grumbled something that probably would rival an Etsy witch’s hex spell, before popping the mint gum in her mouth. You two stood there for a second, gathering yourselves before you spotted your next target. 

Would it be Heeseung? No. He got a girlfriend three months ago and is—allegedly—very loyal to her. Would it be Jake? No. He would never let it go and blow up your DMs. Sunoo? Your dear friend who was always down for a little smooch, especially when he has had about two and a half hard seltzers? Bingo. 

“I’ll be back in twenty. If I’m not back, call the Coast Guard,” you joke, not even bothering to look back as you saunter over to Sunoo. 

He looks good tonight. Exceptionally good. Like really, really good. His shirt was the perfect amount of tight around the shoulders, and his hair was the perfect amount of styled but relaxed. He looks effortlessly handsome. And knowing how unresistant he is to compliments, you figure it would take you five minutes maximum to butter him up, and then, boom, lips locked, and he becomes lucky number four on your roster for tonight. 

Maybe you could convince him to touch your boob—that would have to give you a couple of extra points, right? 

However, before you could plant your cute shorty-short covered butt in front of him, Yunjin stumbles into your view. Her shirt is halfway off and her lipstick is smudged, but other than that, she’s fully intact. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell happened to you?!” you gasp, trying to tug the front of her shirt over her boob. Good thing she was wearing a bikini top underneath, but with the way she was fumbling around, a nip slip was bound to happen. 

“Gimme eight points,” she demands. Gripping your shoulders like her life depends on it. 

Your eyes grow comically wide, the only kind of wide that can be accomplished by drunken surprise. “Why would I do that?” 

“I made out with some dude,” she explained, taking a deep breath to sober herself up. “And let him do some other things, if you know what I mean.” 

“I’m gonna need a better explanation than that,” 

“Whatever,” she groans, shoving you in the opposite direction of Sunoo. “Let’s go take shots and then go swimming. The water is supposed to be nice tonight.” 

And soon, the thoughts of shoving your tongue down Sunoo’s throat were consumed by the taste of tequila chased by some slightly sandy lime wedges. It didn’t bother you, though. After your second shot and the warmth spreading across your cheeks, the sand was only a mere memory. 

Upon knocking out your last shot, you and your friends began to strip yourselves of your clothes, leaving yourselves in your bathing suits. The water was freezing, but to your warm, sweaty bodies, it was the perfect way to cool down. The sea was tranquil, waves glittering under the stars and the moon. The moon was full, as if a god carved out a pale space in the inky sky, and it illuminated the night perfectly. If you were any more sober, you’d perhaps be a bit more curious as to why it was so bright. Too bad you weren’t, though. 

Amongst the squeals and splashing, you found your mind growing very calm. Peaceful. Quiet. The salt breeze tickled your face, as your hair floated in the water around you. You dunk your face under the cold water, waking yourself up slightly. Upon resurfacing and blinking away the brine, you spot a rocky jetty. Has that always been there? Certainly, it must’ve been. A whole row of rocks doesn’t just appear out of nowhere. 

However, amidst the confusion, it seems to be calling your name. It isn’t enticing you with liquor or extra points in your game like everything else has interested you tonight. Instead, it seems like it has a secret it wants to share with you. Only you. 

“I wanna chicken fight,” Yunjin declares, grabbing someone to be her partner. “Do you wanna duel?” she asks you. 

You shake your head, eyes remaining on the jetty that stands darker than the night sky. “No, you guys go ahead. I want to go check out that jetty real quick. I’ll join in on the next round.” 

Yunjin shrugs, climbing on Daniela’s shoulders as she bellows some self-proclaimed war cry. You swim over to the jetty, the current guiding you. Wedging your foot on the flattest rock you could find, you hoist yourself onto the ledge, propelling yourself onto the jetty. Your bottom smacks against the wet rock, droplets of moon-filled water decorating your thighs as you stand and regain your footing. You begin to stagger slowly along the jetty, careful to watch your step in your inebriated state. 

You may be drunk, but you certainly aren’t stupid. 

The pale moon lights your path, warning you against stepping on jagged stones or sharp barnacles that could cut your feet, and highlighting flat rocks that weren’t too slippery from the salty sea. The cool air suddenly grows warmer, but you’re not sure when you begin to feel the change in temperature or if it could be blamed on anything other than the few shots of tequila coursing through your veins. After what feels like hours of wandering—which has probably, realistically, only been about five minutes—you sit back down on a ledge, shifting around to get yourself comfortable as you dip your feet into the water. 

You look down, watching your feet against the deep darkness of the ocean, mesmerized by the little swirls that follow your toes. However, just as you’re captivated by the little currents you’re creating, you fail to recognize the other currents being created around you. 

Head drooped low and eyes fixated, it isn’t until you hear a loud splash do you look up. 

“Yunjin?” you call out. 

The ocean is vast and empty; only the glittering waves keep you company. They’re so pretty, you think. They’re so pretty that you wish someone would write a song about them. 

Then, another splash. You don’t just hear it this time, but you see it too. A small flicker of something shiny pierces through the water, before smacking down aggressively, foam and salt spraying in all directions. You’re not sure what it was. It was far enough away that you couldn’t make out any details, and the fact that your world is currently functioning at an aggressive tilt does not help by any means. 

However, your mind rapidly comes up with the highest possible conclusion: shark. 

You tug your feet out of the water, pleading to the gods that you won’t become the first dead girl in your rendition of Jaws. But yet, unlike any sane person, you remain seated. You know, just in case it actually is a shark and you can end the night by claiming that you saw one. Maybe you can lie and say that it tried to take a nibble out of you. That would certainly have to gain you some points, right? And if not by your friends, certainly other people attending this party would remember you as the girl who fought off a shark all by herself? 

Not a bad way to be remembered—especially this early in your life. 

However, it’s been two minutes. The water has stilled. There is no shark. 

You’re still tense. Slightly afraid to move, and eyes transfixed on the glittering water. You kind of want to jump in again. You know you shouldn’t, of course. There could be a fucking shark just waiting for you to jump in so it can have you as a midnight snack. However, despite all of these red flags flashing through your mind, it seems as if the water is calling your name. It’s calling your name in a sweet, melodic voice. Almost like a little hum. A lullaby. 

If you were in the right mind, you would be able to acknowledge that the this song you hear isn’t a figment of your imagination, but rather a voice. A note rings out, graceful and warm. And because it blends in with the low rumble of the ocean, and you’re currently battling with your alcohol induced brain, it’s easy to disregard the danger that harmonizes softly with the waves. Because at the end of the day, a measly shark fears this tune just as you should too. 

But you’re drunk, and you’re naive. What could a human possibly know about the wonders of the deep blue? 

Just as your eyes stay glued to the water, you feel something take a hold of your ankle. 

This is it, you think. It’s the fucking shark. 

You yelp and push yourself backwards, flinging yourself as far as you can. You don’t make it too far before realizing it’s just a hand. However, that hand hasn’t let go of your ankle, and keeps your foot in place with a strength that your mind is incapable of registering at this moment. All you know is that your foot and that stubborn grip remain. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you huff, wiping your hands down your face as you snap yourself out of whatever trance the water put you into. The song you’ve been hearing is cut into two, an eerie silence following. You think you might’ve just fallen asleep for a second there. “You scared the shit out of me.” 

You giggle as you look down to see who has taken a hold of your ankle, half expecting it to be Daniela or maybe even Sunoo. However, a different pair of eyes stare back at you, and they are ones you wouldn’t say you’re very well acquainted with. 

In fact, you’re not at all acquainted with these eyes. Actually, you don’t know who the fuck this is. 

“Um, hello?” 

The young man just stares, eyes wide and round and bewildered. He looks almost as surprised as you, if not more. He pushes away from the rock a bit, his fingers sliding down the top of your foot as he submerges his mouth into the water. It’s almost as if he’s embarrassed that he scared you. 

Almost. 

“Bro, you scared me so fucking bad. I almost shit myself,” you chuckle, finally letting yourself relax. “I thought you were one of my friends.” 

He blinks, slow and curious like an animal. But then, he lifts his head to show two pink lips, pursed like he’s guarding a secret. “Sorry,” he says, in a voice so gentle and sweet you swear stars twinkle in response. 

Suddenly feeling shy, you shrug and smile coyly. “It’s okay. It was kinda funny.” 

“Funny?” he asks, cocking his head to the side. A strand of wet hair falls across his forehead, a dark streak against pale skin. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “Like, you know, funny. Ha-ha.” 

He nods slowly, mimicking your movement before he smiles softly. It seems like he was genuinely confused. “Yeah. Funny.” 

He’s kind of shy, you decide. When you’re drunk, you’re as social as can be so this just cannot do. But lucky for him, and especially lucky for you, you can keep the ball rolling. 

“Are you from here?” you inquire, scooting closer to the edge. “I haven’t seen you before.” 

The young man swims closer, his hand finding your ankle again but you don’t seem to mind. His grip is gentle, comforting. Besides, he’s kinda hot. 

“No.” 

“Oh?” you hum, peering down at him. He brushes his thumb over the bone, and it almost lulls you to sleep. Whoever this guy is, you like him. “Where are you from?” 

He sighs, light and serene like a morning sea breeze. “Not from here,” he replies, a voice so sweet even birds would stop to listen. 

You roll your eyes, giggling a little. “Well, duh. But where-”

“Do you want to go swimming?” 

Your brain freezes for a second, fog consuming your mind. A warmth fills your body, different from the buzzing warmth of the alcohol—this is sharp, arousing. And you can’t deny it, he’s attractive. You very well could just be turned on, but something whispering in the back of your mind tells you it’s not. It’s more primal, animalistic. Dangerous. Although a part of you is pleading you to not get into the water, reasoning with the fact that he’s a stranger, you can feel yourself burning up from the inside out. 

The song starts once more. 

He strokes your ankle again. “Please?” he says, voice softer than a lamb’s. 

You feel yourself helplessly nodding, submerging your other foot in the water. He begins to help you in, before you remember what—you suspect—was in the water only a few feet behind him. 

“Wait,” you stop. “I saw something earlier. It might’ve been a shark. You should come out.” 

He looks at you, stunned. The song stops. You might as well have spoken a language no one has ever documented. His head cocks sidewise, like a dog hearing a high whistle. 

“There is no shark,” he insists, ceasing any kind of movement. 

You shake your head, feeling as if you’re rediscovering that there’s more around you than this mystery man. “No, I swear I saw something earlier. You didn’t see anything?” 

He just stares at you, eyes wide and mouth dropped open. Would he fucking pull it together? 

“I’m not fucking joking, dude. You should get out,” you berate, panic beginning to creep under your skin.

But he just remains still, shock painting his face from top to bottom. His grip on your ankle stays, but that fuzzy warmth you once felt is ripped away and replaced with freezing sobriety. You’re still frantically searching the water, anticipating a sight of a gnarly fin or menacing jaws to pop out of the water at any second. And although you’d love to have a crazy story to tell, you’re not sure if witnessing ‘death by shark’ is a tale you want to relay. You don’t even know this guy’s name. What would you tell the coast guard? The police? But the water is dark, darker than before. All that stares back at you is a pit of tar, motionless and waiting. Have the stars always been this dim? 

“It’s okay,” he eventually says, stroking your ankle in a tantalizing pattern. “It’s safe. I promise.” 

“I’m not playing, bro. Get out of the-”

Now. You’re sure fireball and vodka don’t mix well, but you’re not too sure that it’s supposed to make you hallucinate. However, that’s the only way you can explain what you’re seeing right now. Just between your leg and the young man’s torso, you spot movement. 

It’s not vicious or menancing—nothing like an animal about to attack. Instead, it’s relaxed. If anything, it moves a bit seductively. The movement is unified, nothing like legs. It’s unified like a tail. You follow the movement upwards, watching it blend into the young man’s hips and torso. It’s his. 

You hope deeply that it’s not a part of him, but the voice of your father, blaringly loud in the back of your head, rings true. These so-called mythical creatures are true. It also just so happens that the man in front of you, with eyes as dark as midnight and lips as pink as a sunset, is no man at all. 

He’s a fucking siren. 

You scream bloody fucking murder, and he jumps. 

“Wait-” he begins, but you’ll hear none of it. 

Kicking and trashing, praying to whatever god that someone will hear you and come to your rescue, you try to fight him off. Water sprays in every direction, salt stinging your eyes and disrupting the once tranquil ocean. Somewhere in your trashing, you kick him square in the face. He lets go of your ankle, hands flying towards his eye, nails slicing through the skin of your calf somewhere in the process. However, you’re too focused on trying to get away to even realize that the scratch was an accident. 

“Help! Fuck, he’s trying to eat me!” you yelp, stumbling to your feet. 

You eventually stand upright, the young man groaning before submerging himself back into the water. However, you waste no time trying to decipher if he’s following you or trying to rally some more of his (supposed) little siren friends. Instead, you bolt. 

Holding your tits steady in your bikini top, you scamper off of the jetty and towards the sandy beach. It’s a miracle you don’t slip on any of the wet rocks, that certainly would’ve been a prime moment for him to snatch you up and eat you. But you hold your own, feet landing onto the soft sand as you sprint over to the crowd. 

You’ve never been more thankful to see another human being in your life. 

Lungs burning and eyes watering, you spot Daniela, who emerges from the crowd like your knight in shining armor. Yunjin and Lara follow, as well as a few other of your friends. Hair still damp from playing in the water, but other than that, unscathed. 

You collapse into Daniela’s arms, chest cramping from lack of oxygen. If you could catch your breath, you would cry. But after such a scare, you’re not sure if you can do anything other than heave. 

“Where the fuck were you?!” Daniela damn near shrieks, cradling you close to her chest like a baby. “We looked everywhere for you.” 

“I-I-I…” you stutter, trying to quiet your pounding heart. “I saw something in the water. I thought it was some guy…” 

“What? Like a dead body?” Yunjin asks, concern furrowing her eyebrows. 

You shake your head vehemently, finally being able to breathe. “Worse. He was talking to me and he was, like, really hot so I didn’t really think anything of it. But then I was getting all warm and he was trying to get me into the water. But then I looked down and he didn’t have any fucking legs. He had like—I don’t know—a tail? I couldn’t-” 

Lara scoffs in disbelief, shaking her head slowly as she narrows her eyes at you. “You’re really drunk.” 

You throw your hands down, petulant like a child bubbling with a tantrum. “I’m not lying, Lara!” 

“Yo, what the fuck happened to your leg?” Sunoo inquires, pointing towards your calf as he stands near Heeseung. 

Daniela spins your shoulders a bit, forcing you to show off the backside of your leg. Sure enough, five red gashes, varying in depth and vibrancy, slowly drip blood down your heel and into the sand. You don’t even remember it happening, memory blocked in a panic. However, maybe it’s the adrenaline or the cleanliness of the cuts, but you hardly even notice them safe for the warmth that dribbles down your shivering skin. 

“Are you fucking serious?” Daniela curses, beginning to usher you through the crowd and towards, you presume, your house. “You disappear, without a word, and now you're saying shit about some random dude or whatever? Your dad is going to fucking kill me,”

Yunjin laughs, jogging to keep up with you and Daniela as she storms you across the beach. “I didn’t take you for a runner,” she snickers.  

“I’m not a runner!” you argue. “I told you where I was going!” 

Daniela stops, as do all of your friends, with an unimpressed look on their faces. 

“No, one second you were in the water with us and the next you were gone. We didn’t even hear you leave,” Daniela says, the moon taunting you through the ringlets of her hair. 

—

Safe to say, you’re a little scared to go back to the beach. 

Daniela was quick to wrap up your little injury, and you were able to brush off your mom’s inquisitive looks during your weekly Sunday brunch with a simple lie. However, you can’t help but feel like something is still out there, waiting for you. Looking for you. 

Nearly a week has passed, and every night, you see him. Dark hair, and even darker eyes shaped just like crescent moons that observed your every step. Sometimes, he pulls you into the water and tries to drown you. Sometimes, you two just have a lovely chat. Everytime, you wake up gasping, lungs feeling like they’ve been filled with water and calf tingling despite healing without complication. On one occasion, you woke up standing before your window, hands pressed against the glass like you were trying to wish it away. You asked if Lara could sleep over the next night. 

But despite the pounding heart and paranoia, you still feel this pull. Every night, when the moon creeps through your curtains and touches your face, you remember his thumb against your ankle. You can hear the melodic lilt in his voice. 

You don’t even know his name or, frankly, what he really is, but you feel drawn to him. 

And maybe that’s stupid. Scratch that, it’s definitely stupid. Especially when you remember how you felt as if you had no control over your body at certain points in your conversation with him. But you were drunk! Surely, that wouldn’t ever happen again if you were sober… right? 

It’s ridiculous to even be having these thoughts, and to be hoping to catch a glimpse of something splashing in the water as you watch the waves cresting from your porch. But you can’t help but wonder, despite trying your hardest to deprive yourself of that urge. 

So in order to fully stick to your rules, you haven’t been going to the beach. In part because you’re afraid of getting attacked again or whatever, and mostly because you’re not sure of what you would do if you saw him again. 

It’s embarrassing having to lie to your friends, dodging every attempt of theirs to drag you down to the beach. I picked up a shift at work; my dad wants me to come over for dinner; I forgot to turn in a paper despite the semester ending two weeks ago. They all see right through your lies, and you know it, but they don’t push. 

They don’t really know what happened that night, and despite feeling like you remember every detail and explaining your side of the story a million times over, you’re not quite sure if you actually know what you’re talking about. Either way, they don’t push and hope that, eventually, you’ll come around. 

Besides, it’s summer! You can’t stay cooped inside for forever!

And they're right, because by the fifth day, you’ve had enough. 

You can only binge watch so many episodes of Love Island before the incessant drama begins to rot away your brain. All of the arguing and crying only forces you to think about your own current dilemma. Unable to ignore it any longer, you decide it’s time for you to face your fear. 

You step outside, the air still slightly cool from the morning breeze. The sea is calm, glistening in the mid morning sun. The beach is fairly barren, only a few people taking their dogs on a morning stroll. The sun is high in the sky, and you can hear the waves crashing into the sand like a faint whisper from your balcony. 

Today is the day. It’s nice out, the sun is shining. Nothing could go wrong. 

You trudge down to the beach, walking towards the same jetty where you met that strange… whatever. You face the jetty, hands growing a bit clammy, but other than that, you’re killing this! A few deep breaths, and you have this totally under control! As a matter of fact, you have it so under control, that you decide that you can even walk out to the jetty. 

And walk out you do! 

The rocks are a little cool, not yet warmed by the afternoon sun. You carefully watch your step, not wanting to slip and fall into the ocean below. The water is calm, only lightly spraying your feet and ankles when a wave abruptly hits the side of the jetty. If you really think about it, the tickle of the seafoam on your legs is like the sea is apologizing for that night… in a way. 

See, this isn’t too bad. Nothing to be afraid of. 

Maybe you were making shit up—just like your friends suggested. You were pretty drunk, after all. Perhaps, you fell asleep on the jetty and conjured some crazy dream, in which you injured yourself while thrashing around. It certainly wouldn’t exactly explain why the cuts are the perfect size and distance of human—or human-like—fingers. Maybe they’re from teeth? You can’t really remember. But does it really matter? 

You’re safe. The water is calm. It’s a nice day, and you’re only a few weeks into your summer break! You should be able to enjoy it. 

Things are beginning to look up for you. The five angry lines down your calf are healing, and hopefully, walking out to the exact same spot where you saw this alleged siren-merman- whatever will help with the nightmares and sleepwalking. You’ll finally be able to feel like yourself, and enjoy your summer. Parties, beach trips, and getting drunk with your friends is in your imminent future. 

At least until you realize that the same set of slender eyes that you nearly drowned in those days ago is staring back at you, curious and observant through a purple bruise that blooms across his left cheek. 

Of course, you scream bloody murder. 

It’s just like last time, really,  except he doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t try to grab you, nor does he try to eat you. Instead, he flinches and covers his ears and waits for you to stop. The worst he does is give you an annoyed glare, but that’s about it. On the other hand, you fall flat on your ass out of fear, flailing and praying to whatever god that might be listening to let you walk out of this alive. 

Eventually, you get a grip and are able to quiet down. Chest heaving and hands trembling, you stare at him, the seat of your shorts soaked with sea water the longer you remain paralyzed on your ass. He continues to stare at you, the bottom half of his face submerges, leaving only his eyes remaining. They never leave yours, and you’ll be damned if yours leave his. 

As it turns out, your screaming was pointless. No one comes running to save you, no one asks what’s wrong. You're not even sure if the world blinked at your unease. However, he did. 

The young whatever-he-is slowly removes his hands from his ears, swimming a hair closer, hesitant, as he takes his face out of the water. He’s just as handsome as you remember, maybe even more, now that you can see him better in the morning light. Water drips from his chin and his lips are set in a small frown, displeased with your sudden outburst. 

“You’re loud,” he mutters, eyes squinting. 

Your heart is still pounding, and your toes curl reflexively as he moves closer. You’re not sure. You should’ve probably threatened him—told him you had a knife or something. Maybe even said you told the coast guard about him, and they were ready to come pick him up at any minute. Goodbye, Mister Mystery-Creature! 

But, of course, you say no such thing. 

“You fucking bit me!” you shriek, suddenly pulling down your bandage to reveal five angry lines, even and deep but healing nonetheless. 

He cocks his head to the side, his eyebrows quirking upwards. “I didn’t bite you. You kicked me,” he retorts. 

“Because you bit me!” 

“I scratched you,” he answers plainly, his hands coming into view as he places them on the jetty, mere inches away from your feet. He makes no move to grab at them and pull you under. “You kicked me, and I scratched you. It was an accident. I’m sorry.” 

And this guy, whoever or whatever he is, says all of this like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Plain as day, pure as milk. He’s still looking at you, eyes wide and easy, still rich like a midnight sky but you can see the sun cresting in his irises, and you finally feel your heart calm. 

His eyes begin to wander, sliding down your neck and chest, and eventually landing on your legs. He observes the scratch marks, certainly better than they were even just a few days ago, but still a bit irritated. But then his eyes just stay there, eyebrows furrowing in confusion and wonder as his eyes scan up and down the length of your legs. Legs, knees, ankles, feet, toes—and back up. 

While he takes his time analyzing you, you look closer at him. He looks… normal. The face of someone about your age. His cheeks are smooth, cheekbones proud. Strands of his hair stick to his forehead, just like they did the night you met him, spelling out something maybe you’ll one day understand. His mouth is pursed in concentration, a whisper of a dimple showing itself next to his pink pout. His eyebrows are dark and straight, and his nose hooks slightly, although you can’t tell from the front. Overall, a very handsome man. 

Moving from his face, you can’t really find anything abnormal from what you can see. Well, except for his hands. 

His hands are normal, fingers slender and long like a human's, except for the damn near set of acrylics he has. Sharp and clean, just like claws, but also neutral and thinner like human nails. Seeing them in the daylight like this makes you understand why the damage you suffered was so great. 

“Damn, dip and tip!” you exclaim, forgetting all about the nearly debilitating fear you felt a moment ago. Swinging your legs under you, you grab his hand in yours, observing his nails up close. 

The young man squeaks, a floundering sound that bubbles up from his chest. His hands are even prettier up close, his nails a light shade of pearl as they file into a point, despite not being too long. He doesn’t try to pull away, nor does he try to pull you down under. He remains very still, like a dog waiting to see what you’ve plucked from their fur. 

“They’re very sharp,” you say, stating the obvious. 

“Yours are… not.” 

You chuckle, letting go of his hand when you become seemingly aware of how strange that must’ve been. Not that this is really normal anyway. “What… are you… exactly?” 

He tosses his head back, flicking any hair that was stuck to his forehead away from his face. “Same as you, but different,” he responds, resisting his cheek in his palm. 

You shake your head incredulously. “You have a tail. We’re very different.” 

He shrugs, moving positions so he can rest against a rock—a makeshift seat. You glimpse at his torso, collarbones glistening in the early morning light. You imagine that swimming in salt water all the time would dry out his skin, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. In fact, his skin looks rather smooth. His tail, long and decorated in shades of silver and blue that glisten like a cresting wave when the sunlight hits, stretches out in front of him. It twitches under your stare. 

“Depends on what story you hear. Some say sirens, some say merman,” he explains, eyes returning to your face after thoroughly inspecting your legs. “You can say whatever you prefer.” 

“And which do you prefer?” 

He thinks, long and hard, as his eyes flick upwards to search for the answer. “Jungwon.” 

You blink. “The fuck is Jungwon?” 

“My name,” he giggles, a sound sweet and friendly like a strawberry dipped in sugar. “Jungwon.” 

—

As it turns out, Jungwon is very interesting. 

You’re not sure when it became a regular thing for you to see him—it’s not something the two of you ever really discussed—but each day, without fail, you two meet up every morning. Sometimes you two just watch each other in peaceful silence, soaking in every difference and similarity. It’s not every day you run into a siren, and you can imagine Jungwon isn’t seeing humans on the regular either. Unless, he is. You’ll have to ask him. 

But because he doesn’t know any humans, other than you—you think—he tends to have a lot of questions. 

Jungwon has asked you if it’s hard to control your legs—you assume it’s because there’s two, instead of one like his tail; he’s also asked questions like what do humans eat, what do they do for fun, and why do they swim so weirdly. Of course, you answer to the best of your ability, but sometimes it’s hard to explain. So instead, you show him. 

When you told him that humans eat mostly anything they want, he didn’t believe you. But when you brought a bag of goodies for him to try, you barely got a chance to eat the gummies you brought before he devoured them. You told him what you did for fun, and even let him play around with your phone after he dried his hands off. You would’ve entertained him with swimming, but you were still a bit weary of him. The cuts on your leg were still healing, after all. 

But despite how eager you were to answer any and all of his questions, you were a bit shy to ask your own. 

“What were you doing the night we met?” Jungwon asks, nibbling on a pineapple flavored gummy bear while you lazily scanned a book your father lent you on aquatic folklore. It was a bit difficult to explain your sudden interest to your father, especially after finding it trivial your whole life, but years of pretending to not be drunk in dire situations led you to be quite the actress. 

“Excuse me?” you ask, thumbing the page. 

Jungwon turns to fully face you, chin resting on his forearms. You wonder if they have hand-held weights wherever he lives—-his biceps are, well, nice. 

“Why were you at the beach so late the night we met?” he asks again, lazily tracing the marbled grain of a rock. 

You shrug, shoving the book in your bag. Hopefully he didn’t catch the title. “There’s a big party on the beach every summer. I go every year,” you explain, reaching out your palm in hopes that he’ll let you eat the snack that you brought. 

“A party?” 

You nod as he places a singular gummy bear in your hand. Stingy. “Yeah, like a gathering of people. Where you have fun,” 

“I know what a party is,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I just forgot the word.” 

“Oh,” you nod. You don’t know why it is surprising to you that he had a lapse of memory, but you sort of just assumed that Jungwon had always spoken and understood your language. “Do you speak something else at home?” 

He averts his gaze towards the water, looking over the ripples of waves as the early morning light glints off their crests. Suddenly feeling like you had overstepped, you try to dismiss the question in a flurry of gestures and sour faces. 

His eyes trace back towards you, amusement hidden beneath his deep eyes. “Yeah. I don’t talk like how I talk with you back home,” he answers plainly. 

You absorb this new information, willing yourself to relax a bit. “What do you speak then?” you wonder. 

Jungwon purses his lips, eyes roaming towards the sky as if the answer will be etched into the clouds. “I don’t really think there’s a human equivalent.” 

“Why can you talk like me then?” you implore, mind flowing with questions you had been too shy to ask previously. 

He smiles, finding your questions endearing. Jungwon wonders if this is how you feel when he asks you questions about humans—warm. Cute. 

“I’ve read it on boats, heard it from sailors,” he responds, reaching for the bag of gummy bears. He pushes a green one between two pink lips. “Merfolk are good with sounds. It’s not too hard to learn.” He watches you nod thoughtfully, gears turning many miles a minute. He kind of wishes he could walk through your mind. At least for an hour. “Is it not the same for humans?” 

You shake your head, giggling. “No, it takes humans a while to learn new languages,” you say, turning to lay on your side comfortably. “Some can learn in a few years though.” 

This baffles Jungwon, that pinch at the top of his nose forming that you have begun to grow acquainted with. “Humans really are stupid.” 

You shove his head under the water. 

—

Ever since that day with Jungwon, your relationship has become a lot easier. Strange. But easier. 

He waits for you like always, sunning himself on the rocks before retreating a little further into the water when you arrive as if he’s shy. Shy of what? You’re not sure. You’d rather him stay sunning himself—you rather enjoy the view. However, it doesn’t take long before he starts to cozy up against the jetty again once you two begin your early morning check ups. 

You’ve actually learned a lot about Jungwon these past few days. Not only about him, but about merfolk. Merfolk travel in groups, like orcas or tuna. Usually it’s confined to family, according to Jungwon, but you’re allowed to interact with merfolk outside of your kin. Blushing, he admits that typically one only travels outside of the pack when finding a mate—which you teased him relentlessly about—but there’s no strict rules on not interacting with someone outside of a familial pod. Sort of like interacting with strangers on the street—it’s not that it’s not allowed, it just might be a little strange. That is, of course, unless you’re looking to date or exchange numbers or make out in the back of some dingy bar. 

He also explains that it’s hard to know where to locate merfolk. There are some established colonies, but those are in places humans have yet to discover. You could go your whole life without seeing another pod, you suppose. However, many familial pods live further out at sea. 

“Why were you so close to the shore that night then?” you ask, doodling on the corner of some magazine you brought to show Jungwon. He took only a slight interest, preferring to learn from you than some paper. 

“Lost track of where I was, I guess.” 

And that was that. But Jungwon says he has friends and family, and tells you that merfolk are definitely on the higher end of the food chain—so don’t get it twisted!—but he mainly tells you that after you expressed concern that he would get eaten by a shark and you would never see him again. 

“Merfolk are smarter than sharks, I’ll be fine,” he dismisses, eyeing your legs like he’s done many times before. You’re not too sure why he hasn’t asked you about them yet. He’s asked you about nearly everything else, besides the obvious. 

“But sharks are, like, really fast,” you explain, as if you know better than him. Mind you, the ocean is literally his home. 

He eyes you for a second, a teasing glint in his eye surfacing slowly but surely. “Do you want to see me fight a shark?” 

You flick him in the forehead, which he whines before he flicks you back. “Don’t be weird.” 

Jungwon tells you that merfolk and humans aren’t really supposed to interact. Obviously, there’s been a history of encounters—there’s too many stories for them to be fictional like you once believed—but it’s still frowned upon. Many merfolk have been hurt or exploited, even killed in some instances by humans. You promised Jungwon that you would never do that to him. He believes you. 

However, Jungwon never really addresses the elephant in the room. Of course, there are many cultural and behavioral differences. And don’t get it wrong, you enjoy learning about them. They’re fascinating! You would’ve never imagined a whole different world beyond the one you know. Hell, you didn’t even think a world like Jungwon’s existed before you met him! Even then you were in denial. But what you really want to know about are your physical differences. 

To be fair, Jungwon is curious about them too. He eyes your legs and feet and toes every time he sees you. He watches your mouth carefully, inspecting the lack of fangs and the lack of webbing between your fingers. It baffles him, and it certainly baffles you. But you know Jungwon. He won’t be the one to ask—he gets shy about these things. So it’s going to have to be you. 

Bite the bullet, jump off the cliff, and ask what the hell it’s like having a fish tail. 

One morning, when the sun was still low and the sky not yet a bright orange, you decide to ask while Jungwon rests across a rock, lazing about as usual. He’s not really a morning person, something you learn the more and more you two see of each other. Perhaps the excitement has disappeared. Or perhaps, the comfortability has set in. 

His tail, a brilliant silver and an even richer shade of cobalt, wades leisurely in the water behind him. You watch his back rise and fall, his eyes shut and mouth in a pink pout from being pressed against his arm. He looks peaceful. Calm. Cute. What better way to ruin it by asking an obnoxious question?

“Can I touch your tail?”

Jungwon’s back stills, his whole body going rigid to the point that you are reminded that he is part animal. He lifts his head slowly, a bright red circle imprinted on his cheek from laying on it for too long. You almost want to laugh, but the look he gives you—wild and confused—makes you think better of it. After the seventh second of straight silence, you decide to back track. 

“Or your hands?” What. “Or your teeth?” Worse. “Or just anything that isn’t really human-like for that matter?” What the fuck is wrong with you. 

Jungwon is so genuinely stunned that you’re not even sure if he’s breathing anymore. He shakes his head, tiny droplets of water falling from his hair that never seems to fully dry. Jungwon begins to think a crab crawled into his ear because he can not believe what he’s hearing. 

“You want to touch my tail?” 

He’s making you nervous. “Sorry, was that offensive to ask? I don’t really know how to go about this.” 

He’s still quiet, something you’ve never known from Jungwon. Comfortable silence is one thing, and you two quite enjoy existing together in that way. However, once you say something, Jungwon always responds. Not now. 

“I just…” you begin, slowing once you notice his gaze. 

Jungwon’s eyes are sleek, narrow and lidded as if he’s stalking his next victim. And you’ve never seen Jungwon hunt—you don’t know if he’s good or bad at it—but you imagine this is what it must feel like to be his prey. Tense, shaken, maybe a little bit aroused—you don’t know! You don’t know if fish can feel that way. But you certainly do. 

His eyes never leave your face, watching carefully for any abrupt changes. It feels alarming to have him look this intensely at you. Of course, he knows what you look like. He’s seen you plenty. However, you’ve never felt as observed as you do now. Even when he eyes your legs or listens to you blab on about something unimportant, you never felt watched. Except for now. 

Suddenly feeling as if all the air in the outside world was sucked up and being sold for a billion dollars—which, of course, you can’t afford—you grow very still. You might as well never breathe again at this rate, especially if he keeps looking at you like that. You need to bring yourself back down to Earth, and hopefully bring him with you too. 

“You just always look at my legs, and I know you’re probably curious, so… I don’t know. I thought it could be fun? That sounds stupid. Um, what I mean is that we’re obviously biologically different. And not ‘cause you’re a boy and I’m girl, but because I’m a human and you’re… not. So, I thought, what better way to understand each other more than to explore each other’s bodies?” 

You definitely deserve to drown after that shit show. 

Jungwon’s mouth parts, and you’re sure it’s to call you a slew of embarrassing names, but instead he says: “You can touch my tail.” 

He makes no fuss, only maneuvering himself so he can lay himself on a rock, his tail and fins resting across the jetty. He’s mostly submerged in the water, but this is the closest you’ve been to his tail. It’s actually quite pretty. 

“Can I touch you?” he asks, and in any other circumstance, the question would prompt you to joke that he’s some sort of pervert. But when he looks at you like that, eyes shiny and imploring, so gentle and sweet, you’re rendered silent. You almost wish you could take him home with you. You don’t almost wish, you do wish it, but that would be impossible. 

“Hell yeah,” you say, beginning to rip off your shorts to reveal your bikini bottoms that you always wear in case you decide today is the day you swim around with Jungwon. Show him a little freestyle or breast stroke! Well, you guess today is the day. 

You slide into the small wedge of space next to Jungwon, not quite sitting across from him, but hovering between his fins and torso. Your knee bumps against his waist, murmuring a quick sorry, as he helps guide you into the water. The water is cold, but that’s not why you have goosebumps. 

He holds your elbow gently, only letting go once he’s sure you’re steady and comfortable. He looks at you, waiting and expecting, eyes drifting between your own and your hands that hold your legs close to your body. 

Unbeknownst to you as to why, but you’re nervous. You’ve never been this close to Jungwon before, and you’ve certainly never seen his body this well. 

Usually he keeps himself fairly submerged, the water distorting his tail and creating hypnotizing lines across his chest. If he’s not submerged, he’s laying with his back facing upwards, which, of course, you don’t mind. His back is nice. It’s broad. And very muscular. And defined. Some might even say sexy. But you're beginning to like the idea of seeing his torso too.

He keeps one hand resting on his stomach, the other resting on a rock near your shoulder. He’s really good looking. Really good looking, like, go-to-war-for-that-face good looking. To make matters worse, he’s still looking at your complexion, watching your every move, reassuring himself that you’re not uncomfortable. 

“You don’t have to…” he whispers, chuckling slightly. He’s not sure why he whispers, but he feels that if he should speak any louder, this moment between you would be broken. And Jungwon definitely wants to preserve this moment for as long as he can. 

“I want to, just,” you sigh, eyes drifting from his tail to his face. He looks at you with such interest that you almost begin to thank the sea for giving you your very own pearl. “I’m shy.” 

He giggles, leaning a bit closer to you. “You're shy?” 

You nod. “I’m shy.” 

He hums again, a sound so melodic you finally understand why you almost dove into the water for him that first night. His smile is sweet and soft as he taps your shoulder mercifully. “Come here,” he says, taking your smaller hand in his. “I’ll do it with you.”

He pulls your hand under the cool water, directing it towards the top of his tail. It’s nothing like you imagined. You pictured it to be a bit rougher—sort of like when you run your hands along those color changing sequin pillows; it’s nothing like that. It’s smoother than you expected, only a small ridge felt whenever you glide your hand upwards along the scales. He stays very still, almost not breathing for the sake of not scaring you off. 

Your hand creeps a bit higher, towards his hips and his abs instinctively flex. He hopes you don’t notice, but of course you do. Thank god you’re already in the water or else another kind of wetness would be quite noticeable. 

You decide to leave him alone, noticing the curl of his lips that he only gets when he’s a little embarrassed and agree to focus your attention on the fin that rests next to your torso. It’s quite large, certainly larger than your head. The blue becomes lighter, more of a sky blue than the royal blue that stripes along his side, as it fans along the length of his fin. The tips of his fin curl gently inwards, more like a dolphin than the pet goldfish you had growing up. It’s cute. 

“You can relax, you know,” you huff a giggle, catching his eyes as he watches your every movement. 

Jungwon releases whatever breath he was holding, a nervous laugh following soon after. His hands finding your calf, the same one he scratched weeks ago. He traces the faint scar with his nail, a whisper of a touch that you’re no longer intimidated by. 

“Is this okay?” he asks. Of course, you nod. 

You two stay like that for awile: in the silence, feeling along each other. His hands glide over your skin, and yours slide along his scales. A new exploration that you’re sure millions would die to experience, and not even because he’s a creature of myths but because he’s so undeniably handsome it kind of makes you wonder if he’s even real. 

A slight tug on your pinky toe pulls you out of your admiration, squirming a bit as he tickles your foot unintentionally. “What does this even do?” he says, bringing your foot right in front of his face. “It’s so small.” 

“It’s supposed to help with balance or something,” you chuckle. He rotates your ankle in all the ways it can go, mesmerized by the flexibility of a singular joint. 

“How? It’s so tiny.” 

You fail to suppress a giggle as his finger runs along the sole of your foot, causing your leg to kick out a nearly hit him in the face. He narrowly escapes—another—black eye, wrestling your leg back into the water and pressing it between his ribs and arm, as if it were a sea snake trying to attack him. 

“What?” 

“It tickles.” 

He snorts, eyes carving into sweet crescent moons that shine even under the bright sun. “You don’t see me complaining," he says, a slight snobiness in his voice. Certainly you couldn’t have taught him that. 

“I’m sorry,” you reply, insincerely. “Am I hurting you?” you question, a bit more genuine than your previous statement as you readjust the strength with which you were touching his tail. 

Jungwon shakes his head, beginning to run his hand up and down your knee, clearly captivated by the jut of bone that protrudes when it bends. “You could never hurt me,” he reassures softly. 

“I literally kicked you in the face that one time,” you scoff. 

He smiles cutely, his dimples putting on a pretty show just for you. “Better than being slapped with a fin,” he replies, making a face to show you that he’s definitely been slapped by a fin before and it definitely hurt. 

The more you know Jungwon, the better his speech becomes. But because Jungwon sometimes doesn’t recognize certain words that you say, you suspect that this is the first time he’s had to learn another language; only to discover that he’s fluent in several languages, some human and some not. Apparently, there are nearly a thousand different merfolk dialects, all of which are easy to pick up for other merfolk. 

“Wait, I want to try.” 

“You’re not going to be able to understand,” Jungwon says plainly, peeking one eye open as he rests his head on his arms. You guess he also gets sleepy in the morning. 

“Try me.” 

Jungwon sits up, making room for your legs as you scooch forward and dip your feet into the water. He narrows his eyes at you, their pretty, round shape becoming taunting slits as he contemplates if this is a secret he wants to let you in on. 

“Fine,” he sighs, ignoring it when your ankle bumps against his hip, instead wrapping his fingers around it as if to anchor himself. 

“I’m actually really smart, Jungwon. I don’t know why you don’t believe me,” you scoff. 

He giggles, the sun bouncing off of his eyes and warming them to a thrilling degree. “Maybe because you said swordfish and barracuda’s are basically the same thing,” he explains. 

“Key word: basically,” you groan, flicking water at him with your foot. He barely flinches. “C’mon! I want to learn.” 

Jungwon sighs, splashing a little bit of water against your leg since he can never let you win before he speaks. Whatever the hell he says, you can’t even begin to guess. It’s a series of clicks, whistles, and purrs—a language so fluid and ancient that it's pointless to try to follow. It pours from his mouth just like a quiet stream, a sound so wise and inviting. It’s a short sentence, whatever it is that he says, and he looks at you expectantly, his eyes wide and shiny just like the early morning waves. He almost looks shy. 

You’re breathless. 

“Does that mean ‘I want more gummy bears’ or something?” you guess, which causes Jungwon to laugh so loudly you’re afraid your secret might be shared. “Seriously, what does that mean?” 

He hums, and you almost think it’s another phrase in his mother tongue before he sends you that cheeky smile. “I told you that you wouldn’t understand,” he smiles. 

You want to wipe that dimple off his face. Or better yet, steal it and put it in your pocket. “I hate you,” you groan, wiping your hands down your face in frustration. “Can’t you just tell me?” 

He hums again. “I'll tell you when you’re ready.” 

—

After a while, the morning schedule grew to be a bit too demanding. You and Jungwon kept falling asleep, often waking up covered in brine and suntanned limbs that weren’t always yours, but welcome nonetheless. However, because of your unexpected slumber, you began to miss the time you spent talking with him. Turns out, Jungwon did too, as he’s the one to suggest that you two meet up later in the day, when the beach goers return home for dinner. You couldn’t have come up with a better plan yourself. 

After spending the day in the blazing sun with your friends, shopping in an outdoor mall and spending all of the weekly budget you set aside for yourself, you’re more than happy to jump into the water for a swim in your new bikini. 

Jungwon watches you as you leisurely paddle about, ignoring as his eyes burn your skin despite the refreshing water. He pushes off the jetty and glides over to you, his tail trailing behind him much more gracefully than your flailing legs. And it’s not even that you’re a bad swimmer—you’re actually pretty decent—but next to Jungwon, you might as well be a piece of plastic floating next to a sweet little jellyfish. 

“Let me help,” he says, reaching for your hands as he begins to notice you growing tired of treading water. 

You push him with no real force, trying to swim away playfully as if your muscles aren’t begging for some reprieve. “I can swim fine, thank you,” you insist, kicking water up in hopes of annoying him. 

But Jungwon, ever the most patient, doesn’t give in. “I know you can swim fine,” he reassures. “But still, let me help you.” 

He doesn’t wait for your response before tugging you towards him by your ankle. You flip on your back, floating helplessly in the water as he holds your foot to his chest. He’s warm, unlike most sea creatures—at least, you assume—letting you feel the steady drum of his heart under the sole of your foot. It picks up slightly when you flash him a breathless smile, but you choose to ignore it for his sake. He can get quite bashful, you’ve begun to learn after the countless times you've caught him staring. 

“You caught me,” you sigh, deciding to relax and let him take over. This is his domain after all. 

He lightly pulls you towards him, letting go of your foot and instead hooking his arms around your waist. You drape your arms over his broad shoulders, trying your hardest not to think about how sturdy he feels under your palms. The flex of his shoulder muscle was definitely tempting—dare you say delicious—but alas, one must persist! 

“I caught you,” he smiles, so close that your noses almost brush. However, it only lasts a brief second before he blushes and turns away, pretending there is something far more interesting on the left of you. You’re sure that the seagull that has been floating a few yards away for the last five minutes is not more captivating than you—if his glances are anything to go by—but you’ll ignore it. For now. “Relax. I got you.” 

And relax, you do. Your arms and legs are spent from swimming around. So much for cooling off! Resting your head on Jungwon’s shoulder, you let the water decorating his skin cool the heat bubbling in your face. You hope he’s too absorbed in whatever it is he’s staring at to notice. 

It doesn’t matter if he does notice anyway, you think. It’s not like anything would come of it. Seriously, he’s a whole different creature. There’s no world in which that could possibly fly. But for now, you’ll enjoy what you have and make the most of it. 

“Is this okay?” you ask, more worried that he’s now holding up your entire bodyweight rather than your proximity to one another. 

He nods, tucking his face in your neck, inhaling your scent. You’re sure you smell like the sea, but you’re also sure that he doesn’t mind. He literally lives in the ocean. “I like being close to you,” he says, as if it isn’t the most devastating thing for you to hear. But before you can even open your mouth to ask what he means, he swerves towards a different conversation. “What do you do when you’re not here with me?” 

You lean back, now met with those same pair of eyes that consistently sweep you off your feet—literally. Jungwon leans away from you too, eyes flickering back and forth like he can’t decide where he would prefer to focus. It’s cute. 

“Depends,” you reply, pushing his wet hair away from his forehead. He attempts to swat your hand away but fails. It’s not like he was really trying either way. “Sometimes I work, sometimes I go to my parents’ house. Most of the time, I’m with my friends if I’m not with you.” 

“What are your parents like?” 

“My mom’s cool,” you answer. You like when he asks you questions like this. It makes you feel like you can bring a piece of him with you when you leave the beach—almost as if he’s a regular human man and you’re a regular woman, just hanging out with her friend. Friend? Situationship? No. That sounds stupid. “My dad is kind of weird, though. I don’t know if you two would get along.” 

Jungwon cocks his head to the side, confused. “Why not?” 

You shrug, trying to think of the least creepy way to confess that your dad is very obsessed with sea creatures. “He just is.” 

That’ll have to do. Jungwon nods, although he seems unsatisfied. 

“What about your parents?” 

Jungwon sighs, his fingers tracing swirls along the small of your back. It tickles, but you don’t mind. A funny look crosses his face, as if he’s hiding something from you, but you won’t pry. You like watching him think. Whenever Jungwon is deep in thought, he tends to purse his lips in a perfectly kissable way and look up towards the sky, as if the clouds will sketch out the answer for him. It never works, and he always ends up having to use his brain power instead. It’s still endearing nonetheless. 

“My mom and dad are a little afraid of humans,” he admits. “They wouldn’t understand why I like spending time with you so much.” 

“Oh,” you nod slowly, digesting this new information. Afraid of humans. “Why?” 

“I don’t know how to put it,” he confesses, tugging you a little closer like he’s worried you’ll back away if he says the wrong thing. You begin to draw the same pattern on his shoulder, and that seems to calm him a little if the swish of his tail is anything to go by. “I guess it’s just unfamiliarity. The only times they interact are typically on a full moon, and that’s usually a dangerous time for both of us. I guess I’m lucky that you’re the only human I know.” 

You shoot him a bewildered look, one that stops him cold. “Why is it dangerous?” 

The swirls on your back stop, and Jungwon’s spine grows rigid, every bit the animal side of him you’re very well aware of whenever he asserts his strength over you or you catch sight of the gills on his side. “Let’s talk about something else.” 

You nod, looking away from his suddenly stoic expression. Dangerous? You can understand why humans and merfolk don’t interact much for a series of reasons—fishing, poaching, oil spills… Besides, you’re not too sure humans would be all too kind to merfolk if they were to spot one in broad daylight. However, during the full moon? Why hadn’t he mentioned that to you before? It has been nearly a month since you’ve known Jungwon, and you’ve seen him nearly every day since that fateful night—safe for maybe twice when you caught a bizarre summer flu. Would he have told you if it weren’t for this conversation? 

“What do you like to do with your friends?” he asks, trying to catch your eyes. 

You flinch, suddenly scaring yourself with all of the possibilities of what his previous statement might mean. But when you look into his eyes, deeper than twilight, you know that he would never hurt you. Sure, he’s stronger. He’s faster. His nails are kind of sharp, and some of his teeth file into a point. However, he’s always been gentle with you. Soft spoken and kind. The sweetest out of anyone or anything you’ve ever met. And suddenly, you feel like crying for ever doubting Jungwon’s care for you. He always remembers everything you say, and asks questions the best he can, even if he doesn’t understand. He listens like it’s his lifeline, his duty, and watches you closely to make sure you don’t hurt yourself or aren’t growing tired of spending time with him. You think he might be the nicest person you’ve ever met, despite giving you that scar on your calf. But it’s something to remember him by; it’s a piece of him you can take with you. You know him, and he sure as hell knows you. 

Reaching upwards, you delicately trace the underside of his jaw. His eyes widen slightly, shocked by your bold movement, but he melts into it as if he can’t help it. You wish you could watch him melt over and over again. He leans into your hand, chasing the touch and sighs, an airy sound that you would totally make fun of him for if you weren’t also completely invested in this moment. 

“Talk. Just like we do,” you answer simply, poking the small freckle on the side of his chin. 

He smiles softly, holding you even tighter if possible. “I hope you don’t talk with them exactly like how we talk,” he huffs, pouting. 

God, you could kiss it off. Focus!

“Not exactly,” you reassure, allowing your eyes to wander to his mouth for a split second. You hope the triangle method hasn’t also infected the seven seas, and that the merfolk when Jungwon comes from are unaware of what it could mean. “We go out to eat, go to parties… sleepovers,” you sigh. “I like spending time with you more, though.” 

Jungwon hopes you can’t notice, but he thinks his heart just skipped a beat before slamming against his ribcage. “Really?” he wonders. 

You nod shyly, entranced by every small curve and line of his face. Jungwon follows your lead, examining every detail that makes you whole, and pretending as if he hasn’t been discreetly doing that the entire time. 

One thing about you is that you’re usually always very composed. Very focused. He never watches your eyes wander, whereas he can’t seem to stop looking at you. He loves watching the way your lips form when you talk, when you smile, and he loves watching you think and nap and swim—despite it looking kind of funny to him—and how you breathe. Nothing you could do would be boring to him. You’re always interesting. He wonders how you do it. 

“Can I see you tomorrow?” he asks abruptly, as if he doesn’t see you every day. 

You look at him, almost solemn. Tracing his jaw again, you allow yourself to relish in the comfort of him before you burst this little bubble you two have created for yourselves. 

“I’m out all day, and then the girls are coming over to mine,” you groan, almost annoyed at the fact that you do have a life outside of swimming and lazing around with Jungwon. “Yunjin’s cousin Chaewon broke up with her partner finally, and we’re going to get drunk to celebrate her leaving that awful man.” 

“Drunk?” 

“That funny way I was acting when we first met,” you explain, now gliding your finger tips across his collarbone. It’s so dainty. You wonder how someone that strong could also seem so delicate. “It happens when you drink something called alcohol.” 

He nods slowly, downtrodden. You can tell he’s upset that he won’t be able to see you tomorrow, and he knows that you can tell too. It’s not often that you two skip a day from seeing each other. 

You hug him closer, tucking yourself into the crook of his neck. Jungwon hugs you back, his arm wrapping around your waist as his other arm cradles your head against him. You could so easily kiss his neck if you wanted. It’s right there, and your lips are practically pressed against it. But you can’t, and you won’t. 

Pulling away, you point to your house—white with the porch and baby blue shutters—that sits in a row of houses that look down on the beach from their cliffside perch. He follows your finger, nearly pressing his cheek to yours to make sure he’s following the correct eyeline. 

“That’s my house. Just look over there if you ever miss me, okay?” you tell him. He stares at your house for a good while, memorizing its shape and the houses neighboring yours. 

“Okay,” he nods, looking to you once he feels it’s been sufficiently ingrained in his mind. “Maybe I’ll show up for this ‘break-up’ celebration.” 

You snort. “As if.” 

—

You hate to admit it, but you’re kind of having fun right now.

Everyone’s on their second glass of wine, snacks and candy thrown across your coffee table to fuel the gossip of tonight’s gathering. Your friends are all screaming and giggling, cozily lounging about in their pajamas. And you hate to admit it, you really do, but you’re having a blast. 

Of course, you missed seeing Jungwon today. You had a comically horrible shift at your job today that you would’ve loved to tell him about, but there’s always tomorrow! Maybe you have grown a little too attached to him. Although you’ve seen your friends heaps of times over this summer, your mind has always been somewhere else—somewhere where Jungwon is present. 

But now, as Chaewon explains how she found her ex’s Tinder profile and how she confronted him, you’re okay with Jungwon taking a back seat for now. You have your girls. They have you. All is well. 

“And then, when I confronted him about it, this motherfucker had the audacity to blame it on me!” Chaewon all but shrieks as she slams her hands down on your coffee table, rattling the array of wine glasses you snagged from the back of your cupboard. All of you gasp, shoveling popcorn and sour gummies into your mouths as you lean in, fully invested. “He tried to tell me that if I listened to him more whenever he talked about his dumb fucking video games, then he wouldn’t have cheated. Bitch, if you had given me better head, maybe I would’ve been more inclined to listen!”  

Lara howls with laughter, as Yunjin and Daniela run a lap around your living room to calm themselves down. You damn near choke on your wine, letting the rosé warm your cheeks. You’re happy. 

But you’re even happier to hear the doorbell ring for pizza. 

“Fucking finally!” Yunjin exclaims, reclaiming her spot on your couch next to her cousin. “I’m starving.” 

“Thank fuck—they got here early,” you say, not even bothering to check the Uber Eats status on your phone. You hop up from your spot on the rug, shuffling down the hallway towards your front door. Peaking into the bathroom, stationed right next to the door, you check to make sure you don’t look too flustered—just in case this is someone you remember from high school and want to impress for some reason. After deciding your hair looks voluminous and your tits sit great in your tank top, you decide you’re certainly presentable enough to face this pizza delivery man. 

However, upon opening the door, you realize that there is no pizza delivery man. In fact, there isn’t even a pizza. 

You recognize his eyes first. Hell, you’d recognize those eyes out of a billion. You could’ve been blinded by the sun, scorched by acid, and hit by a car before you wouldn’t be able to recognize them. However, caught off guard by being face to face with a pair of eyes you’re familiar with, it takes your brain a few seconds to register one very crucial factor: you’ve never seen these eyes other than at the beach. 

You aren’t at the beach. You’re at your house. 

Not only are you at your house, but your house is up a hill. One needs legs to walk up a hill, or anything for that matter. So why would these pair of eyes, one that you’re both very elated and very confused to see, be at your front door step? Oh, only for one reason of course!

Jungwon has sprung fucking legs. 

“Hi,” he smiles shyly. 

A bodily reaction that one could only describe as both becoming a human rocket and rigor mortis occurs within you all at once. Your body shakes so violently that you’ve gone still. You’re practically frozen. Mouth opening and closing rather quickly, you struggle to find the words you need to be able to articulate how you feel in this very moment. Jungwon seems pleased. He even has the nerve to giggle a little bit as he watches your brain work over time. 

Part of you wants to think you were roofied. Why would you have been roofied? You don’t know, not that there is ever a justifiable reason to be roofied. But maybe your friends slipped something to you that you didn’t second guess enough—maybe an edible? Yes. It has to be an edible. Why else would you be picturing Jungwon on your front step with fucking legs? Did you seriously miss him that bad? How pathetic! 

But when Yunjin shouts for you to hurry up with the pizza, you realize this is no bad trip and this is no hallucination. Jungwon is here—at your front door—with legs. And he’s fucking naked. 

“Jesus fucking Christ!” you scream, all of the neurons in your brain suddenly firing all at once. 

Jungwon yelps as you tug him inside, stumbling over his feet—feet that you’re not entirely sure he knows how to work yet—as you shove him into your bathroom. Slamming the door shut behind him, you run to your bedroom, ignoring the concerned looks of your friends as you nearly wipe out while turning the corner. 

Shuffling through your drawers and closet, you eventually find a pair of sweatpants that you snagged from an ex-boyfriend and a top that you’re sure your dad gave to you as a sleep shirt if the sheer enormity of it is enough to go by. Hopefully, it’ll fit Jungwon. Although, it seems that he has absolutely no problem with being in the fucking nude. 

Wait. He was naked. 

You were so surprised to see him that you barely had a chance to recognize the severity of the situation. Not only could your neighbors have seen some random man—although not random to you—standing on your front porch, but they might have seen him butt-fucking-naked. Thankfully, he had the decency to not fully expose himself. At least, you think.

You rush back to the front bathroom before any of your friends can catch onto the problem at hand. You fling the door open, Jungwon practically plastered against the wall as he looks at you and the clothes in your hands. Glancing towards the ceiling in hopes of giving him some privacy, you offer him the clothes. 

“I don’t really have anything else for you to wear, and you can’t be fucking naked in front of me,” you say. 

Jungwon just stares at the clothes, confused. You shake your hands aggressively, and he eventually takes it, trying his best to figure out how to put the clothes on. 

Jungwon tries to stick his foot through one of the holes, but he ends up losing his balance and nearly crashing to the floor. You manage to catch his arm and tug him up straight, but not before he knocks over a soap bottle and a couple of decorative items on the bathroom sink. 

“Shh!” you hush, accidentally glancing down in attempts to see if he had hurt himself at all. But upon catching a glimpse of the skin on his thigh, your eyes shoot straight back upwards. “My friends will hear you.” 

Eventually, he does okay with the pants, only stumbling a few times. He finds his balance by gripping the sink counter and is able to get his feet through the sweatpants, wriggling them up over his new legs. Finally looking away from the ceiling, you come face to face with a flustered and bashful Jungwon. Fuck, maybe you did miss him. 

“Hi. Sorry,” he whispers, smiling like the situation is funny. And to him, it is. He hasn’t seen you lose your cool this bad since the first time he met you, and he couldn’t even register how out of character that was because he didn’t know you then. Now he knows you. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, handing the shirt back to you. 

“Oh,” you blink, taking the cotton fabric in your hands. You bunch the fabric up towards the neck, standing on your toes so you can tug it over his head. His face pops right out, giving you a sheepish grin. For the first time since he’s stepped foot on your property, you return the favor. You guide his arms through the sleeves, the t-shirt sitting quite comfortably on his broad frame. The pants are a little long, sweeping the floor a bit whenever he shuffles about, but it’ll do. For anyone else, they’ll think it’s a fashion choice. “Do… Do these feel okay? Are you comfortable?” 

He looks down towards the clothes he’s managed to put on, gaze returning to your face as quickly as it left. “I think so,” he nods. “I don’t really know what they’re supposed to feel like.” 

“Right,” you say, because, really, what else is there to say? 

You finally take a good look at Jungwon, now that he’s dressed and you feel like you have permission to ogle a bit. He’s dry, for starters. No matter how long he suns himself, it seems like his hair is always wet. Now it’s… well… dry. It doesn’t seem to be damaged from the copious amounts of salt water that have touched it over the years; it seems quite soft and much longer than you originally thought as he blows a strand away from his forehead. He’s taller than you, and you’re not sure why that surprises you. His tail was quite long. But that was a tail. Not legs. His shoulders are broad, that of which you already knew, but seeing them hidden by the silly shirt draping his frame is sort of driving you crazy. You miss them. “How… what…?” 

He sighs and takes a shaky step towards you. Instinctively, you reach your arms out to prevent him from falling but he just wraps his arms around you, simple and plain. His heart raps wildly against his chest, and it’s probably due to the excitement of the day but you selfishly hope it’s for you. 

“Jungwon, how the fuck did you get here?” you mumble into the t-shirt, not quite ready to let go just yet. You hate to admit it, but perhaps your heart is also pumping a bit faster than usual. And perhaps it’s because of him.  

“My friend told me a story,” he starts, pulling away from you so he can look into your eyes. He’s beaming. “That some merfolk can turn into humans. So I tried it, and it works!” he grins, shaking your shoulders in excitement. “Not everyone can do it, apparently. But I can!” 

You look down at his legs. “I can’t believe you’re a fucking human.” 

“I’m a fucking human!” he shouts, nearly toppling over from sheer excitement. “Now I can see you all the time.” His eyes are so sincere and your heart nearly bursts. 

“Yeah,” you nod, smiling ear to ear. “You can.” 

Just then, a knock sounds from the door behind you and Jungwon practically jumps out of his skin.

“Who the fuck is in the bathroom with you?!” Yunjin shrieks. 

Riiight, my friends are here, you think. Shit. 

—

Explaining Jungwon to the girls was a lot easier than you thought it was going to be. Of course, you didn’t tell the truth. That wouldn’t go over well. But what they won’t know, won’t kill them. After successfully explaining to them that Jungwon was a friend from school who surprised you by coming into town, they were more than accepting of his presence. After all, a cute boy showing up on your door step for an impromptu visit? They’re just happy you’re back in the dating game—or so they think. 

It’s funny seeing Jungwon sit amongst your friends, the stillness in a sea of tipsy giggles. Jungwon stays quiet most of the time, eagerly listening to all of their stories, but mostly enthralled by the amount of human snacks he now easily has at his disposal. 

When everyone leaves, and you’re all alone with him, you’re not quite sure of what to do. Considering you’ve been alone with him many times before, it’s almost comical. But now he’s in your house. He’s human. Both are facts that you never thought would actually be true. 

You stay up with him for a long time after your friends leave. Still shocked as you watch the young man curled up in the corner of your couch, fascinated by the way his toes wiggle and scrunch. He quickly learns the art of footsies, as he can’t help but touch you, even as the two of you sit on opposite ends of the couch. And although you’re not exactly a fan of feet, you don’t mind entertaining a game of footsies as long as it’s with Jungwon. 

He’s amazed by the TV, eyes reflecting purple and red and all kinds of neon as he does his best to absorb the new information he’s receiving. It’s like a speed course on human behavior. Eventually, you have to turn off the television so he’ll pay attention to you, but he doesn’t mind. He’ll just have to watch more of this another time if you let him. 

Upon intense questioning, Jungwon reiterates what he told you earlier but in greater detail. His friend, Sunghoon, had told him of a long forgotten, and seemingly taboo, tale of how some merfolk could walk on land. He said it was a trend centuries ago, before the oceans had been polluted by human behavior. It was seen as a form of entertainment. Sometimes it was done for pleasure. However, once humans began to destroy the sea with their many devices, merfolk stopped trying to blend in with and learn from humans. It was too hazardous. 

Jungwon shares that he tried to gather more information, asking his elders if it was possible for merfolk to become human but the conversation was always shut down. It wasn’t until his grandmother indulged in a secret that her grandmother used to be a land walker. That she would bathe herself in light and join the humans at her leisure. She warned that that was ages ago; times have changed. However, this meant that he also had the ability to do the same. 

He followed his grandmother's instructions, finding a quiet and safe place to bathe in the sun. According to him, it took awhile. But once the sun was set, he had begun to sprung legs. 

“Was it painful?” you asked, rubbing your foot along his calf. 

Jungwon shakes his head slowly, watching the movement of your leg. “It was sort of uncomfortable. But it's not painful.” 

He shares how he practiced walking, deciding to disguise himself in the dark of night to prevent anyone from seeing him. Just in case, he said. He said it was hard, and how he’s not sure how humans are able to do it so easily. Or how they’re able to run! That’s a whole new challenge, but he’s willing to learn. 

“I remember you pointed to where your house was, and I just tried my best to walk there,” he said, now moving to be closer to you. He’s still trying to understand that his legs get in the way, so after his knee digs into your leg uncomfortably, he shifts to tuck his legs beneath himself. “I was really tired but when I saw you, I couldn’t feel it anymore,” he smiles, slightly taller than you from the way he’s perched. “I was so happy to see you.” 

“I was so surprised,” you confess, covering your cheeks out of exasperation. Your face heats under his grin. 

“You looked kind of silly,” he laughs. Jungwon drops his jaw and widens his eyes cartoonishly, making fun of your reaction. 

You shove him over, causing him to fall onto his back and kick his feet up in the air. He narrowly misses you, but you don’t mind. You’re too happy to have him with you. 

In the middle of your conversation, Jungwon passes out, sprawled across your couch in a way you’ve never seen a human body positioned before. It’s his first day as a human, so you decide to cut him some slack. Wrapping him in a blanket, as well as leaving an extra—in case he gets cold—you trudge to your bedroom and miss him despite him existing in the next room. 

Early the next morning, while Jungwon is still asleep, you rush out to the store to pick up a few things. As handsome as he is, he cannot live in those ratty sweatpants forever. Guessing what his size might be, you pick up a few pairs of jeans and t-shirts that you think he might like. You try to stick to softer material, not wanting to irritate his skin. You’ve also never had to buy underwear for a man before, but hopefully you did a good job. Nobody has ever gone wrong with Calvin Klein. Besides, the idea of seeing the waistband of his underwear poking of the top of his pants kind of makes your nipples—

Jungwon is wide awake when you get home. Hair still mussed from sleep, but he figured out how to get the television working—it’s set to some old movie that you’re not sure you’ve seen. However, he seems transfixed. He rises from his spot, walking much more steadily than yesterday as he greets you with a hug. He smells like the breeze and sleep and something you want to have by your side forever. 

He watches you cook breakfast, clinging to your side like he’s afraid you might leave again. It’s cute, despite how warm he is. You two eat breakfast on your porch, discussing your plans for the day and asking if he’d like to join. Of course, Jungwon would be insane to say no. 

After breakfast, you show him his clothes and force him to do a fashion show for you. He doesn’t quite understand why you're so excited, but he’d do anything to make you smile. 

“Do you like it?” you ask, sitting on the edge of your bed as he struts about your room. 

He looks down at the shirt and jeans he has on, shrugging absentmindedly. He thinks they’re fine. It’s not like he knows what would look good. He feels like he’s kind of dressed like the guy he saw on your TV not too long ago, and he thought he was cool. But besides that, he doesn’t really know what would look good on him. What he does know is that you look good. 

You sit on the edge of your bed, biting down a smile as your eyes rake over his frame three times over. He likes the way you clasp your hands on your lap, doing your best to be polite and patient although he knows you are fighting demons to not shout out your opinion. He also quite likes the crinkle that forms in the corner of your eyes as you try your best not to giggle. He very much likes that he can see the curve of your tits over the hem of your top as you clasp your hands even tighter. He’s not sure if he can tell you that though. He’ll have to watch more television to see if that’s something that is okay to say to a girl. 

“It’s nice,” is what Jungwon settles on telling you, and you smile even brighter than he thought possible. He could get used to this. 

You decide to take him around town for the day, deciding fresh air and social interaction is just what Jungwon needs in order to understand human behavior. He is more than thrilled to be involved. You can practically hear your father nagging you for housing merfolk, especially after his near death experience. But Jungwon would never do that to you. 

He had no idea that there were so many places—stores, you call them—where humans could buy things. He’s entranced by the grocery store, amazed by the selection of gummies that he now has access to. The concept of not touching everything he sees is a bit new to him, and you have to inform him that people tend to find it quite rude if you touch every single fruit in the produce section. However, always the avid listener, he follows your instructions until they become second nature. 

Jungwon is shocked by your ability to stay focused in such lively places. There’s so much noise—much different from the quiet roar of the sea. He’s surprised to hear you talk about how quiet your town is, and how there are even busier areas where humans live called the city. He’s not sure if he could survive living in a place like that.

There are also so many formalities. Saying please and thank you and no, you go ahead to every small interaction. He’s fascinated with your ability to memorize all these small things. Maybe, one day, he’ll be a master of them too. 

You take him out to eat, just at some small diner not too far from your house. He lets you pick something for him to eat, since he’s still not all that familiar with human food. The waitress is nice, but he thinks you’re nicer—laughing at all his jokes and smiling softly while he rambles about what his favorite part of the day was so far. You hate to say it, but you’re completely enamoured by him. 

You enjoy how he purses his lips when he finds something you say amusing, but doesn’t quite want to announce it. He likes how you play with your earlobe when you get shy. Small things. He barely even realizes how hungry he is until the food arrives, he’s too preoccupied with you. But he thinks maybe his second favorite thing—you being first—is human food. The burger you ordered him seems to be quite a hit. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a person eat that fast, not even half of your meal finished before he cleans the entirety of his plate. Jungwon isn’t very picky, it seems. 

The days pass by like this, quietly but comfortably. Jungwon slowly learns more and more about what it means to be human, the behaviors and the mentality. You see him grow more comfortable out in the open, no longer adhered to your side, and more willing to try things on his own. 

Despite his growing independence, the two of you grow closer than before, if that’s even possible. He helps you cook and clean, entertaining you with silly stories or questions that you can’t help but answer. It’s domestic. You even bring him into work one day, letting him sit in the back with a movie on your laptop while you bore yourself to death. Jungwon never seems to mind. He never complains. If anything, he’s just happy to be with you. 

Jungwon only lasts one more night on your couch. By the third night, he comes shuffling into your room, lightly rapping against the door right as you’re about to fall asleep. Flinching awake, you turn on your lamp as you squint at the young man standing in your doorway. He stands there awkwardly, scratching his neck in embarrassment. 

“What’s wrong, Jungwon? Are you okay?” you mumble, drowsiness laced in your voice. 

He nods quickly, not wanting to worry you. “I”m okay. I’m okay. I just-” he huffs, shifting his weight repeatedly. You can tell he’s searching for the words, whether he has them or not, you’re not sure. Sometimes you wish you could speak his language, maybe it would make it easier for you to understand him. “I don’t want to sleep on the couch.” 

This stuns you. This might be the first time you’ve heard him complain. 

“Why? Is it uncomfortable?” you ask, sitting up. The neck of your sleep shirt slides down one shoulder and Jungwon’s eyes follow the movement. “I can give you some extra pillows if you want.” 

“No, it’s not uncomfortable,” he replies, shaking his head once again. You can see him grow more hesitant by the second, playing with his fingers as he tries to decipher what would be the most appropriate phrasing. He’s not sure how to communicate what he wants from you. None of the movies he’s studied over the past few days have shown him how to do this. 

“What’s up, Jungwon?” you ask once again, your eyes softening. 

Jungwon grows weak, melting into the warmth of your gaze. He feels a heat stir in his lower stomach that he’s still trying to navigate with his new body. Finally, after rationalizing that you’ve never seriously berated him for any of his thoughts or questions, he decides to bite the bullet. “Can I sleep in your bed?” 

“Oh!” you gasp, shocked by his forwardness. “Like… you want to swap?” 

He shakes his head at your misunderstanding. “No!” he damn near shouts. “I was thinking we could share?” 

His suggestion makes your toes curl and a giggle bubbles up from your stomach. Feeling like a school girl again, you nod slowly, lifting the covers for him to join you. He quickly shuffles over, a shy smile spreading across his pink lips like frosting. You wish you could kiss it and have it stain your mouth. He slides under your covers, pulling them right up to his chin. It was hard for him to imagine something as comfortable as this, having only slept on the couch for the last few nights. Now he knows. 

“Why’d you want to sleep in here?” you ask, shutting the light off as you lie back down. “You can be honest and tell me that the couch was uncomfortable. I got it second hand.” 

You can hear the pillow case rustle underneath his head as he denies your comment. “Just missed you is all,” he admits. 

Suddenly, it’s as if all the air is sucked out of the room and you’re left pleading for oxygen. “But I’m only one room away,” you chuckle breathlessly, knowing that you subconsciously—or consciously—have been missing him in your sleep as well. 

“I know,” he says, moving closer to you. He can feel your body heat interacting with his, absorbing and morphing into something new entirely. “Still missed you, though.” 

Jungwon sleeps with you every night after that. And every night, you rest easier and more deeply than you ever have. 

You show him all kinds of things. Your favorite TV shows, the mall, and even the gym. However, you had to leave as soon as some man approached you and asked for your number. Jungwon didn’t seem to take much pleasure in the idea of other men approaching you. 

“I was literally right there,” he pouted as he sat in the front seat of your car. “I don’t get why he would even approach you when I was there.” 

You smile fondly, reaching over to rub his shoulder. He seems to calm down at your touch. “Maybe he thought you were just a friend.” 

Jungwon whips his head to the side. If it were biologically possible, you would believe that his eyes grew ten shades darker. Apparently, you need to make a mental note to never say something so supposedly ludicrous to Jungwon ever again. “I’m yours,” he says. 

Whatever that means. 

To make up for the fiasco that happened at the gym, you decide to take Jungwon to a place you figured he’d really like: the carnival. 

Lara has been bugging you all week, blowing up your phone incessantly and asking if you’d join her and some of your friends at the carnival this weekend. Usually, you’d try to ditch. The carnival has occurred every summer since you were little, and you’re sure it started way before that. With overpriced tickets, overpriced food, and overpriced games, you typically try to avoid the carnival altogether and save your wallet from the damage you will inevitably suffer. However, after seeing Jungwon’s eyes light up at the thought, you decided—after very little contemplation—that attending said overpriced carnival wouldn’t be awful.

Your friends are surprised to see Jungwon, considering they thought he was only supposed to stay with you for a few days, but are happy nonetheless. They drag him every which way, encouraging him to throw darts at balloons and make the tiny tea cup he manages to squeeze into spin as fast as he can. Surprisingly, he does very well with being tossed and spun around—it must do with his exposure to relentless sea currents. However, after experiencing a severe case of vertigo, you manage to convince your friends to take it easy on the rides and sit down for a while. 

“Having fun?” you ask Jungwon, sipping on a lemonade. It’s more water than lemon and sugar, but it’s cool and helps bring you back down to earth. 

“Mhm,” he hums, nodding around a bite of fried dough. The powdered sugar clings to the side of his lips and you wipe it away with your thumb. Consequently, your friends giggle from their corner of the picnic table. You can’t tell if it’s the vibrant lights of the carnival, but Jungwon’s cheeks grow a soft shade of rose. “Are you?” 

“Yeah,” you reply, snagging a piece of his snack. “I don’t usually have fun at these kinds of things, but I’m having fun with you.” 

“You don’t like carnival rides?” he asks, stealing a sip of your lemonade. He doesn’t bother to wipe the straw before or after. 

You chuckle, shaking your head. “No, I like them. These ones are just kind of lame. There’s much bigger ones at other places.” 

“Like in Diary of a Wimpy Kid?” 

“Exactly.” 

Jungwon nods slowly, flexing his fingers before he clasps his hands in his lap. He looks upward towards the sky, amazed at the fact that he can still see the stars through all this light. Tracing them with his eyes, he finds your silhouette in the stars. Why his family would ever want to keep him from finding and staying with you is beyond his comprehension. 

“I’d like to ride one of those rollercoasters someday,” he shares after being quiet for sometime. He’s still gazing upwards, eyes sparkling like fireworks. You stare at the dainty mole on his chin, wishing that you could press a kiss to it. If you could, you would give him the world. 

“You will,” you say, reaching for his hands. He looks at you, the sparkle in his eyes never dimming. “We’ll go.” 

Yunjin coughs obnoxiously, the rest of your friends snickering evilly. You’re going to kill them. You turn your head ever so slowly, wishing the horrific music that was playing in your head would play aloud for once so it could add to this intimidating vibe you are going for. But alas, it doesn’t, and you have to agree to shoot daggers at them with your eyes instead. 

“We’re going to go ride the ferris wheel,” she announces, standing up from the picnic bench. The other girls follow suit. “Do you want to come or are you guys going to keep acting like freaks and hold hands?” 

You roll your eyes, but when Jungwon doesn’t make a move to let go of your hand, you don’t either. Besides, your hands were getting quite cold from holding your lemonade, so really he’s just helping you out. Right? Right. 

“We’ll go, we’re just gonna clean up first. We’ll meet you there.” 

After you and Jungwon clean up the rest of the mess left on the table, you join the girls only to be yelled at by a couple for trying to cut in line. Trying your hardest to show the best side of your humanity, you drag Jungwon to the back of the line. Normally, you would have no problem cussing the girl and her unfortunate looking boyfriend out, but again, you want Jungwon to see your good side. He’s already seen you damn near belligerent and screaming for help, you might as well try to preserve what little remains of your dignity. Besides, you don’t mind being separated from your friends. It just means more one-on-one time with Jungwon. (Not like you haven’t had plenty of that over the last few days.) You’ll meet up with them once the ride is over. 

The carnival barker gestures to your car, buckling the two of you in. Jungwon rapidly pounds his feet up and down in excitement, a habit you’re not sure when he developed but you’ve grown to be affectionate towards. Your knees touch, and neither of you pull away, Jungwon enamoured with the idea of riding the ferris wheel, and you, enamoured with him. 

The ride jolts with a start, shocking Jungwon. As he flinches, he reaches for your hand, a welcomed surprise.

He babbles mindlessly, about how he’s never imagined being up this high in the air before, and how he hopes the ride doesn’t fail. He tells you how he can’t tell if he’s jittery because of the height or because of all of the sugar he just consumed, and you just laugh, squeezing his hand tighter. When your palms start to grow sweaty, neither of you mind because it’s the two of you and whatever you give, he’ll take. 

“I’m so happy right now,” he admits, smiling so wide that his eyes turn into crescent moons. You grin too, flashing him a smile as bright as the moon. 

“Me too,” you agree, squeezing his hand tighter. 

“This is so cool!” he damn near shrieks, rocking the cart a bit. You reach for the bar instinctively, eyes growing wide in a way that makes him cackle. You whack his leg, and despite the sting in his thigh, he doesn’t move away. “You can see everything up here.” 

“You think that’s our jetty?” you ask, pointing to a collection of rocks that are faintly carved out above the sea line. 

Jungwon squints, trying his best to follow your line of view. “No,” he shakes his head, knocking his shoulder with yours. “Ours would be farther that way,” he says, gesturing in some direction. 

“How do you know?” you question, squinting at the young man. 

“Because I know the ocean better than you do,” he mutters, in a voice so matter of fact you’re certain he had to pick it up from someone else because no way in hell you would teach him to speak to you like that. “Besides, I…” 

You watch Jungwon, observing how his eyes shift elsewhere, the smile in his face slipping into more of a confused gape. You call his name, wondering what has caught his attention so abruptly. Following his eyeline, you spot a car ahead of you. A couple—perhaps the one from earlier, you’re not sure—are sitting closely together, wrapped in each other's arms. Despite being multiple feet in front of you, it’s clear what they are doing, and it seems like Jungwon has also caught on. They kiss each other slowly, a passion you would hope they’d save for the privacy of their own home rather than the public eye. But as always, there has to be that couple. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, growing confused by his sudden reaction. “Do you not know what kissing is?” 

Jungwon tears his gaze from them, looking both scandaled and offended by your comment. “Of course I know what kissing is. I’m not stupid,” he scoffs, that crinkle between his brow appearing. 

“Just checking!” you shrug, not sure of what to say. You haven’t seen him this amazed by something since he first turned on the television. “I wasn’t sure if merfolk kissed or not.”

“Of course we fucking kiss!” he yelps, a slight edge to his tone that you find somewhat comical. “I’ve just… I’ve just never seen people kiss like that before,” he confesses, squeezing your palm. 

His eyes drift back to the couple, curious and imploring. You never quite thought of how merfolk kiss until now. Is it softer? Harder? Does it mean something else to them, as it means to humans? 

“I think I’d like to try though.” 

What? 

Now, if you aren’t mistaken, you recall having some knowledge of kissing under your belt. And by some, you mean a sufficient amount. You’re not one to dilly dally, and after years of drunk parties and dares, you’ve kissed enough people to probably last a lifetime. To put it plainly, you get around. However, when Jungwon looks at you like that, with his eyes all wide and shiny, you feel like you’re twelve again. You’re not sure of what to do or what to say. He would only say that if he wanted to kiss you, right? No way he meant someone else, he doesn’t even know other girls besides your friends and he only really talks to them when it comes to you. Unless he likes men? 

Jungwon calls your name, the warmth of his palm on your thigh is sudden but welcomed. He’s closer than you remember him being, but you can’t find it within yourself to back away. You can see the way his eyes crinkle slightly with a soft smile, and the way his lips curl upwards. The dimple on his cheek calls your name in a tone so sweet you feel light-headed, and you’re certain that the small giggle that slips past his lips—were they always that pretty?—is the most glorious thing you’ve ever heard. You know you’re supposed to hear the ocean if you find a conch shell and press it to your ear, but you wish you could hear his voice. 

He calls your name again and you shake your head, clearing the fog that plagues your mind. “What?” you blurt, eyes wide and glossy. Jungwon thinks you’re so pretty. 

“I want to kiss you,” he says, slow and steady but the twitch of his fingers reveal his excitement. “Is that okay?” 

You want to tell him a hundred things. You want to tell him how lucky you are to have nearly been destroyed by him that night, and if you knew then what you know now, you’re positive that you would’ve let him although you’re certain he would never hurt you. You want to tell him that you think he’s the hottest man you’ve ever seen on planet Earth, and that it sucks that he’s not entirely the same species as you, and vice versa. You want to tell him that he’s your best friend, and that you truly, sincerely hope that you’re his. But all you manage to say, with severe effort, is: “Um, sure. Yeah.” 

Jungwon has kissed people. This much is true. It’s common amongst merfolk—to kiss—as they are sexual and romantic beings. He’s kissed dozens of beings, human and merfolk. He’s kissed to survive, just as he kisses to kill. However, he never knew that kissing could feel like this. 

He leans in slowly, feeling you practically melt against him the second his lips touch yours. The first thing he realizes is how soft you are, and the second is how good you taste. Your palm presses to his chest and his heart instantly warms. The kiss is short and soft, but once he pulls away, he falls right back into it. At this point, he doesn’t even notice if the ferris wheel is moving or if it has stopped, because he feels like he’s floating on top of the world. He can still taste the powdered sugar on your lips, and when he slips his hands around the base of your neck, your mouth opens and he can taste the remnants of lemonade on your tongue. 

You hum against his lips, gripping his shirt so fiercely in your trembling fingers you worry for a fraction of a second that you might rip a hole in it. But when Jungwon presses closer, a small sound, light and airy, slips from his mouth as he moves his lips against yours, and all worries you have are left for dead. 

One of Jungwon’s hands slips away from your jaw, an action you hardly notice as he nips your bottom lip as a distraction. He scoops your leg onto his lap, fingers brushing over the bare skin of your knee. If it weren’t for being on a damn ferris wheel, you’re certain Jungwon would have you straddling his lap by now. But you are on a ferris wheel, and you are in public. And if the bulge pressing against your leg and the ache between your thighs are to mean anything, they mean that you need to stop or else you might just end up letting him fuck you right here, twenty feet in the air. 

“Jungwon,” you murmur breathlessly against his lips. You move to backaway, but he just follows you, eyes closed and a blissful look blanketed across his face. You giggle and he giggles back, squeezing your thigh and sucking on your bottom lip. “Jungwon,” you repeat, a little more firmly this time. He lets you push him away, eyes trained on your lips as he licks his own. It’s official, he’s decided. He’s obsessed with your taste. “We’re in public.” 

He begrudgingly tears his eyes from your mouth, kiss-bitten and swollen, to look around. After reminding himself of where you two are, together, he nods slowly. Turning back to you, he moves to fix your hair, and despite it not staying in its respective place, he still looks at you like you hung the moon and stars. 

“I forgot,” is all he says, before he leans in one last time to kiss you. 

The ride home is filled with gentle touches and even fonder looks. Jungwon follows you into your house, just as he always does. He watches you as you brush your teeth, smiling around his own toothbrush as the foam from the toothpaste forms small bubbles on the corners of his mouth. He observes you as you do your skin care, sitting on the toilet lid as he plays with the hem of your pajama shorts. It doesn’t suggest anything other than him wanting to be close to you, and you’re not sure if you’re frustrated by the lack of underlying meaning or content with his patience. 

Jungwon snuggles next to you once you finally go to bed, nose pressed to your neck and murmuring sweet nothings in your ear. He kind of makes you hot and bothered when he speaks in a voice so low you’re certain you hear waves crash in his tone. 

“Good day?” you ask, still able to see his eyes shine in the light of the growing and glowing moon. 

He nods, brushing his lips over yours. “Very good day,” he says, sealing the deal with a kiss that makes your heart swell so large you fear it might break a rib. 

He’s warm against your side and real, and the rise and fall of his chest lulls you to sleep. You dream of his touch, cradled in his arms, excited for tomorrow. 

When you wake the next morning, he’s gone. 

—

It’s been a week since you last saw Jungwon. 

When you woke up without his warmth, you were almost in denial. But after checking your living room, kitchen, bathrooms, and balcony about three times, you were certain it could be no mistake. He can’t drive, so there’s no way he could’ve gone far. But when you ran around town, checking all of the places he would’ve known and been drawn to, pajama shorts still on and hair half styled, you began to lose hope. He was not at your house, not at any stores, and not at the beach. And once a few hours have passed, you realize he’s gone. Jungwon is not coming back. 

You tried to be the slightest bit hopeful. Once the sun had set, you walked along the shoreline, calling his name. You prayed that no one would be around to hear your calls. If someone were to ask who you were looking for, you might think you could lie and say your dog, but Jungwon isn’t a suitable name for a dog. It’s only suitable for him. But after hours of searching, and sitting against the cool rock of your special jetty, do you finally relent to the cold, hard truth. 

Your friends chalk up your behavior as you missing your friend. They don’t get much information from you, only a quick comment of how he went home, but they can tell you’re upset. So after your third day of wallowing, they grow desperate to see you smile. 

It’s only after a series of shopping trips and movie nights do you start to feel better. When you’re alone, it’s easy to think of Jungwon and wonder why he left; with your friends, your mind stays busy. They make you laugh at stupid jokes and gasp at juicy gossip. Daniela fills you in on this new guy she’s started talking to, and you only have to push down your jealousy slightly before genuine joy for her bubbles over. 

By the end of the week, you’re beginning to see a future where you feel normal again. It’s not now, but it will be someday. Eventually, Jungwon will be a memory just like your kindergarten crush, and the thought of him won’t sting as much as it does presently. Besides, when you stop to think about it, it’s probably for the best. He’s literally from the ocean. He’s a completely different species, not entirely human. It’s not like you could’ve dated. Your dad wouldn’t have really liked him anyway.

By the time the weekend rolls around, Lara mentions that there’s been a rumor about another party at the beach floating about. The second you hear about it, you’re in. It’s been too long since you’ve gotten shitfaced with your friends, and without having to worry about waking up at the asscrack of dawn to see Jungwon, you’re more than willing to drink some cheap liquor and face the consequences the next day. 

Yunjin brings the alcohol and Lara brings the mixers, and eventually, you’re all pleasantly buzzed. Trodding down to the beach in your cute outfits and bikinis, you feel normal. There was a life before Jungwon, just as there will be a life after him. You will not let the absence of a man be what ruins your good time. Your P.J. (Post-Jungwon) life starts right now!

You mingle and flirt, and even let some random guy feel you up. And although his touch doesn’t feel as good as Jungwon’s, it’s good to know that you still got it. But the more and more that you try to convince yourself that you don’t miss him, you begin to realize that it isn’t true. You do miss him. A lot. It’s borderline humiliating. 

Maybe it’s the drinks and a couple of hits from some joint your friends passed around, or maybe it’s because you’re overstimulated from the sand that you can’t seem to brush off your legs, but you’re starting to feel like you’re going to cry. 

“I’m gonna go pee,” you slur to Daniela, who just nods before returning to talk to some girl you vaguely remember from high school. 

You stumble your way through the crowd, sure that you may have gotten the odd glance here or there but who cares? You’re beginning to feel dizzy, your legs feel heavy and your body feels tingly and suddenly you come to recognize just how drunk you are. Mission accomplished, but at what cost? 

“Shit,” you grumble, leaning against a rock for support as you catch your breath. You look up, hoping that focusing on the stars would help you sober up. 

Your body keeps drifting away from you, a baby rocked to sleep, but your mind stays still on Jungwon. Why did he leave? Did he get what he wanted? A kiss? That’s a stupid thing to want from someone. If he was going to be that selfish, he might as well have fucked you and then dipped. But a kiss and dip? No one in the history of the world has ever heard of something as lame as that. However, you’re beginning to believe that you’re patient zero. 

The stars spin, but once you spot the full moon, your body becomes yours again. It’s brighter than you’ve ever seen it, an iridescent light beaming across the water. The ripples in the waves illuminate your path in hughes of white, blue, and green; a perfect spotlight for your evening walk. You swore it would clear your mind and reestablish your footing, but still, you somehow always end up here: the jetty. 

Sitting down at your usual spot, you dip your toes into the water and swirl them around. Your feet drag through the water slowly, your scar catching the light briefly. The moon is pale and bright and big, and you wish Jungwon was here to see it with you. He is, but he’s not worried about the moon. 

Despite not being in the right state of mind, the hair on your arms pricks up, a danger sensed before your mind is even aware of it. Your skin tingles as it circles the water, hypnotized by the patterns it creates in the foam. You feel a pair of eyes. 

As you look up, you spot only a silhouette, but you know exactly who it belongs to. You always have and you always will. Although you’re certain you hear a song so beautiful that it makes you want to tear your skin off, suddenly your ears fill with wax and your emotions overtake the melody, creating a harsh dissonance. 

“You have some fucking nerve,” you spit, pulling your legs out of the water and crouching on your knees. He doesn’t move. “Kissing all up on me, touching me, sleeping in my house!” 

You can see him cock his head to the side, but with the way the moon is positioned in the sky, you can’t observe his face. Sincerely, you hope he’s hurt. Maybe not crying—you’re a little afraid you might fold if he is—but hurt. 

“I should slap the shit out of you for leaving like that,” you spit, clawing at the rock beneath you like a life line. 

Jungwon straightens at that and abruptly sinks under the water. For a second, it startles you. Maybe you scared him off? A part of you wishes that that is the case—that way you have the last laugh. But deep down, you know a slap from you would hurt him more emotionally than physically. He wouldn’t fear your hand. And at this moment, you’re not sure which you prefer. After you begin to doubt that you scared him, and move on to your next theory—shark bite—Jungwon emerges from the pitch black sea. 

Sometimes you forget that he’s not entirely human, but in this moment, he makes sure to remind you. Jungwon leaps from the water, propelling all of his body weight onto his arms and hands which suspends his body halfway out of the water and onto the jetty. You shriek, falling flat on your butt as he stares at you, only a few inches from your face. 

You take a good look at him, and for a second, you’re not sure you’re talking to Jungwon. His eyes are wild, not the bright-eyed wideness that you know. Instead they’re slender, frantic, and threatening. His mouth hangs open, and you spot the edge of a fang indenting his lower lip, his tongue quickly smoothing over the skin. Despite the water being cool, you feel the fever radiating off of him and his cheeks flush a brilliant shade of pink. You take a deep breath in, studying his face. Before you can begin to check out his body—a habit you’re not all too proud of not being able to shake—he lowers himself back into the water.

He doesn’t submerge, and he doesn’t talk either. His lips stay wired shut, rose-red mouth relaxed but stern. His hands stay on the rock, bracketing your legs that makes you weary of moving too quickly. His fingers look as if they’re straining against something, but you’re not sure what. Do you want to find out?

After more than thirty seconds of just staring at each other, you realize he’s not going to speak. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you wonder, no longer feeling threatened by him. “Why are you getting all up in my face like I was the one who left? You’re the one who kissed and ditched, remember?”

It sounds even more pathetic saying it out loud. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Jungwon says, eyes transfixed on your face. For a moment, you see him melt. His eyes become wide again, but still hungry for something. His brow furrows, and he shakes his head, huffing a sigh through his nose like an animal clearing its senses of a particular scent. 

“What the fuck are you talking about? Did you not hear what I just said?” 

His eyes trail down your body, and you don’t miss the way his fingers twitch. You see his nails dig into the rock desperately, and you’re beginning to grow concerned. A look of discomfort crosses his face, and he shakes his head once more, water spraying against your calves. Sitting up and extending your legs back into the water, you notice how he learns forward subconsciously, seeking your touch. What the fuck is going on? 

“Jungwon, are you okay?” you ask, reaching for him. You reach out to touch his hand, and before you can even register the heat of his palm, Jungwon keens forward, an airy sound escaping his mouth unwillingly. His forehead rests against your knees, and his breath is warm against your legs as you begin to second guess everything you thought you knew. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he repeats, chest heaving. In a panic, you begin to look for injuries. You can’t begin to fathom what would make him act like this. He’s usually calm, the eye of the storm in any and all cases. He plays with your hair when you’re rambling and rubs your back when you’re upset, and now you're the one doing it all for him. 

You’re so confused, and as wracking breaths continue to knock against his ribs, fingers damn near creating claw marks in the rock, you’re desperate for answers. “Why wouldn’t I be here, Jungwon? It’s a beach.” 

“The moon,” is all he says as he looks up at you. His eyes are nothing you’ve ever seen before. It’s like they melt the second he looks at you, eyebrows furrowed and irises so dark you believe that if you were to sink in them, you’d never find the bottom. You look up to the sky, moon brilliant and bright. 

“I don’t get it,” you confess, laying a hand on his cheek. Should you be worried? He’s burning up. Do you offer to get him some medicine? An ambulance? A veterinarian? 

Just as you begin to search for your own solutions, Jungwon—without much ability to control himself—proposes his own. With the palm on his cheek being his final straw, he presses his face against your leg once again, harsher than before. You feel his nose indent your thigh, and before you can begin to register the sudden change in proximity, Jungwon licks your leg and moans. 

Your body responds before your mind, and if you were standing, you’re certain your knees would buckle. You clench around nothing, a rush of wetness pooling in your bikini bottoms. Without meaning to, you rock your hips gently against the rock. It doesn’t provide any comfort for the sudden ache, but Jungwon has you acting in irrational ways. 

And once your mind is able to catch up with your body, the words that fly out of your mouth aren’t much more rational than your bodily response to his tongue. “Yooo, what are you doing?” you hiss, no real threat posed behind your voice. 

“You smell so good,” he whines, kissing up your thigh. His arms hook under your thighs, dragging you closer and closer towards the edge. The water is up to your knees now as you cradle Jungwon’s head to your thigh. He nips and licks and kisses, and all you can do is watch. You feel his biceps flex under your legs, and his fingers dig into the flesh of your thigh, desperate to keep you attached to his mouth. 

You're not entirely sure of what is going on or what’s come over him, but you do know that you’re wetter than you’ve ever been in your whole life. His fangs graze your upper thigh, sharp and menacing. Before you can begin to complain about the sting, and, without a doubt, the blood that bubbles in its wake, Jungwon licks over the wound like his spit is some sort of salve. The sting is immediately gone, and replaced with a tingle that leaves you wanting more. He creeps higher and higher, breathing heavily. Your thighs are slick with spit, bruised by kisses. You tug at Jungwon’s hair, the wet strands wrapping around your fingers to keep you tethered to him. Jungwon moans again, shoving his nose into your crotch and inhaling deeply. 

You burn furiously, embarrassed that he’s smelling you but also incredibly turned on by the fact that he seems to like it. A hand leaves your thigh and inches upward, lithe fingers tucking into the waistband as he attempts to yank your shorts down hungrily. 

“The button,” you instruct breathlessly, your hands meeting as you both frantically go to undo the button of your shorts. Once you manage to pop it open for him, he rips them down your legs, soaking them with sea water accidentally before throwing them next to you haphazardly. His mouth is back on you instantly, and you urge him towards your core, fingers tracing his jawline. “Jungwon…” you whisper, yearning to kiss him but aching at the thought of his attention being redirected. 

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmurs around your skin, sucking another blossom into your thigh. You will be tender to the touch come tomorrow. “I can’t help it.” 

“It’s okay,” you soothe, and he looks up at you, mouth spit-slicked and raw. “I want you too.” 

You don’t have to tell him twice. 

Jungwon dives back in, licking the flimsy material of your bikini bottoms. You can feel his tongue press against your clit through the fabric, and both of you moan. He sucks the material into his mouth, searching for your taste before he can indulge in you fully. He knows he should stop, he’s not in the right mind. But with the way he’s aching for you, a desire so fierce he can feel it burn him from the inside out, he’s not sure if he can will himself to stop. When he glances up and sees the look you’re giving him, eyes glowing and jaw dropped in amazed pleasure, he’s certain that he won’t stop. 

Snatching the fabric between his teeth, Jungwon pulls your bottoms down your legs, tossing it alongside your shorts. He looks at you briefly, slick and glistening under the pale moonlight. Prior to this moment, Jungwon was certain he'd seen plenty of beautiful things. However, he is now positive that this view is the prettiest of them all. 

He leans in voraciously, kissing the skin above your pretty cunt, the short hair tickling his lips and chin. Jungwon isn’t used to it, as you’re his first human girl and—if he has it his way—his last. But he likes it a lot more than he assumes is probably normal. He kisses you there one more time, feeling the muscles of your thighs twitch and tense. 

“Please, Jungwon,” you whimper, hips leaning forward in search of his mouth. “I need you.” 

Who is he to deny you? 

Jungwon licks your folds tentatively, gauging how sensitive you are. A small sigh releases from your chest, a hum so gentle he does his best to replicate it through his tongue. You grow more restless the more he does this, searching for something more. It feels good. Really good. Using his hands to push your thighs further apart, Jungwon's tail thrashes wildly in the water at how pliant you are under his guidance. 

“You taste so good,” he says, sucking your clit into his mouth greedily. You moan loudly, leaning backwards as your hips move forward. Jungwon looks up, watching as you prop yourself on one elbow, your other hand still stuck in his hair. You’re breathless, a warm ache slowly building within your core. “You like that?” 

You nod fervently, biting your lip. As if it’s a challenge, Jungwon begins to suck and lick more harshly than he did before, pulling more and more sounds out of you. A hand of his creeps upward, shoving its way under the cup of your bikini top. He pinches a nipple, a high pitched whine releasing from your mouth. His tongue travels lower, prodding at your hole curiously. You clench around him and he groans, pressing his tongue into you as far as he can. You grind forward, clit bumping his nose and he inhales deeply. In his professional opinion, you taste better than any candy he’s ever had. 

You twitch around his tongue, continuing to grind along his face. He squeezes your tit harshly, earning a gasp from you that makes him chuckle thickly, slick coating his mouth. You giggle too, delirious on the ecstasy Jungwon provides you. But your giggles quickly turn into endless moans as he sucks your clit back into his mouth, tongue swirling around the swollen bud. 

Growing dizzier by the second, and this time, you’re certain it’s not because of the alcohol, you become more and more desperate for a release. Jungwon is moaning against you, convinced that your cunt is the best thing to have ever graced this Earth. 

“You’re so pretty,” he whines, kitten-licking your clit before sucking it harshly once more. “I want to keep you all to myself.” 

“I’m all yours,” you moan, eyes rolling to the back of your head. You can feel your slick and his spit pooling on the rock beneath you and spreading along your thighs. A heat brighter that the sun builds within you, yearning for more. 

He groans deeply, his teeth grazing against your clit in a way that makes you flinch. “Don’t say that,” he pants, dragging his tongue along every inch of you that he can find. “Don’t want to hurt you,” he whimpers. 

“Please,” you beg, finding his eyes in the moonlight. His eyes still replicate every bit of the beast that he is, his grip bruising. You clench around his tongue and he laps it up, feeding him in a way that you could never fully understand. The desire he feels is much deeper than what you’re capable of experiencing, and he knows that. But you’d be damned if you weren’t willing to try. “Please make me yours.” 

Jungwon releases an inhumane sound, a cross between a purr and a moan, something that vibrates from his chest and releases from his mouth without control. He grips your thigh, eyeing you quickly. It’s faint, but you catch the slight downturn of his lips and the furrow in his brow, as if he’s saying sorry. However, before you can question him, he bares his fangs and bites down on your thigh, piercing the skin. 

You yelp in pain, tugging at his hair but he doesn’t budge. He just groans against your skin, the pinch in your leg growing more and more aggressive the deeper his teeth sink into your flesh. But as quickly as the pain comes, a sudden overbearing warmth washes over you. You tilt your head back, grip on his hair weakening. Jungwon grabs your hand and rests it against his face, lapping at the blood that drips from you and sealing the wound. He looks at the new mark he’s created—a mark that confirms and reassures that you are his, and that he is yours. 

The ecstasy you’re experiencing from his love bite must be potent, because you’re practically leaking all over yourself. He coos as your cunt clenches around nothing, a new wave of your scent, even more syrupy, fills his nose. He watches you, your body arching into the open air for something, anything that could provide you with relief. Awe is an understatement. 

Reminding yourself that he is there, you snap your head up and open your eyes. You rub his cheek, watching him nestle into your palm. Maintaining eye contact, Jungwon lowers near where he expects you to want him, lips grazing your folds without any real pressure. You buck and squirm, but just before you find relief, he pulls away, suddenly every bit the tease and no longer the desperate, lust-crazed creature. 

Well, it’s not like you’re above begging. “Fuck me,” you groan, your voice not sounding like your own to your ears. Jungwon melts all the same. 

Sticking out his tongue, he licks from your taint to your clit, a relief that has you whining at a pitch you’re sure has never been reached. Practically making out with your cunt, Jungwon sucks your labia into his mouth, his own moans vibrating within you from the inside out. The bridge of his nose glides against your folds once again, rubbing against your clit in a way that has you seeing stars.You’re growing desperate, your hips unable to stay still as you rock and pull against him like a restless tide. 

You’re hot, sweating despite the coolness of the water. Whatever that bite did to you—whether it poisoned or drugged you—you’re not sure. What you do know is that Jungwon is licking your clit just the way you need him to and you don’t think you’ve been so eager to cum in your whole life. 

Your cunt pulses feverishly, yearning to suck anything he’ll give you further and further in. You want to watch him, and you try your best to, but when the pressure on your clit is just right, it’s hard to keep your eyes open and your head upright. 

He can not only feel you getting closer, but he can taste you getting there as well. Your stomach contracts, the clench around his tongue getting stronger by the second. Your thighs shake, and the heat within you is so intense you feel like you could burst into a supernova. The sounds you are releasing are sounds that a pornstar could only dream of making, and Jungwon doesn’t even have it in him to wonder if this is how all human girls sound because he too enamoured with how his girl sounds. His girl. Shit, he might cum. 

“I wanna cum,” you announced, vision blurred with tears. 

He moans, loud and clear. “Please,” he begs, watching your back arch in the moonlight. “I want to feel it, pretty. Please.” 

He continues to suck and kiss and lick in all the ways you’ve wished a man would without you having to ask. He categorizes every twitch, tunes into every moan, and memorizes every plea. If he’s serious about keeping you, you might have to take him up on his offer. 

Once the heat in your body becomes too much, and your back arches against the uncomfortableness against the rock, the band within your lower body snaps. Your orgasm washes over you like the sudden tide, unrelenting and powerful. Jungwon moans with you, licking every surface of you that he can reach as you buck and squirm against his face. Growing sensitive, you lightly pull his head away from your cunt, his mouth and chin glistening with your release. 

He looks at you, his eyes still hungry but in a way that reminds you of your normal Jungwon. Jungwon smiles softly, the soft pearls of his teeth beaming up at you as if he didn’t just give you the orgasm of a lifetime. You climb into the water, Jungwon grabbing your hips and steadying you the second he sees you waver. 

He lets you loop your arms around his neck as he continues smiling, completely in awe of all that you are. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, eyes unable to decide if they want to focus on your lips or your eyes. He tucks a hair behind your ear, the one that never stays, and you’re ashamed to admit it really turns you on. 

“So you’ve said,” you tease breathlessly, wiping some of your slick off his chin before you lean in to kiss him. 

Jungwon grips your hips, one hand wandering downwards to your ass. You reach behind you, encouraging him to squeeze, a pretty little moan slipping past his lips and down your throat once he does. You can still feel the feverish warmth emanating from his body, even in the water. Whatever fog was plaguing him seems to have broken just a bit, his eyes and face resembling the man you know and love. However, you can feel his lust press against your stomach, hard and thick. It’s definitely bigger than anything human, but you’re determined to make it work. 

You kiss down his jaw, his sighs and moans filling your ear as he cradles you against him. You grind forward, the head of his cock catching on your clit. You’re still sensitive, but you know it will pass. Jungwon groans loudly, pressing you against the jetty. His arm braces beside your head, bicep deliciously flexed. You’re not sure what comes over you, but you lean towards the muscle and bite it, licking over the indent of your teeth just as he did before. He watches you in awe, bucking against your heat once again. 

You moan softly tracing his cupid's bow before you stick a finger in his mouth. You trace his teeth, mesmerized by their subtle sharpness. You would’ve never expected how threatening they truly were until they were pressed against you. He sucks on the pad of your finger, eyes slipping shut briefly as he soaks in the bliss. Jungwon examines your face as he grinds against you again, regretting that he couldn’t see you before as well as he can now. He’ll just have to make you cum again. 

He’s endeared by the furrow of your brow, and the twitch of the corner of your lip. He grabs your wrist, pulling your finger from his mouth just so he can kiss you. He licks into your open mouth, doing his best to shield his fangs from your curious tongue. However, when you grind against him a little too hard, he bites down, nicking the side of your tongue. 

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, pulling away. You pull him right back, not bothered by the sting. 

“Just kiss me,” you beg, palms cradling his cheeks. His saliva mixes with yours, thick and warm, and it’s as if he never hurt you. Not that he ever could. 

You rock forward once more, the head of his cock slipping lower and pressing against your hole. He can feel you clench slightly, and he’s filled with panic. He’s definitely too big for you, and both of you know it. Obviously, you wouldn’t mind trying but he’s not going to be the reason you get seriously hurt just because he couldn’t control himself. 

He pulls away, stilling your hips with a palm pressed against your womb. “We… we shouldn’t. It’ll hurt,” he says, unable to tear his gaze away from your pretty mouth. He’s really going to have to work on controlling himself if he wants to be around you longer. 

“It’s okay. I want to try,” you whisper, trying to roll your hips against his. 

He stops you once again, using all of his strength to contain his hunger. “No,” he huffs, eyes dropping to your chest and you can’t help but notice the way he twitches against your clit. “I don’t want to hurt you, and I’m really fucking turned on right now and I don’t know if I can control myself-” 

“Where did you learn that word?” you gasp, an evil grin spreading across your face like butter. 

He cocks his head to the side, every bit your sweet Jungwon. “What word?” 

“Turned on.” 

“I heard it in a movie,” he explains, completely caught off guard while your hand trails down and pinches at his nipple. His hand flies forward, capturing your hand against his chest. You just look at him, eyes sugar sweet and a smile even more sickening. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

His decision sounds definitive, and as much as you’re willing to try, you won’t push it. He nearly flops forward, forehead pressed against your shoulder as he huffs. Smoothing your hand down and up his back, you can feel his heart rate and temperature drop back down to a normal pace. He’s still rock hard, as he’s certain he will be for the rest of the night. 

“We could try other things…?” you suggest, gaze imploring. 

A confused look crosses his face, understanding replacing it as he notices your nails trace down his chest, lower and lower. You grab the base of him, thick and heavy in your palm. An airy sigh floats from his mouth, nosing along the column of your throat as if he’s suddenly grown shy. 

It’s still too dark to be able to see him in all his glory, but your sense of touch provides you with enough information to know that he’s huge. He’s shaped just like the regular human male, but much larger and heavier. The idea makes you salivate, thirsting for the day he finally lets you indulge in your silly fantasies. A series of ridges line the underside of his cock, and he seems to whimper whenever you add extra pressure to the area. 

“Just want you to feel good too,” you say, pumping slowly. 

The water ripples above your movement, moonlight bouncing off of every wave and swell. Jungwon kisses along your neck once again, sucking bruises into the skin that you sure will be tender to the touch come tomorrow morning. Though, the funny thing is, you never cared. 

“I’m already feeling good,” he moans, bucking into your hand. “You feeling good makes me feel good.” 

“Aww,” you coo. “You’re so cute.” 

You feel him heat against you, nuzzling closer if even possible. “Shut up,” he whimpers. 

You laugh, placing a kiss along his hairline. Your pace increases, groans and whimpers growing in intensity. Teasing his slit, Jungwon grows harder by the second. A series of clicks and whistles, a similar tune and rhythm to the foreign words he spoke to you weeks ago, are spoken into your neck. 

“Are you finally gonna tell me what that means?” you whisper, clenching around nothing when he licks the shell of your ear. 

“Means you’re mine,” he pants, pulling away from his hiding spot in the crook of your neck. “Forever.” 

Oh, you’re sooo going to make him cum harder than he ever has. 

Luckily for you, it doesn’t take much effort. With a few more flicks of your wrist, Jungwon twitches and finishes across your stomach, the ocean waves washing it away before you can scoop it into your mouth and show him how disgusting you can truly be. 

He kisses you deeply, tongue tasting the bitterness of the alcohol and sweetness of the juice you drank what feels like forever ago. You let him ride out his high, hand coming to a still once you’re certain you’ve milked him of all he has. 

Once he’s certain he can look into your eyes without being possessed by some lust-crazed animal for the second time that night, he pulls away from you, mesmerized by the shine of your eyes. Stealing the breath from his lungs, you giggle in such a lovesick way even Cupid would puke. You brush his hair away from his forehead, and he smiles softly. 

And under the starlit night, the waves rocking the two of you gently, he kisses you so gently that you hear the moon sing. 

—

When you wake up the next morning, you’re not entirely sure you can move. Your thighs are sore, your joints ache, and, worst of all, your heart misses Jungwon. The ceiling keeps you entertained for about twenty minutes, before your need to pee overweighs your desire to stay in bed, rotting. You contemplate crawling around on the floor for the rest of the day, but somehow, the thought of that sounds even worse than walking. 

After a scalding hot shower and a thorough examination of the hickeys and bruises left on your body, you feel clean and refreshed, despite still longing for Jungwon. If you could move any faster, you’d be down at the beach right now, looking for him. Hopefully, he misses you just as much too. 

However, despite the hours you spent with Jungwon last night, even as he guided you back to shore and kissed you goodbye, he never mentioned why he left. And as you brush your teeth and style your hair, you can’t help but let your mind run wild. Was it because of his attraction to you? You’ve never seen him behave like that, even during the brief moments, before your interaction last night, where you were aware of his arousal. He was always calm, despite proudly displaying his affection towards you. But last night was different. 

Lust nearly consumed him, and although you're certain he would never seriously hurt you, the ache in your muscles establishes a firm reminder for just how strong he actually is. You vividly remember how his fangs gleamed under the moonlight, and just how sharp they were to the touch. And although you can practically feel them scraping against you now, no evidence of their touch remains. The only residual mark on your body, besides the numerous hickeys and bruises, is the mark of his bite. 

It’s not sore like you’d expect a bite to be, although you do feel tender whenever you trace its pattern. Every time you touch it, or so much as graze it, it’s like the memories of last night resurface ten times more explicitly than before. It sets a fire within you, a furnace that burns to a more subtle degree, but glows nonetheless. The more you ignore it, the brighter it glows. 

But before you address it, you need answers. And you need them from him. 

Just as you peel yourself off your couch—slowly, of course—to go change and march down to the beach, a soft knock is heard from your front door. It’s still midmorning, and aware that all of your friends are late risers, you’re not expecting any of them to drop by unannounced. 

Shuffling to the door, ignoring the ongoing pain in your hips, you pull the door open. And there, bathed in sunlight, stands Jungwon in the same pair of pajamas that you last saw him wear, albeit, much sandier. He’s beaming at you, every bit a ray of light that heals all the aches in your body and replaces it with a different kind of ache. What was it you said about needing answers? Yeah. Those could wait. 

“Hi,” he says softly, smiling like he didn’t have you seeing the creation of the universe last night. 

“Get in here,” you mutter, yanking him by his shirt. You kick the door shut behind him, pressing him against the wood surface. His eyes widen but his grin stays, hands instinctively falling to your hips. 

“Did you miss me?” he asks, eyes melting you into a syrupy mess. 

“No.” 

Lies. 

As you fiddle with the neckline of his shirt, he observes as your gaze slowly glides down to his lips, sighing the minute he sticks his tongue out to wet them. “You sure?” he questions, leaning in closer. You can’t help but mimic his action. “Because I missed you.” 

You groan, taking the tiniest step forward. Your nose bumps his, and he nuzzles against it affectionately as if you’re not soaking wet right now. If you weren’t so entranced by his mouth, you would try to take a peak downward at his dick. Is he hard? He better be. 

“Fine. I missed you,” you admit. 

Jungwon’s lips pucker subconsciously the minute he feels your lower lip graze against his. The grip he has on your waist tightens, his grip still strong but not nearly as demanding as last night. Whatever came over him last night surely isn’t taunting him anymore, but something else certainly is. 

The Jungwon standing in front of you now is your Jungwon. Not the Jungwon who belongs to the sea or is controlled by the moon or influenced by the tides. This Jungwon belongs to you and only you. 

“Can I show you how much I missed you?” you ask, slipping a hand around his neck and tickling the little strands of hair at the base of his skull. 

He inhales shakily, nodding without much of a spoken word despite saying so much through his eyes. He practically falls forward onto your lips, catching you by surprise. You steady him with a hand on his chest, but allow yourself to stumble backward. Afterall, that’s where you were planning on heading anyway. 

The kiss is much more gentle than the ones you’ve shared, despite the ferocity in which he initiated it. It’s not like you mind. You’ve never been one to complain about a man who yearns and lets it be known. 

You guide him to your couch, the layout of your living room memorized like the back of your hand. Jungwon still manages to bump into your coffee table, hissing in pain against your lips but quickly laughs it off when he sees how flustered you’ve become. Besides, he has much more important things to do than worry about his potentially bruised calf. 

With a hand on his chest, Jungwon allows you to push him back onto your sofa, sitting down on the cushions he has spent plenty of time with, especially with you by his side. But this time, instead of watching a movie or talking aimlessly into the night, he has you sprawled across his lap, thighs caging his hips.

He’s amused by your impatience, letting you tug his pajama shirt over his head, indifferent to the sand that might have been dusted off of it. Slack jawed, you trace his pecks, fingers tracing along his nipples. It’s amazing being able to see him like this in the early morning light, his body not shielded from your view by water or your own shyness. No, now you’re eager. 

Jungwon arches into your hand when you pinch his nipple, a soft whine slipping from his pink lips. Grabbing the back of his neck, you guide him towards you, licking into his mouth. Your tongues tangle together, sucking and kissing any inch of flesh you both can find. He massages your ass, much gentler and more timid than he was last night. A little nagging voice in the back of your mind reminds you to take things slow, but between last night and the questions you still have left unanswered, any caution about tempo is thrown out the window. 

“I want to touch you,” you state, pushing away from him abruptly. Jungwon shakes his head, trying his best to clear the fog clouding his brain. You said it so matter of factly, like you were reporting the weather, that he’s unsure if he heard you correctly the first time. It isn’t until you start tugging his pajama pants down his thighs, the weight of his hips preventing you from tugging them very far, that he realizes there is no problem with his comprehension of the human language. “I want to touch you,” you repeat, pressing quick kisses to his jaw to bring his attention back to you. 

Jungwon nods eagerly, lifting his hips and covering your hands with his own as he helps you pull his pants down his defined thighs. Typically, you’re not one to send heart eyes to someone’s dick, but you nearly swoon at the sight. 

His tip is flushed red, hard and heavy from only a little kissing and shoving each other around. Jungwon breathes heavily, eyes darting between you and his cock in anticipation. He’s never used it before—the human form, that is—not unless you would count when he got curious one night after waking up to an uncomfortable tightness and experimenting in the bathroom. Other than that brief moment, he doesn’t quite know what to expect. He knows his human form is more sensitive, more receptive to your touch and not as durable as his true form. Just from you looking at him, gaze hungry, has him twitching and leaking against his stomach. 

Finally gaining control of yourself, licking over your lips, you look at Jungwon. His chest rises and falls, small puffs of air drifting from his lips. The swell of his cheeks heat pink under your scrutiny, eyes unwavering when usually you like to play coy. But now you just look at him, eyes dripping honey and pulling him in so deep he thinks he might drown, of all people. 

You lean forward and kiss him, simple and sweet, but as he chases after you, you wrap your hand around his cock, sliding upward and squeezing around the head. His mouth falls slack against your own, his breath hitting your lips as he struggles to regain his composure. He’s not too sure he wants to find it anyways. 

You tug his length, fascinated by the extra inch he grows despite thinking he was already at full capacity. He’s heavy in your hand, spitting into your palm to aid the glide of his cock. Tossing his head back and closing his eyes, Jungwon nearly sinks into your couch, jaw still slack and hands now laying limp around your waist. It must feel good, because the way his hips twitch, trying their best to stay patient and exhibit some restraint, has you clenching around nothing. 

“Feel good?” you ask, kissing his relaxed lips. 

“Uh huh,” he moans, nodding slightly as he tries to kiss you back belatedly. He does better the second time around, hands now gripping your shirt with a fervor that has memories of last night surging to the forefront of your mind yet again. 

Thank god for having sex with Jungwon again—hopefully the sexual flashbacks will be less intense, although you doubt it. 

Tracing his slit, a breathy whine escapes his mouth only to be swallowed up by your tongue. He’s leaking all over your fingers, the pearlescent substance coating you in a sticky sheen. Finally able to crack his eyes open, Jungwon quickly falls in love with how concerned with his pleasure you’ve become, focus bouncing between his dick and his face. 

His breath hitches as he catches sight of your fingers covered in his precum, and you don’t miss the way his abs clench underneath the palm you splay across his stomach. Bucking upwards, less restrained than the past few times, you indulge him by matching his pace. 

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” he whimpers, licking your neck and feeling your pulse jump under his tongue. You rake your fingers through his hair, tugging him back to where you can see him. He relents, brow pinching slightly at the pain but melting the minute you begin to scratch lightly at his scalp. If your hand wasn’t working him to completion, he thinks he could fall asleep with your hand in his hair. However, a particularly harsh tug of his cock has him seeing stars, lids growing heavy once more. 

You release him for a second, watching his manhood slap against his stomach with a satisfied hum. The slight wince from him doesn’t deter you, fascinated by his sensitivity and lack of filter as you bring your slick-covered hand up to your mouth, licking his pre off your fingers before grabbing him once more. 

Jungwon groans, suddenly consumed by his own attraction towards you. What the hell has he been doing this whole time? Letting you touch all up on him, not bothering to do the same to you?! Ashamed doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

“Off,” he mumbles, not even bothering to wait for your cooperation as he yanks your top over your head. The newly disheveled state of your hair would typically make Jungwon chuckle, but his preoccupied state only has him carelessly tossing your shirt aside and pulling you closer. “My pretty girl,” he murmurs, breath fanning across your nipples as he plants soft kisses along your breasts. 

Sucking a nipple into his mouth, your pace on his cock slows as he rolls the nub between his teeth. Although you’re certain he doesn’t mean to distract you, the tingly sensation that the suction around your tit provides has you nearly forgetting about his length all together. 

“Mmph- Wonie,” you moan quietly, nails scraping along his scalp. He hums around your breast, using his other hand to fondle and pinch at your previously unstimulated nipple. “Feels so good.” 

“Yeah?” he huffs, a soft pop sounding from his lips. “Love seeing you like this. My pretty, pretty girl.” 

Diving back into your tits, where he feels safe and sound—as well as incredibly aroused—you resume your mission of pleasing him by your hand. Jungwon’s jaw drops slowly, recognizing the warmth and pressure that begins to build in him once more. His teeth graze the underside of your boob, creating small indents as he loses sense of control and begins to suck your skin into his mouth, bruises and hickeys left in their wake. 

He redirects his hand away from your tit, trailing it down over the plane of your stomach, pinching the skin in fascination. However, that only makes you squeeze his dick tighter, a shocked moan spilling from his lips as he attempts to regain his composure. 

Jungwon has learned a lot of things about himself because of you. For example, he’s learned that he enjoys sweets more than savory foods, he enjoys busy days just as much as he likes lazy ones, and that he doesn’t like to be pleased if you are not also experiencing some sort of pleasure. And when his fingers trail just low enough to graze your pussy over your panties, dripping with your own arousal, he can acknowledge that his touch on your skin is plenty to satisfy you in some ways. 

But he remembers how wet you got for him last night. He’s certain he can do better than he’s doing now. 

He traces your hole over the fabric of your panties, the tip of his middle finger just about nearly breaching the tight ring of muscle before he pulls back, only to do it again. And again. And again. 

You whine, tugging him by his dark locks so you can kiss him. In a clash of teeth and tongues, he decides to provide you some relief as he slips his fingers underneath the soaked fabric and sinks into your aching hole, the squelch of your slick damn near pornographic. You moan as he licks hungrily into your mouth, desperate to be as close to you as possible. 

The heel of his palm presses deliciously against your clit, causing your hips to squirm. The grip you have on him makes Jungwon see stars, a sheet of white flashing beneath his eye lids every time he closes his eyes. 

“Fuck,” he groans lowly after a particularly harsh tug of your hand. He feels you clench around him at the sound, adding another finger. “You make me feel so good.” 

“God, Jungwon,” you whine, unsure if you want to focus all of your attention on his cock or his fingers inside of you. 

You’re not certain if you’re so worked up because of the sounds he’s making or the memory of last night taunting you before he arrived at your front door or just because he’s that damn good at pleasing you. Either way, you can feel the thread within you growing thinner, the band tighter and you can tell he feels it too. 

“So wet,” he whispers in awe, pulling away from your lips to glance down at your eager pussy. You’re practically sucking him in. 

“Yeah? You like that?” a newfound confidence washing over you. You swivel your palm across the head of his cock, teasing his frenulum with your thumb. “Seems like you like this too,” you tease, observing the way he bucks up into your hand. 

“Yeah. Oh- fuuuuck,” he moans, a groan of your name following soon after. He tries his best to curl his fingers inwards, searching for that spot that makes you see supernovas. Just as you clench tightly around his fingers, that furrow between your brows forming, he knows he’s got you right where he wants you. 

You grow more frantic in your movements, rapidly pumping your hand against his spit and pre-covered length. Jungwon twitches against your palm, his vision growing blurry as he continues to assault that sensitive spot in you. He can feel you getting there much quicker than last night, but it’s not like he minds. He’s not going to be able to hold off much longer. 

“Want you to cum,” you whimper, eyes tearing with desperation. “Wonie, please cum for me. I want it so bad.” 

He groans, scissoring his fingers open inside of you that has your vision blurring both from tears and with pleasure. You can feel yourself teetering over that edge, the deepest part of you burning for release. With a roll of your hips and the friction of his palm against your clit, your walls spasm around his fingers, the clench providing much for Jungwon’s imagination. He ruts upwards, your hand still held tight around the head of his cock as he twitches against your fingers, cum leaking down his shaft and across your stomach. 

As he opens eyes, mesmerized by the sudden relief that washes over your features, he pulls you into him, flopping sideways so the two of you can rest and catch your breath. 

As the rise and fall of his chest slows, and your walls stop pulsing intermittently, you are able to remember what you wanted to discuss with Jungwon in the first place. Although you’re not necessarily upset by his ability to redirect your focus, you are always a woman with a goal that will get accomplished, distractions or not. 

Sitting up slightly, you brace a hand on his chest, the faint beat of his heart knocking against your palm. He watches you, eyes warm and sleepy. A contented grin spreads across his face, warm as melting butter, but it quickly drops when he sees the frown deepening at the corner of your mouth. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, worried. “Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry, I’m still new to this. I’ve never been with-” 

“No, no. I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me, I’m fine,” you reassure, placating the crease between his brow. 

He follows your guidance, refocusing his concern on the problem that seems to be occupying your brain. “What’s wrong then?” 

“Why’d you leave?” you ask, not bothering to beat around the bush. “I thought you liked what we had going on. Why did you leave?” 

Now it’s his turn to frown, a small pout confirming his confusion. “I didn’t leave. I was going to come back.” 

Bro. Looks like men are stupid no matter the species. 

“I woke up and you were gone, Jungwon. You didn’t tell me where you were going, you didn’t leave anything for me to assume that you would return,” you list, cheeks burning hot under his gaze. “I didn’t take you for that kind of guy, but it’s hard to not assume the worst when you literally dipped with no explanation. I was worried.” 

He sits up fully, slipping a hand around your waist as you follow suit. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, eyes sincere. “I didn’t know it would scare you, it’s sort of hard to explain.” 

“I don’t care, explain it.” you urge patience wearing thin although you don’t mean for it to. “And you were weird as fuck last night too.” 

“You thought I was weird?” he asks, growing defensive. “You were literally wet.” 

“Two things can be true at once,” you say, growing shy. Usually you’re the one who can stump him with your words, but the better he gets at your tongue, the better he gets at leaving you rendered speechless. “I did think you were hot, but it wasn’t… I don’t know… you’ve never been that way before. I was a little surprised.” 

You both stare each other down, fairly aware of your back pedaling but willing to accept it for the sake of having this conversation. He adjusts your legs, throwing one over his lap, partially because he wants you closer and also because seeing your pussy still shiny from your release is making it hard for him to pay attention to the subject at hand. It only helps slightly, a full view of your cunt now hindered by your thigh. 

“I wasn’t planning on leaving,” he explains, choosing his words slowly and carefully. “I missed the water so I went for a swim. I was going to just be gone for a few minutes, maybe find some shells for you ‘cause I know you like them. But then I realized the state of the moon, and what it does… I just thought it would be safer if I stayed away.” 

You shake your head, not quite following. “I don’t get it,” you announce, a petulant lilt in your voice that makes him laugh. 

“The moon sometimes messes with my head and makes me… you know…” he trails off, avoiding eye contact. The blush that blooms on the tip of his ears is cute. “But I’m okay now. Sometimes it has no effect, sometimes it does. I could feel it coming on though, and it can be difficult to control so I decided to stay away until it passed.” 

You nod, digesting all this new information. You faintly recall a story you heard ages ago of how merfolk are closely guided by the moon, and although they may not be as influenced as Jungwon suggests, part of it still rings true. He’s avoiding your eyes, fascinated by the small red light on your cable box. It’s hard to believe that there will be a day where he’s not amazed by your television. 

Desperate to regain his attention, you pinch his sides. When that fails, his blush glowing a deeper shade of crimson, you decide on something that will certainly get him worked up. 

“Is that the only reason you wanted to touch me like that? Because of the moon?” 

He whips his head around so fast you’re scared he broke his neck. Jungwon almost looks mad, scandaled that you would even dare to ask such a question.

“No!” he nearly shouts, grip tightening around your waist. You watch the way your flesh pillows under his fingers, a vein running down the front of his hand and down to his slender fingers. “I-I’ve always wanted to do that with you. The second I met you I wanted to, but-” 

“The second you met me? Really?” you smile, drawing a faint pattern on his pec that has goosebumps raising along his skin. 

“Yeah,” he nods, voice weakened by your touch. “I’ve always wanted you.” 

“Hmm,” you hum, tossing your leg across his hip to straddle him once more. “How did you want me?” 

“I-” 

“Did you want to taste me the way you did last night? Or just stick your fingers in me?” 

Jungwon’s blush creeps from his ears, across his face, and down his neck, a bright shade of rose painting his tanned skin. You giggle sweetly, pressing a kiss to his cheek that he accepts gratefully. You grind down on his hardening length, still sticky from his release. 

A moan floats from Jungwon’s mouth, a welcomed sound. “I wanted to do all those things,” he agrees, rutting up against the warmth of your pretty pussy. “‘Want to do more, too.” 

“More? You want more?” 

“Mhm,” he whines, his bangs drooping into his eyes. You brush them back, eager to see his lids grow heavy with lust. “I really want to fuck you.” 

Alright. 

“Bedroom.” 

He follows closely behind you, sloppily kissing your shoulder as you tug him towards your room. You’re royally fucked, your legs already shaking the minute you lay down on your bed, Jungwon climbing over you the second your back hits the mattress. 

“You’re so pretty,” he says, kissing up your neck and jaw. 

You giggle, tangling your fingers in his hair, softer than a morning breeze. You could hear him say that same compliment a hundred times more, and it would still leave you warm and fuzzy. 

“You’re pretty, too,” you comment, kissing his nose. 

He giggles against your lips, chaste kisses scattered across your mouth and face. The warm feeling of your words spreads in his chest and throughout his whole body, heating him from the inside out. Lazily dragging a finger down to your willing cunt, he gently circles your clit to prep you. 

You’re aware that he’s smaller than what he presented you with last evening, but he’s still plenty big. His length rests in the crux of your thigh, long and thick. Your mouth falls open, soft moans slipping from your lips as he wastes no time licking into your mouth. Jungwon subtly begins to grind against your leg, intoxicated by your touch, no matter the medium. 

You, however, are growing desperate. 

“I need you to fuck me, Jungwon,” you plead, digging your nails into his shoulders. His eyes grow heavy, tracing every line and edge of your face. “Please, baby. Fuck me.” 

He would give you the world if you asked. 

Ever the most efficient, Jungwon leans back slightly, placing his cock between your folds and watching as your hole clenches at the proximity. He thrusts against you a few times, coating himself with your slick and savoring the moan you release when he nudges your clit. The mark of his teeth on your thigh stares back at him, still tender and fresh. He traces the crescents, heart thundering against his ribcage so loudly he’s almost positive you can hear it.

“Wait, fuck,” you gasp, stopping him with a hand on his hip. “We need a condom.” 

“W-What? What’s that?” 

You lean towards the small table next to your bed, pulling the drawer open before you reveal a small foil square. Tearing it open with your teeth—a sight that Jungwon could’ve never predicted would make his dick twitch—you reveal a delicate latex circle. He sits back on his haunches when you guide him away from the inside of your thighs, upset by the distance, but pleased when you wrap your hand around the base of him. You slip the latex over his head and down his shaft, quick and effortless like you’ve done this before. He doesn’t want to think about it. 

“It’s so I don’t get pregnant,” you inform, laying back down against your no-longer pristine sheets. 

Jungwon thinks he just came a little bit at the thought. 

“Right,” he coughs, looming over you once again. “Wouldn’t want that to happen.” 

“Are you blushing?” you tease, pinching his ruby-red cheek between your thumb and forefinger. 

He swats you away, tucking his head against the curve of your neck in embarrassment. “Shut up,” he mumbles. 

Jungwon sighs the second he ruts against you, soft and breathy. You indulge him for a moment, whining with every glide against your clit. However, after a couple minutes of humping against each other like animals, the heat boiling within you grows too unbearable to ignore. 

“Alright,” you huff, reaching between you two to line him up against your hole. “‘Need to feel you inside me now.” 

He nods, lifting his head from your neck so he can watch himself slowly sink into you. You’re tighter than he could’ve imagined, a loud moan escaping him without his control. You lift your hips, chasing the feeling of him filling you up. Maybe you’ve always been able to get this wet—you’re not sure—but you know you’ve never been this wet for anyone other than Jungwon. 

“Fuck, Wonie,” you whine, clawing at his back. Once he reaches the hilt, he collapses forward, nosing along your jaw as he whimpers with every adjusting clench around his cock. 

Thrusting forward, neither of you know what to focus on. Hands groping and fondling everything they can reach, you’re certain red lines litter Jungwon’s back and he’s sure finger-print shaped bruises will be printed across your thigh, accompanying his bite mark. 

“You feel so good, pretty,” he moans, grinding against your clit before pulling out half-way and thrusting forward. 

Jungwon prides himself in his strength, he’s always been quick and able to fight back without worry. But at this moment, you’ve rendered him weak. All of his energy is directed to pleasing you, resting between your folds, hot and heavy. The head of his cock grazes against the spongy spot inside you, and it has you pressing your tits against his chest and moaning into his ear. He thinks that might be his new favorite feeling, but then you have him experiencing a feeling so new and unique that he realizes that having a favorite is impossible when it comes to you. 

You have to damn near yank Jungwon away from you, neck damp and warm from his panting against your skin. Jungwon moans against your tongue the second you kiss him, lips bit-ridden and plush. 

“Mmph, baby,” you moan, unable to kiss back after a particularly harsh thrust against your walls. Stars decorate your vision, hyperfixating on the mole on his jaw before becoming enamored by the small smirk on his lips. “You’re so good to me.” 

Completely blissed out, Jungwon isn’t even aware of his smile, but you love it all the same. “Yeah? Makin’ you feel good, pretty?” he groans, speeding up his pace just a fraction. “Need more? Want to feel you come again, is that okay?” 

You nod frantically, unable to control yourself as your hips don’t know whether to run away or lean into the pleasure he’s providing you. “Need it,” you whine, overwhelmed by the pressure building within you. 

“Mmph- anything you want, beautiful,” he whimpers, pressing a kiss to your lips before pushing your knee closer to chest and resting it along the curve of his waist. 

He sets a brutal pace, sounds of your pussy squelching around him and your moans filling the room. You can feel yourself dripping down his shaft and onto your sheets, a mess you’ll most definitely need to clean up later but can’t be bothered to worry about at this moment. Not while he’s fucking you so well. 

Your tits jump with every harsh thrust, his hips smacking against your own. He’s entranced by how mindless you’ve become, growing needier with every sigh and whine that escapes you. There has never been a prettier sight than you. 

“Ohh,” you gasp, hips jolting when you feel his fingers begin to rub your clit. “Fuck, keep doing that, baby. I’m so close,” you urge, vision colored with lust.

“I got you,” he whispers against your ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth before releasing it with a pop. “Just let go, pretty.” 

He rubs your clit one more time, your eyes slipping shut before you cum for the second time in the past hour. Your head presses into the pillow beneath you, back arching as your hips rut against him as you chase the remainder of your release. 

You grow impossibly tighter around him, the slick that spills from you aiding the glide of his cock inside you. Rendered breathless, all words leave your mind. You can only moan to let him know how good he’s making you feel. Jungwon continues to buck wildly against you, eager to taste his own pleasure. 

“Never gonna leave you again,” he groans, kissing and sucking your lips into his mouth. “Never wanna be without you.” 

Boneless and weak, you use the last of your strength to card your fingers through his hair one last time, meeting his eyes with a fond look. His dick throbs, aching and heavy, and your gaze is not helping stave off his impending release. He curses his gods and yours for trying to separate the two of you, eternally grateful that you defied the odds by coming together as his stomach and balls tighten. 

Jungwon doesn’t want it to end. It all feels too fast. But the look you give him reassures that you will have many more opportunities to come. Opportunities for him to lazily rock against you in the mornings, moments to fuck you into oblivion, and moments to make proper love. He can't wait to hear more sounds from you and to whisper filthier words into your ear, and to feel you melt around him time and time again. 

The syrupy sounds you release fill him up, and as his voice jumps the octave in a breathy moan, he releases into the condom. His dick twitches relentlessly against your walls, overstimulating you beyond the point where you could care. He rocks against you unceremoniously, jerky and without rhythm before slowing to a gentle end. 

Jungwon presses his forehead to yours, allowing you to cradle his face in your palms as you press sweet kisses into his skin. As the two of you slow, stilling into a quiet calm, your breaths sync and your hands continue to explore in a hushed wonder. 

For the first time in your life, you don’t mind basking in the silence of the morning, consenting to his gaze under the broad daylight, despite being certain you look like a sweaty, fucked-out mess. But Jungwon doesn’t care, you’re his girl all the same. 

The two of you finally come to, giggly kisses keeping you occupied until you grow hungry, stumbling out of bed to clean yourselves. And as you sit on the floor of your living room, beside Jungwon, handing him a grilled cheese—too tired to fix anything else—you realize that your father has been right about many things, but he could not possibly be more wrong than he was about your boyfriend and his character. He is the sea and the sky and the Earth, all wrapped into one. 

When Jungwon knocks his knee against your bare thigh, dressed only in his underwear with buttered crumbs stuck to his lips as he sends you a love-sick smile, you feel certain that you did the right thing by returning to the beach that day. With the moon etched into his eyes and the sun kissing your skin, your infatuation has transcended worlds. 

ⓒ starvine

[starvine]

thank you guys so much for all the kind comments!! they really make my day

[starvine]

now what the hell could all this mean

[michaeldiary]

𓂃 handle with care. (2)

⋮ ⌗ ┆ thriller era michael.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ summary: what happens when someone who has spent his whole life controlled finally has to choose who gets authority over his future?

⋮ ⌗ ┆ SMUT 🔞, submissive coded michael, pregnancy / unplanned pregnancy, fear of disclosure / secrecy in relationships, guilt, lying by omission (?), high interpersonal conflict in a domestic setting, intense verbal confrontation / shouting, j*e jackson, anxiety, angst.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ part one here!

The apartment had grown so quiet that she could hear the faint ticking of the clock above her stove, it blended with the low hum of the refrigerator in the next room and the television murmuring. Michael hadn’t moved from his place in her lap in what felt like forever. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, unblinking—but she knew he wasn’t actually looking at anything. Whatever was happening behind those eyes, his mind was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere back at Hayvenhurst. Somewhere standing in the doorway of his bedroom with his father looking at him like he was still fifteen years old instead of a grown man making his family millions. Her fingers continued their slow path through his curls before drifting lower to trace the shell of his ear, a habit she’d developed months ago after realizing it usually made him melt into a smile. Tonight it earned her almost nothing.

The contrast was jarring because less than half an hour ago he’d arrived at her apartment looking like a man being chased by his own thoughts. He had barely made it through the front door before pulling off his sunglasses and throwing them onto the coffee table. His jacket had followed seconds later, landing carelessly across the arm of her couch where it still sat now, half sliding toward the floor. He’d accepted a glass of water from her, taken exactly one sip then abandoned it entirely. After that came the pacing. Endless pacing. Across the living room. Through the small hallway. Back again. Hands in his hair. Hands on his hips. Hands moving every time he spoke. He hadn’t even seemed aware he was doing it. The frustration had been rolling off him in waves, making him restless in a way she rarely saw. Michael wasn’t naturally confrontational. If anything, he tended to avoid conflict until it cornered him. So when something upset him enough to make him pace, she knew it had unsettled him deeply.

Now all that franticness seemed to have collapsed inward. She’d seen it happen before, Michael never stayed angry for long but hurt lasted much longer. Anger burned hot and quickly in him before giving way to something quieter and infinitely sadder. He’d withdraw into himself piece by piece until he seemed distant even while sitting inches away. It wasn’t cold like he was punishing her nor was it him shutting people out intentionally. If anything, it felt more like watching somebody disappear underwater. He was still there. She could see him, but reaching him became harder the deeper he sank.

She hated it because she knew exactly where it came from. People looked at Michael and saw a confident young man. They saw stardom. Adoration. They saw screaming crowds and magazine covers and gold records hanging on walls. What they didn’t see was how quickly he retreated when somebody he loved wounded him. They didn’t see the flashes of uncertainty, the pressure and uncomfort that appeared whenever his father was involved. The way a single comment from Joe could undo an entire weeks worth of confidence. The way Michael still carried himself around that man with the cautiousness of a son instead of the certainty of a grown man. Sometimes she wanted to shake him and remind him who he was. Remind him that millions of people adored him, remind him that he didn’t need permission anymore. But it wasn't that simple. Family never was.

Her fingers slipped back into his curls, scratching lightly against his scalp and usually he would lean into it without thinking. Usually his eyes would close and a smile would tug at the corner of his mouth. Tonight there was only the smallest reaction, his eyelids fluttered briefly before settling again. The tension was still there though, it sat in the line of his shoulders and in the slight crease between his brows. In the way his jaw occasionally tightened before relaxing again. Even lying there in her lap, safe and far away from home, he looked like part of him was still standing in that conversation.

For a while she simply watched him. The television cast shifting colors across his face. Blue. White. Gold. They slid across his skin like reflections on water, constantly changing while he remained perfectly still beneath them. Looking at him now, it was hard to reconcile him with the version that had stormed into her apartment earlier. That version had been restless movement and angry frustration. This version looked exhausted—exhausted in a way that settled behind the eyes.

Finally she spoke, her voice quiet enough that it barely disturbed the room around them.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Michael didn't answer.

His gaze never left the ceiling, but she felt the smallest shift beneath her fingertips. A swallow and a breath that caught for half a second before continuing normally. Tiny things. The kind of things most people wouldn’t notice. But she noticed them because she knew him. Because despite how absent he looked right now, she knew he had heard every word. The problem wasn‘t that Michael didn’t want to answer, he was still trying to untangle feelings he’d been carrying since long before he ever knocked on her door tonight.

The silence lingered long enough that she eventually stopped waiting for one. At first she’d thought he was simply choosing his words carefully, turning them over the way he always did whenever a conversation wandered somewhere uncomfortable. But after another minute passed, she realized he wasn’t searching for the right response at all. He was somewhere else entirely. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling.

Her fingers continued moving through his hair for another few moments before slowing to a stop. There wasn’t much else she could do. She couldn’t solve whatever war was taking place inside his head, and she knew him well enough by now to understand that forcing him to talk would only make him withdraw further. Michael spoke when he was ready. Sometimes that meant minutes. Sometimes hours. Sometimes he would disappear into his thoughts entirely only to bring something up three days later as if no time had passed at all. She glanced toward the dark windows across the room, then toward the clock in the kitchen, realizing how late it had become. The apartment had taken on that strange after midnight stillness where everything felt like a liminal space.

“You don’t have to talk about it tonight,” she said softly, letting her hand rest against his curls instead of continuing to play with them. “We can just go to bed.”

For the first time in several minutes, Michael moved. His eyes finally left the ceiling, drifting somewhere toward the television before falling away again. Eventually he nodded once, the movement small and reluctant and she had the distinct impression that he wasn’t agreeing because he felt better. He was agreeing because he was tired. Not physically tired either, emotionally exhausted.

The process of getting ready for bed unfolded with her turning off the television while Michael sat up slowly, dragging both hands over his face before standing. The apartment immediately felt different without the flickering blue light filling the room; dimmer and more intimate as she carried his abandoned glass into the kitchen and poured the untouched water down the sink. He collected the things he’d scattered around her apartment earlier, sunglasses disappeared into the pocket of his jacket and the jacket itself found its way over the back of a chair instead of remaining half fallen where he’d thrown it. He was functioning on autopilot while the rest of him remained busy with thoughts he hadn’t shared.

A little while later she stood in front of the bathroom mirror brushing her hair. The overhead light casted a warm glow across the small room while the rest of the apartment remained dark behind her. She watched herself in the reflection absentmindedly, working through a stubborn knot near the ends and trying not to think too hard about the evening. About Joe. About Michael. About the way he had looked when he first arrived, pacing her living room like he couldn’t stand being trapped inside his own skin.. it broke her heart. The brush moved steadily through her hair while her thoughts drifted further and further away.

She didn't hear him enter the bathroom. But what she noticed first was the sudden warmth at her back and the feeling of arms wrapping around her waist. Then Michael's reflection appearing beside hers in the mirror.

The brush stopped mid stroke.

For several seconds neither of them spoke. Michael simply stood there with his arms looped around her middle and his chin resting lightly against her shoulder. He wasn’t holding her tightly. If anything, the embrace felt unusually tentative. There was something uncertain about it. Something that made her stomach tighten unexpectedly in a way she didn’t like because? One of Michael’s main love languages was physical touch. Looking at their reflections together, she was struck by how tired he looked. So vulnerable as the anger from earlier had burned itself out completely, leaving behind only whatever hurt had been underneath it the entire time.

His gaze remained fixed on the mirror too. Not looking at himself exactly but not looking at her either. Just staring at the two of them standing there together as if searching for reassurance somewhere inside the image.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough that she almost missed it.

“Are you mad at me?”

(Name) actually turned slightly in his arms and for a second she just stared at him from over her shoulder. Because of all the things she expected him to say tonight, that hadn’t even crossed her mind.

Michael looked away first. His eyes dropped toward the sink before lifting again and she could see the insecurity beneath the question, genuine worry that he’d brought his problems into her home and made them hers too. That he’d spent the evening pacing and shutting down and disappearing into himself and somehow burdened her in the process. It was such a painfully Michael thing to worry about that her chest physically ached.

”I know I wasn't exactly..” He paused, searching for a word before giving up entirely. “Good company.”

The attempted joke barely survived the trip out of his mouth.

And suddenly she understood that while she’d spent the entire evening worrying about him, Michael had apparently been worrying about her too. About whether she’d finally gotten tired of carrying him through nights like this and about whether one day she might decide the weight of loving him wasn’t worth it anymore.

Even now, after everything that had happened with his father, some part of him was standing here asking permission to fall apart when he never had to worry about that.

“Baby, why would I be mad at you? Ever?”

The question left her mouth almost immediately, carrying more confusion than anything else. She turned in his arms, the movement forcing him to loosen his hold around her waist just enough for her to face him properly. The bathroom suddenly felt very small. Warm light spilled down from above the mirror, washing everything in gold and catching against the tiredness etched into his face. Up close, she could see all the things he probably thought he was hiding. The tension still lingering in his jaw. The faint shadows beneath his eyes. Michael’s gaze dropped almost instantly the moment she looked at him, drifting somewhere toward the floor between the. He genuinely meant the question. He genuinely thought there was a possibility she could be upset with him for needing her.

Her hands rose without thinking, settling firmly against either side of his face. The second he tried to glance away again, she gently but insistently redirected him back toward her.

“Michael.” His eyes flickered away once more and she immediately nudged his chin back toward her again with an expression that said absolutely not. The stubbornness (virgo men) of it almost made her laugh if the moment hadn’t felt so serious. Michael had a habit of avoiding eye contact whenever he felt vulnerable, especially when somebody was saying something he desperately needed to hear.

“Stop it.” Her voice softened, but there was an unmistakable firmness underneath it. Once again, she guided his face back toward hers when his gaze started drifting elsewhere. This time she held it there and by now, he understood she wasn’t giving him another option. For a second he looked sheepish, caught in the act. It would’ve been endearing under different circumstances. Instead, it just made her heart hurt more.

“I will never be upset with you for venting,” she said slowly, making sure he heard every single word. “Or being upset. Or needing me to listen. Or needing me to be there.”

His eyes dropped again. Unbelievable.

Her thumbs pressed lightly against his cheeks, “No.” The word came out harsher than before. “Look at me.”

Michael let out the smallest breath through his nose, somewhere between embarrassment and reluctant obedience, before finally meeting her eyes properly.

“Thank you.” Her words were quiet and affectionate. And somehow that made his expression soften more than anything else had.

“I need you to listen to me right now.” The bathroom had gone completely silent around them. Even the faint hum from the light above the mirror seemed distant compared to the sound of their breathing. Michael remained still beneath her hands now, watching her carefully and for the first time all evening she felt like she actually had his full attention.

“I don't care if you’re upset.” Her thumb brushed across his cheek. “I don’t care if you need to complain.”

Another gentle stroke. “I don't care if you spend three hours pacing holes into my floor because you’re angry.” The corner of his mouth twitched before he could stop it and he saw it immediately.

Good. Because she wanted him present for this.

”I don't care if you come over here and sit on my couch all night without saying a single word.” Her voice softened further. ”What I care about is you standing here wondering if I'm angry because you needed me.”

Because beneath all the fame and success, there was still a large part of Michael that seemed convinced love had to be earned somehow. Through performance. Through achievement. Through being easy to deal with. Through never asking for too much. And every now and then she caught glimpses of it, usually on nights like this.

His throat moved as he swallowed.

“Do you understand me, Michael?” The question hung between them and he nodded immediately.

The response was so quick she almost rolled her eyes. And judging by the flash of embarrassment that crossed his face a second later, he knew exactly what he’d done.

“No.” She gave his cheeks the tiniest squeeze. “No, sir.”

His expression shifted into something dangerously close to a smile. “You don't get to nod your way out of this conversation.” And his smile grew slightly despite his obvious attempt to suppress it.

“Use your words.”

For the first time since he’d arrived at her apartment, something sweeter finally broke through the exhaustion, appearing for only a moment before he ducked his head again out of habit. Immediately one hand slid beneath his chin and guided him right back.

“I hear you.” The corner of her mouth lifted.

The smile that appeared on her face felt genuine at first. Small and warm and effortless in the way smiles always seemed to be around Michael when he let his guard down. For a moment, the heaviness that had settled over the entire evening loosened its grip. Watching him finally crack after her relentless insistence that he look at her, watching the reluctant amusement tug at the corner of his mouth despite how exhausted he was, it felt like she’d managed to pull him back from wherever he’d disappeared to. Enough that she forgot.

For exactly one second.

Then she remembered.

The smile faltered almost immediately. One moment it was there and the next it wasn’t quite as bright. Because the second her mind stopped focusing on Michael, it returned to the thing waiting patiently in the background. The thing she’d spent days avoiding. The thing sitting between her ribs every waking moment. Tell him. The thought arrived so suddenly it almost startled her. Tell him. Her stomach tightened because he was right here. Right in front of her. Standing inches away. Looking at her. Listening to her. Trusting her. If there was ever going to be a moment, surely this was it.

She could practically feel the words pressing against the back of her teeth. They seemed so simple in theory. A single sentence. It would take less than five seconds to say aloud. Michael, I'm pregnant. That was it. No speech required, just the truth. But the second she imagined actually saying it, panic swept through her. Not now. The excuse surfaced immediately. Not now. Her eyes drifted over his face. The tiredness was still there. The remnants of whatever argument he’d had with his father still lingered around the edges of his expression. He’d spent the evening unraveling, asking if she was mad at him for simply needing her. She had just spent the last twenty minutes convincing him he wasn’t a burden. Convincing him it was okay to fall apart sometimes. Convincing him she wasn’t going anywhere. How could she possibly drop something like this into his lap now?

The thought alone made her feel sick. He had just calmed down. Just breathed. Just smiled. And now she was supposed to tell him something that had the potential to change the course of both of their lives forever? No. Tomorrow. Tomorrow made more sense. Tomorrow was better. Tomorrow was responsible. Tomorrow wasn’t standing barefoot in a bathroom after midnight with his father’s voice still haunting the evening. Tomorrow wasn’t while he was exhausted emotionally. Tomorrow wasn’t while she was terrified. The excuses came quickly in her mind. One after another, so quickly they nearly sounded reasonable. And deep down she hated that she recognized them for exactly what they were. Excuses. Because tomorrow would become next week. And next week would become after his next rehearsal. And after that there would be another reason. Another bad day. Another inconvenient moment. Another excuse to keep postponing the inevitable.

Her chest tightened painfully. Fuck. Just tell him. The thought returned again. Louder this time. More insistent. She looked at him, at the warmth in his eyes. At the concern that always seemed to appear whenever something was wrong with her. At the man standing in front of her who had spent the last hour unknowingly proving exactly why she loved him. And suddenly the words felt impossible. Not difficult but fucking impossible. They had lodged themselves somewhere behind her ribs and refused to move.

The silence lasted only a few seconds though, it felt much longer. Michael noticed immediately. Of course he did. The smile he’d been trying to suppress faded slightly as his expression shifted. Concern settled across his face almost at once. She watched his brow furrow, his eyes searching hers. Michael had always been frighteningly observant when it came to her. He missed entire conversations sometimes when he got trapped in his own thoughts, but the second her mood changed even slightly, he noticed.

“What’s the matter?” The question came quietly, gently. Not suspicious but concerned as his hands remained resting against her waist. ”What is it, pretty girl?”

Her heart dropped straight into her stomach. For one terrible moment, she thought she was actually going to do it. The words surged forward. So close she could practically hear them. Michael, I'm... Instead she froze. Completely. The truth hovered there between them, desperate to be spoken and utterly trapped at the same time. So she did the cowardly thing. The easy thing. The thing she'd been doing for days.

She smiled.

Or at least she tried to and it wasn't nearly as convincing this time. Her hand drifted slowly, settling against the side of his neck. Her thumb brushed lightly against his skin while she desperately searched for something to say. Anything to redirect him. Anything that would keep him from asking another question.

“Nothing.” The lie came out softer than she intended—she could have believed herself. Her throat felt tight as she swallowed hard, then forced another smile. “I just..” Her voice nearly cracked and she hated that. Hated how emotional she’d become lately. The affection in her eyes was real, though. That part wasn’t a lie. Not even a little. She looked at him for another second before gently smoothing a curl away from his forehead.

“I just love you.” For the first time all night, it occurred to her that loving him and telling him the truth might soon become the exact same thing.

“I can tell you’re thinkin’ about somethin’ though, baby..” He says, but it never really gets to settle because she shifts and that gaze she’s giving him changes the entire shape of the moment before it can become any spoken language. Her hands are still on him, still warm at his neck but something in her attention to him.. Michael notices it immediately, even if he can’t define what he’s noticing yet—or maybe he can and he’s pretending not to for the sake of being a good boyfriend.

His sentence starts to form and then fractures halfway through. “You can tell me anythin—” he begins, but it breaks apart before it can become anything stable as she comes closer, closing the space between them by pressing her breasts up against his chest. The conversation he was attempting to hold onto doesn’t go away, but it does loses structure as his mind has to reset around her presence.

And she knows that.

She can feel it happening in real time.

(Name) knows exactly what she’s doing, that’s the worst part. Her hands slide down from his neck to his chest, fingers flattening lightly against him before one hand moves higher, to his jaw. Her thumb brushes once along the edge and her touch is gentle, but the intention beneath it is already shifting away from conversation.

She tilts his face toward her.

Michael’s eyes flicker down to her mouth before he can stop them, confusion still present, still trying to hold onto the question he lost. And that small lapse is all it takes for her to lean in. The kiss lands softly at first, her hand staying at his jaw while the other slips lightly up into the hair at the nape of his neck as her fingers curl there while she draws him in.

Michael responds instantly because he always does with her, like instinct has learned her before thought has time to interfere. His hands settle at her waist again, pulling her in closer against him without hesitation. There is no resistance in him, no suspicion, just familiarity taking over where confusion was trying to exist. But the confusion doesn’t vanish. It scatters instead. The question he was holding breaks apart, fragments of it still lingering somewhere behind his eyes, no longer organized enough to become speech.

When she breaks the kiss, it is only enough to breathe but she stays close, forehead almost brushing his for a second before she shifts slightly, her attention drifting lower. Her lips find the line of his jaw first, slower now—this time it feels less like an interruption and more like something she’s sinking into because if she stops now it, would force her back into words she is not ready to say. She kisses there once, then again, each one lingering a little longer than the last.

Michael exhales under it, a sound that catches halfway between thought and reaction. “Hey—” he tries.

Her mouth moves again along his jaw slower now and his head tilts slightly without him fully realizing it, his body responding before his mind can catch up and reassert control. That small shift is enough to undo whatever sentence was trying to form. It breaks cleanly, leaving only sensation where language was trying to exist.

“I—Baby, hoh—” he tries again, softer this time, but it dissolves mid breath. His brow pulls faintly together, not in frustration with her, but with himself. He’s is aware something is slipping but cannot grab it fast enough to pull it back into place. He swallows, attempting to reset, to return to whatever he was asking, but the rhythm between them has already changed. The conversation no longer has a clear edge to land on.

Michael’s hands rested loosely at her waist and she watched him for a moment before a smile slowly tugged at her mouth. ”Let’s play,” she murmured. The words were enough to make his brows raise a bit, faint pinkness touched his cheeks before he could stop it. He was feeling warm.

“Pattycake?” he asked quietly, already knowing exactly what she meant. She nodded once, trying and failing to suppress her smile with a bitten lio. The second he saw it, he let out a small laugh through his nose and dropped his gaze toward the floor.

For a moment, Michael looked almost embarrassed by how easily she’d derailed the entire evening. One hand slid up to rub the back of his neck while he shook his head at her, smiling despite himself. “You’re somethin' else,” he muttered, the words carrying more affection than criticism.

His earlier questions seemed distant now, not forgotten entirely, but pushed to the edges of the room where neither of them wanted to look at them yet. When he finally glanced back up, there was a warmth in his expression that hadn't been there when he’d first arrived. ”Pattycake,” he repeated under his breath with another quiet laugh, he still couldn’t believe that was the name they’d settled on, even after all this time. But he was still too shy to refer to their sex as what it is: fucking. She’s too ”ladylike” and he’s too much of a gentleman.

At some point, he ended up on his back with her naked skin close against him, one arm locked tightly around her waist because letting go had stopped being a consideration altogether. His breathing wasn’t fully steady yet, still a little uneven as sis curls were slightly damp, falling messily against his forehead. His eyes stayed half lidded for a moment before drifting shut again.

He looked completely gone—a sweet angel boy lost in his own pleasure. He deserved this, he deserved his dick getting swallowed up by her perfect pussy. Her thighs tensed as she sank up and down repeatedly, her slick, tight pussy swallowing his pretty dick inch by inch. She rode him with a steady rhythm, the wet heat gripping him tight every time she bottomed out. A frothy ring of white cream gathered at the base of his shaft, growing thicker with each downward thrust as she bounced relentlessly on top of him. She pushes him downward, making him fall back down onto the pillows at the headboard as she steadies herself by planting her hands onto his chest. (Name)’s already managed to cum twice, but now it was his turn.

Michael was so pretty. Such a beautiful man.

She stayed pressed against him as she continued to bounce onto him, feeling the uneven rise and fall of his breathing under her hands. Michael looked completely gone—fucked out already and by then his grip at her waist had loosened, looking up at her through his lashes with lidded eyes.

And her mind started to drift with him.

He deserves this, she thought immediately—it was obvious, it had always been obvious, right? He deserves to be like this. Elated.. warm. Not thinking so hard all the time. Not carrying everything. Her fingers moved through his hair again and the thought softened as it repeated itself, not really structured anymore, just circling.

He deserves this, he deserves this, he deserves to just be here for a minute. He deserves this.

It almost sounded like relief in her head. Almost.

But it kept going anyway, loosening as it spun. He deserves this, she thought it again but slower this time and its more scattered, she was watching the idea from farther away while still holding onto it.

He deserves it after everything tonight, after how tense he was, after the way his whole face changed when he came in. He deserves this and I’m just.. I’m just helping him, I think. I think that’s what this is. Helping him. Keeping him here. Keeping him okay.

The words started to blur into each other a little after that.

Because underneath them, something else kept trying to push through—a quieter thought.

He deserves this.

And I deserve.. what?

The question didn’t fully form, it flickered and broke apart almost as soon as it appeared. She tightened her hold on him slightly without meaning to, like anchoring herself back into something physical would stop her from drifting too far into her own head.

Michael shifted a little against her, still half lost in his pleasure.

He deserves to feel good. He deserves to not be thinking about any of that right now. Not tonight. Not when he finally looks like this. Not when I finally got him here.

And that last part slipped in without her asking for it.

I got him here.

The thought made something twist in her chest—guilty. She felt fucking guilty. She swallowed it down quickly, tucking it behind the other thoughts before it could grow teeth.

He deserves this! She told herself again, pleading with the idea instead of stating it

He deserves this and I can’t ruin it right now. I can’t. Not when he’s finally quiet. Not when he’s finally okay. Not when he’s finally—

Her gaze dropped to him again.

Cum, he’s about to cum.

His hands gripped her hips as she rose off his cock, the wet suction breaking with a soft pop. She leaned forward, lips on his ear and holding his jaw in place while presenting her ass to him, and he immediately reached around them both. With a few rough strokes of his own fist, his dick twitched violently—one thick pulse, then another, shooting hot ropes of cum across her rounded ass cheeks.

“That’s right, baby.. give it to me—” She whispered in his ear, her grip on his jaw tighter as she places kisses on the side of his face. “You have so much of it for me, don’t you?”

“Oh, oh.. baby—” Michael’s moans nearly sound like he’s crying, so tightly wound and high pitched. “So much of it!”

He pumps the last bit of seed out of him and his breathing eventually evened out into something slower, heavier, the kind that came after too much of everything all at once. The tension that had been clinging to him since Hayvenhurst had finally drained away completely, leaving him softened in her arms, his grip at her waist loose but tracing patterns into her skin. She stayed with him in the quiet, feeling the last remnants of his warmth settle into the space between them while the room dimmed into near silence.

Somewhere between her thoughts slowing down and his breathing deepening, sleep took them both without ceremony, pulling them under.

Then.. morning arrived too quickly.

The golden light had barely started to warm the room when hard knocks landed at the door, loud enough to cut straight through the sleep they’d fallen into. More knocks came again, harder this time, followed immediately by a voice that cut through the thin walls of the apartment like it had been waiting there all night.

“MICHAEL!”

She and Michael both stirred at the same time, pulled out of sleep in pieces rather than fully waking at once. For a few seconds, neither of them moved properly, just disoriented in that soft, half dream space where reality hadn’t fully arrived yet. Then another knock hit the door, sharper, more insistent, followed by overlapping voices outside.

“Dad, calm down—”

“Just let him open the door—”

“Joe, stop—”

The brothers were there too.

Michael pushed himself upright slowly, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep, confusion immediately giving way to something more alert as the voices outside kept rising. She could feel the shift instantly.

“Michael!” Joe’s voice came again, louder now. “Open this door!”

They both stood, quickly getting dressed before moving down the hallway. Michael glanced back at her once before moving toward the door as she held onto his bicep tightly.

When he opened the front door, Joe stood at the center of it rigid with anger, with his sons behind him trying unsuccessfully to contain the situation, their faces tight with exhaustion.

Joe’s eyes landed on her immediately.

Not Michael, but her.

And whatever restraint he had been holding onto snapped into something cold and direct.

“I don’t want you around my son.”

© 2026 michaeldiary

[starvine]

YOOOOO heart is aching and pussy is aching