݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ 𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂.You start visiting your best friend’s house more often than usual. Between shared coffee, late nights, quiet conversations, and moments alone with her brother, something soft and confusing begins to grow. Feelings appear where they’re not supposed to… and slowly become impossible to ignore.
݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ 𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰.Beomgyu × fem!reader
݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ 𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓻𝓮.Romance, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Fluff, University AU, Light Angst
݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ 𝔀𝓬. 6.4k
݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓮.I’ve been a little inactive lately because I was preparing everything I’m sharing with you today with a lot of love. Thank you so much for waiting and for supporting this blog. I truly hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it 😛
You’re not nervous. At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you stand in front of your best friend’s house, phone in hand, rereading her last message.
Come in, I’m just finishing something. Door’s open.
You’re only here for her. That’s it. To study. To hang out. To complain about life. To eat snacks and watch something dumb like always. You’ve been to her place before, but never really stayed long. Never properly. So you take a breath and push the door open.
“Hello?” you call softly.
The house smells like laundry detergent and coffee. It’s quiet, except for faint music playing somewhere inside. You take off your shoes and step in. That’s when you see him.
He’s standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a glass of water in one hand and his phone in the other. He looks up at the same time you do. For a second, neither of you moves.
Oh. So this is Beomgyu.
You’ve heard about him, of course. Your best friend talks about him sometimes. Her brother. Nice. Quiet. Always in his room. Always studying. Always polite. But hearing about someone and seeing them are two very different things. He’s taller than you expected. Soft hair falling into his eyes. A loose hoodie. Sleeves slightly too long for his hands. He looks… gentle. Like someone who apologizes even when it’s not his fault.
“Oh—” he says quickly, standing up straighter. “You’re… you’re her friend, right?”
You nod. “Yeah. I’m waiting for her.”
“She’s in her room,” he answers. “She’ll be out soon. She said… uh… to tell you to make yourself comfortable.” He sounds a little nervous. So do you.
“Okay,” you reply, smiling softly. “Thanks.”
There’s another pause.
Then he clears his throat. “Do you want some water? Or… coffee? Tea?”
You blink. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine,” he says quickly. “I mean— I don’t mind.”
You laugh quietly. “Water is good.”
He nods immediately. “Okay. One second.”
He disappears into the kitchen. You sit down on the couch, hands folded in your lap, suddenly very aware that you’re alone in his house. With him. Which is funny, because you didn’t even think about him before today. You just came for your friend.
Beomgyu comes back a moment later and carefully hands you the glass like it’s something fragile. “Here.”
“Thank you,” you say.
Your fingers brush for half a second. Barely anything. Still, you both notice. He pulls his hand back quickly. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you reply at the same time.
Silence follows. Not awkward. Just… quiet. Comfortable, somehow.
He sits on the armchair across from you, leaving a polite distance. Not too close. Not too far. Like he’s measuring it.
“So,” he says after a moment. “You… uh… did you have a good day?”
“Yeah,” you answer. “Long. But good.”
He nods. “That’s good.”
You sip your water. He watches you for half a second, then looks away. You start to notice small things: the way he fidgets with his sleeves, the way he listens carefully even when you’re not saying much, the way he keeps glancing toward the hallway, probably waiting for his sister to come back. Like he’s worried you’ll be uncomfortable alone with him.
You’re not.
You’re… strangely calm.
“She’ll be out soon,” he says again, like he needs to reassure you.
“I’m not in a hurry,” you answer.
He looks at you, surprised. “Oh. Okay.”
A tiny smile appears on his lips before he can stop it. It’s soft. Real. You like it.
You talk a little more. About school. About homework. About how tired you both are lately. Nothing deep. Nothing special. And yet, it feels… easy.
When your friend finally comes running down the stairs, apologizing loudly, you barely notice how much time has passed.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says. “Did you wait long?”
“No,” you answer. “It’s fine.”
Beomgyu stands up. “I’ll… um… be in my room.”
“Thanks, Gyuu,” she says casually.
He nods and walks away. Before he disappears, he looks back at you for half a second. You’re already looking. Your eyes meet. He smiles again. Small. Shy. Then he’s gone.
You turn back to your friend, starting to talk about what you came for, about homework and plans and random things, like always. You don’t think much of what just happened. You don’t question why the house felt warmer than usual, or why the silence with him didn’t feel awkward, or why you remember his smile so clearly.
You’re just here for your best friend.
That’s all.
And still, without realizing it, something quiet has already settled between you and Beomgyu, something soft and unspoken, growing slowly in the background while life keeps moving forward like nothing has changed.
At first, you don’t even notice when it starts.
You just begin coming over more often.
Sometimes it’s to study. Sometimes it’s because your best friend begs you to sleep over. Sometimes it’s because neither of you wants to be alone at home. It becomes normal to text her, I’m coming over, and hear back, Door’s open.
So you go.
You bring your backpack, your charger, extra clothes. You curl up on her bed, steal her snacks, complain about assignments. It feels the same as always. Comfortable. Easy.
Except now, Beomgyu is always there too.
Not in an obvious way. He doesn’t hover. He doesn’t suddenly become loud. He’s just… around. In the kitchen. In the living room. Passing by with his headphones on. Sitting quietly with a book.
And little by little, you start noticing how often you end up alone with him.
Your friend is always busy.
“I have to take this call,” she says, disappearing into her room.
“I’ll shower first,” she announces.
“Wait here, I’ll cook something.”
“You two wait, I’ll be right back.”
And then she’s gone.
Again.
Leaving you and Beomgyu in the same room, surrounded by silence and soft background noise.
The first few times, it’s awkward.
Not bad. Just uncertain.
You sit on opposite sides of the couch. He checks his phone too much. You pretend to focus on your notes. Neither of you knows what to say.
But slowly, that changes.
One afternoon, he brings you coffee without asking.
You blink at the cup. “For me?”
He nods. “You… you always drink it with milk and no sugar. Right?”
You stare at him for a second. “You remembered?”
“I—” He scratches his neck. “You mentioned it once.”
You smile. “Thank you.”
After that, it happens more often.
He puts on soft music when you’re studying because he noticed you concentrate better that way. He lowers the volume of the TV when you look tired. He leaves snacks near you without making a big deal out of it.
You start talking more.
Not about big things. Just… life.
“How was your day?” he asks quietly.
“Tiring,” you answer. “Yours?”
“Same.”
Sometimes you sit at the table together, doing separate things, not really talking, just sharing space. Your knees almost touch. His arm rests close to yours. Not touching. Never touching.
He’s careful.
Always.
You notice that.
When you laugh too loud, he smiles. When you’re quiet, he checks if you’re okay. When you’re cold, he hands you a blanket without a word.
And somehow, without realizing it, you start feeling… at home.
Not just in your friend’s room.
In the house.
In the living room where you study together. In the kitchen where he makes you tea late at night. On the couch where you watch random videos while waiting for her to come back.
With him.
One evening, you’re sitting at the table, books spread everywhere. Your friend is in the bathroom, singing loudly. Beomgyu is across from you, focused on his notes.
“You’re really smart,” you say suddenly.
He looks up, surprised. “Me?”
“Yeah,” you reply. “You explain things so well.”
His ears turn pink. “I’m just… used to studying.”
“Still,” you say. “It helps.”
He looks at you for a second longer than necessary. “I’m glad.”
From then on, studying together becomes normal.
So does drinking coffee together in silence. Listening to playlists. Sharing earbuds for a few minutes. Falling asleep on opposite sides of the couch.
Your friend doesn’t even question it anymore.
She just says, “I’ll be back,” and leaves you two alone.
And you don’t mind.
You start noticing that Beomgyu knows your habits now.
He knows when you’re about to get hungry. When you’re too tired to talk. When you need quiet. When you need distraction.
He adjusts without being asked.
And you do the same.
You save him the last cookie. You remind him to rest. You bring him water when he forgets.
Neither of you says anything about it.
It’s just… natural.
One night, you’re both in the living room. The lights are dim. Soft music plays. Your friend is on a long call in her room.
You’re sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch. Beomgyu sits behind you, back against the same couch.
Your shoulders are almost touching.
Almost.
“This feels… normal,” you say quietly.
He hums. “Yeah.”
You smile. “Like I’ve been coming here forever.”
He hesitates. Then says softly, “I like when you’re here.”
Your heart skips.
“Me too,” you answer, just as softly.
Silence follows.
Not uncomfortable.
Warm.
And somewhere between shared coffees, late nights, quiet conversations, and “you two wait” moments, you realize something without quite admitting it.
You and Beomgyu are no longer strangers.
You’re no longer just “my friend’s brother” and “my sister’s friend.”
You’re part of each other’s routine now.
Part of each other’s safe space.
And neither of you knows what to do with that yet.
At some point, staying over stops being something you plan. It just… happens. You come after school “for a while” and end up staying. You bring a small bag “just in case” and actually use it. You fall asleep on your friend’s bed without even changing clothes. You wake up and realize you’re still there. No one questions it. Not you. Not her. Not Beomgyu. It becomes normal.
Most nights, your friend falls asleep early. She’s always tired, always busy, always saying “I’m exhausted” before disappearing into her room and passing out five minutes later. And that’s when it happens. The house gets quiet. No music. No talking. No phones ringing. Just soft sounds: the fridge humming, the clock ticking, the distant noise of cars outside. And you and Beomgyu, still awake.
At first, you both try to pretend you’re tired too. You scroll on your phone. He reads the same page three times. You yawn dramatically. He pretends not to notice. But eventually, one of you always speaks.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head. “Not really.”
“Do you want… tea?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
So you go to the kitchen together. Barefoot. Quiet. Careful not to wake anyone up. He fills the kettle, you take out two mugs. He knows which one you like now. You know where he keeps the honey. You move around each other without bumping into anything, like you’ve done this a hundred times before. Maybe you have.
You sit at the table, steam rising between you, windows slightly open. Cool night air mixes with warm tea. The city looks softer at this hour, like everything is resting. You talk. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… honestly.
“How was today?” he asks.
“Tiring,” you admit. “I’m kind of burned out lately.”
He nods slowly. “Me too.”
You glance at him. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I don’t talk about it much.”
You wrap your hands around your mug. “You can. With me.”
He looks at you, surprised, then thoughtful.
“I’m scared of disappointing people,” he admits quietly. “Of not being enough.”
Your heart tightens.
“I think you’re more than enough,” you say immediately.
He smiles a little. “You always say things like that.”
“Because I mean them.”
Some nights, he talks about his dreams. Not big, unrealistic ones. Simple ones.
“I just want… a calm life,” he says once. “A place where I feel safe.”
You nod. “That sounds nice.”
“What about you?” he asks.
You think for a moment. “I want to be happy doing what I love. And… not feel guilty about it.”
He listens carefully. Always. Like your words matter. Like they’re something precious.
Other nights, you talk about fears. About feeling lost. About being tired of pretending. About not knowing if you’re on the right path. Sometimes, you talk about nothing at all. Random stories. Old memories. Things that made you laugh. And sometimes, you don’t talk. You just sit there, together, in comfortable silence.
After tea, you usually move to the living room. You sit on the couch, not too close, not too far. A blanket appears somehow, half on you, half on him. Your shoulders touch. This time, neither of you pulls away. You watch something quietly, or listen to music, or stare out the window while the night keeps moving outside.
Your eyelids grow heavy. Sometimes, you fall asleep like that, head tilted slightly toward him. He notices. He always notices. He never moves you. He just sits still, barely breathing, afraid of waking you up.
When you wake up, disoriented, you realize you were sleeping next to him.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble.
“It’s okay,” he answers quickly. “You looked comfortable.”
Your heart beats faster.
These late nights become yours. Not something you hide. Just something that belongs to you. To the quiet version of you. To the honest version of him.
You start caring more than you should. You worry when he looks tired. You get sad when he seems distant. You feel happy when he laughs. You feel safe when he’s near.
He feels it too. You can see it in the way he waits for you before going to bed, in the way he saves you the last cup of tea, in the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.
There’s something growing between you. Slow. Soft. Fragile.
Neither of you says it. Neither of you dares to.
But in these quiet, late hours, with windows open and hearts unguarded, you both start to realize the same thing.
You’re no longer just keeping each other company.
You’re becoming important.
Too important.
And that scares you more than you’d like to admit.
By now, you both know something is there.
You don’t talk about it. You don’t name it. You don’t even admit it to yourselves out loud. But it lives in the small things. In the way your heart reacts when he walks into a room. In the way he looks at you for half a second longer than necessary. In the way silence between you feels heavier than before.
Your friend starts being out more often. Study groups. Late shifts. Random plans. “I’ll be back late,” she says casually. “You two wait.” And just like that, she leaves you alone together without realizing what she’s doing.
So it’s you and Beomgyu again.
In the living room. On the couch. In the kitchen. In the quiet house.
At first, you try to act normal. You talk about homework. About shows. About nothing important. You laugh too loudly at jokes that aren’t that funny. He smiles too much at things you say. Everything feels slightly… off. Like you’re both walking on invisible lines.
One night, you’re sitting close. Closer than usual. Your knees almost touch. Your shoulders brush when you laugh. Neither of you moves away.
You’re watching something on his phone, heads bent together.
“Look,” you say, pointing at the screen.
He leans in to see better.
Your faces are suddenly too close.
You can feel his breath. He can feel yours. The world seems to pause for half a second. You look at his eyes. He looks at your lips. Then back to your eyes. Then—
He pulls away.
Not harshly. Not coldly.
Just… carefully.
“Sorry,” he says quietly, clearing his throat. “I— I should probably… sit over there.”
He moves to the other side of the couch.
Your heart sinks.
“Oh,” you reply softly. “Yeah. Of course.”
You don’t understand. Or maybe you do, and you don’t want to.
Another time, you’re in the kitchen, making late-night snacks. You’re standing on your toes to reach something. Without thinking, he steps behind you and reaches above your head.
For a second, his chest brushes your back.
His hand pauses.
So does yours.
Neither of you breathes.
Then he takes the box quickly and steps away.
“Here,” he says, handing it to you, eyes fixed on the counter.
“Thanks,” you whisper.
Your hands shake a little.
Sometimes, he laughs at something you say and forgets himself. His hand lands on your arm. Your waist. Your shoulder.
Every time, he realizes.
Every time, he pulls back.
Every time, he looks guilty.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. Always.
You start noticing patterns.
How he keeps more distance. How he sits a little farther. How he avoids late-night cuddles with blankets. How he stands up when things feel too close. How he suddenly remembers he has to “study” or “do something” whenever the tension grows.
And it hurts.
Not sharply. Not dramatically.
Quietly.
You start wondering if you imagined everything. If those late nights meant nothing. If the way he looks at you is just kindness. If you’re being stupid for feeling like this.
One evening, your friend texts that she’ll be late again.
You and Beomgyu are in the living room, music playing softly. You’re both relaxed. Talking. Laughing. Forgetting.
For a moment, it feels like before.
You’re sitting next to him, legs touching. He doesn’t move away. You rest your head lightly against the back of the couch, close to his shoulder.
He freezes.
You notice.
“Are you okay?” you ask softly.
He swallows. “Yeah. I just… we should probably not… get too comfortable.”
Your chest tightens.
“Why?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
He looks at you, eyes conflicted.
“Because,” he says quietly, “some lines are there for a reason.”
Silence falls between you.
“Oh,” you whisper.
“I don’t want to mess things up,” he continues. “With you. With her. With… everything.”
You nod slowly. “Me neither.”
But inside, you’re already messed up.
After that, things change.
Not completely.
He’s still kind. Still gentle. Still there for you.
But there are new rules now.
No leaning too close.
No long touches.
No falling asleep together.
No almost-kisses.
Invisible boundaries you both follow without talking about them.
You tell yourself it’s for the best.
He tells himself the same.
And yet, every time he walks away first, every time he chooses distance over closeness, you’re left sitting there, staring at the empty space beside you, wondering why doing the “right thing” hurts so much.
And why, no matter how many lines you draw, your heart keeps crossing them anyway.
Your friend asks you to accompany her to a party that weekend, it's louder than you expected.
Music shaking the walls. People laughing too much. Drinks being passed around. Your friend is having fun, pulling you onto the dance floor, spinning you around, shouting lyrics in your ear. You laugh with her, let yourself enjoy it, even if parties aren’t really your thing.
Still, you stay. For her.
By the time you leave, it’s late.
Too late.
The streets are quiet now. The city feels sleepy. Your friend is half-asleep in the passenger seat of the ride back, head leaning against the window. You’re tired too, feet sore, throat dry, head a little heavy from noise and conversations.
When you finally reach her house, everything is dark and silent.
She unlocks the door slowly, trying not to make noise. Inside, she drops her bag on the floor and stretches.
“I’m exhausted,” she murmurs.
You smile. “Same.”
She yawns dramatically. “I’m going straight to bed. I can’t even think.”
Then she turns to you, wraps her arms around you for a quick hug.
“Good night,” she says softly. “Love you.”
“Love you,” you reply.
And just like that, she disappears into her room.
The door closes.
The house is quiet again.
You’re left standing in the living room, still wearing your jacket, shoes in your hands, unsure what to do next.
That’s when you notice the light in the kitchen.
Beomgyu is awake.
He’s sitting at the table with his laptop open, glasses low on his nose, hair a little messy. When he hears you, he looks up immediately.
“Oh,” he says softly. “You’re back.”
“Yeah,” you answer. “Sorry, it’s late.”
“It’s okay,” he replies quickly. “I mean— I was awake anyway.”
He stands up almost nervously.
“Did you… did you get home safe?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah. She made sure.”
He lets out a small breath, like he was holding it.
“That’s good.”
There’s a short silence.
Then he gestures toward the kitchen. “Do you want some water? Or tea? You probably need it.”
“Water’s fine,” you say.
You follow him into the kitchen.
The lights are soft. The house feels different at night. Quieter. More intimate. Like the world outside doesn’t exist.
He hands you a glass. Your fingers brush for half a second.
Both of you notice.
Neither of you reacts.
You sit at the counter. He leans against the opposite side.
For a while, you just drink in silence.
Then, softly, he speaks.
“Did you have fun?”
“Yeah,” you answer. “It was nice. Loud. But nice.”
He smiles a little. “She likes that kind of thing.”
“Yeah,” you laugh quietly. “She does.”
Another pause.
Then, without planning to, you say, “Sometimes I feel like I don’t really belong in places like that.”
He looks at you, attentive.
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” you admit. “I just… feel out of place. Like I’m pretending.”
He nods slowly. “I get that.”
You look up. “You do?”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’ve always felt like that. Like I’m watching instead of living.”
Something about his honesty makes your chest ache.
You talk more after that.
About feeling tired. About expectations. About not knowing if you’re doing enough. About being scared of disappointing people.
He listens.
Always.
When he speaks, his voice is low, gentle.
“I worry a lot,” he admits. “About doing the wrong thing. About hurting people without meaning to.”
You look at him. “You’re one of the most careful people I know.”
He smiles sadly. “Sometimes too careful.”
The words hang between you.
You don’t know why, but suddenly you feel emotional. Raw. Open.
“I’m really glad I met you,” you say quietly.
He freezes for a second.
Then, softly, “Me too.”
You stand up without thinking and step closer.
Not fully.
Just enough.
Your arms hover for a moment, unsure.
“Can I…?” you ask.
He hesitates.
For half a second, it looks like he might say yes.
Then he looks away.
“I— I shouldn’t,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”
Your heart drops.
“Oh,” you murmur. “It’s okay.”
Your hand is still close to his. Almost touching.
Neither of you moves.
You can feel the warmth.
The tension.
The things you’re not saying.
He takes a step back.
“I should study,” he says suddenly, too fast. “I have… stuff to finish.”
“Right,” you answer. “Yeah. Of course.”
He doesn’t look at you when he walks away.
You stand there for a moment, staring at the empty space he left.
Then you quietly go to your friend’s room.
You lie down in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
Your chest feels heavy.
Not broken.
Not dramatic.
Just… sore.
Somewhere down the hall, Beomgyu sits alone at his desk, staring at his screen without reading a single word.
Both of you hurt.
Both of you silent.
Both of you pretending this distance is what’s best.
And neither of you believing it.
You arrive on Friday afternoon with a small bag and a big smile.
You’ve been looking forward to this all week.
A whole weekend together. No rushing. No homework deadlines. No early alarms. Just you, your best friend, movies, snacks, late-night talks, and lazy mornings. It feels like a little escape from everything.
She opens the door before you even knock.
“You’re early!” she laughs, pulling you into a hug.
“I missed you,” you admit.
Inside, the house smells like clean laundry and something sweet she baked earlier. Beomgyu is in the living room, sitting on the floor with his laptop. When he sees you, his face lights up for half a second before he controls it.
“Hi,” he says softly.
“Hi,” you reply, smiling.
For a moment, it feels normal. Comfortable. Like always.
You drop your bag in her room, talk about plans, argue playfully about what movie to watch first, joke about ordering too much food. Everything feels easy.
Then, her phone rings.
She checks the screen and frowns.
“…Professor Kim?” she answers.
You and Beomgyu exchange a glance.
Her expression changes as she listens. Confused. Then stressed.
“Yes… I understand,” she says quietly. “I’ll come.”
She hangs up and lets out a long sigh.
“You’re not going to believe this,” she says. “They changed the deadline for my project. I have to present tomorrow morning. And I left half of my materials at my dorm.”
“Oh no,” you murmur.
“I need to go back,” she groans. “Like… now.”
She rushes to grab her bag, clearly panicking.
“I’m so sorry,” she tells you. “I swear I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “Go. You’ll do great.”
She hugs you tight. “I owe you big time.”
“I’ll wait,” you smile.
She leaves in a hurry.
Saturday morning passes.
Then afternoon.
Then evening.
Her messages are short and exhausted.
“Still working :,(”
“Library all day”
“Might stay tonight sorry”
By night, you know.
It’s just you and Beomgyu.
The house feels different without her. Too quiet. Too empty. Every sound feels louder. Every step echoes.
You sit on opposite sides of the couch at first, both pretending it’s normal.
“Do you want… food?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you answer. “If you’re hungry.”
So you cook together.
Nothing fancy. Pasta. Sauce from a jar. Too much cheese.
You stand side by side in the kitchen, shoulders brushing sometimes, pretending not to notice.
He hands you plates. You thank him.
Your fingers touch.
Again.
Both of you pull back.
You eat at the table, talking about small things. Classes. Music. A show you both like.
But under every word, there’s something else.
Unsaid.
Heavy.
After dinner, he hesitates. “Do you… want to watch something?”
“I’d like that,” you say.
You choose a movie neither of you really cares about.
You sit closer this time.
Not touching.
But close enough to feel his warmth.
Halfway through, you’re not watching anymore.
You’re watching him.
The way he rests his chin on his hand. The way his eyes soften when he looks at you. The way he laughs quietly at scenes that aren’t even funny.
He notices.
“Why are you staring?” he asks, embarrassed.
“I’m not,” you lie.
He smiles slightly. “You are.”
Silence falls.
Thick.
Your heart beats faster.
“I’ve been thinking,” you say softly, before you can stop yourself.
“About… us.”
He freezes.
“…Me too,” he admits.
You turn toward him.
“We’ve been pretending nothing’s happening,” you whisper. “But it is. Isn’t it?”
He swallows. “Yeah.”
His voice is barely there.
“I try so hard not to feel this,” he continues. “Not to think about you like this. But I can’t.”
You move a little closer. “Neither can I.”
Your knees touch.
Neither of you pulls away.
“I hate that I’m scared,” he says. “I hate that I keep choosing distance.”
“I know,” you reply. “But it still hurts.”
He looks at you then, really looks.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers.
“I know,” you answer. “But you’re hurting me by staying away too.”
His breath shakes.
For a second, he almost leans in.
Almost.
You can feel it.
The moment.
The breaking point.
His hand lifts slightly, hovering near yours.
He doesn’t touch.
Not yet.
The tension is unbearable now. Every glance feels dangerous. Every breath feels loud.
Neither of you is pretending anymore.
You’re both standing on the edge.
And one more step would change everything.
Your best friend comes back the next morning like nothing happened.
She walks in with tired eyes, messy hair, and a big smile when she sees you.
“I’m alive,” she jokes, dropping her bag. “Barely.”
You laugh and hug her. “You scared me.”
“I told you I’d be fine,” she says. “Did you behave?”
You glance at Beomgyu without thinking.
He’s standing near the kitchen, pretending to be very interested in his phone.
“Of course,” you answer quickly.
Everything feels… normal.
Too normal.
You eat together. You talk about her presentation. She complains about her professor. You listen. You nod. You laugh in the right places.
But underneath it all, something is wrong.
You and Beomgyu barely look at each other.
When your eyes meet by accident, both of you look away too fast.
It’s awkward.
Heavy.
Like there’s a secret sitting between you on the table.
After lunch, your friend checks the fridge.
“We’re out of milk,” she says. “And snacks. And basically everything.”
She grabs her bag.
“I’ll go to the supermarket,” she announces. “I’ll be quick.”
“Do you want me to come?” you offer.
“Nope,” she replies. “You two stay.”
She winks.
You freeze.
Beomgyu freezes too.
Before either of you can say anything, the door closes.
Silence.
Real silence.
No TV. No music. No phones. Just the quiet hum of the house.
You sit on opposite sides of the couch.
Again.
Your heart is beating too fast.
You can hear your own breathing.
So can he.
He clears his throat. “So… um.”
Nothing comes out.
You press your lips together. “Yeah.”
More silence.
Minutes pass.
It feels like hours.
Finally, he speaks again.
“I didn’t sleep much,” he admits quietly.
You look at him. “Me neither.”
He nods, eyes fixed on the floor.
“I kept thinking about last night.”
Your chest tightens.
“Me too,” you whisper.
He takes a deep breath, like he’s preparing to jump into cold water.
“I tried not to feel this,” he says.
His voice is soft. Honest. A little shaky.
“I really tried.”
You don’t interrupt.
“I told myself you’re my sister’s best friend. That I shouldn’t think about you like that. That it’s wrong.”
He finally looks at you.
“And I hated myself for failing.”
Your heart aches.
“I couldn’t stop,” he continues. “Every time you laughed. Every time you looked tired and still stayed. Every time you trusted me… it got worse.”
You move closer without realizing.
“I couldn’t either,” you admit.
He blinks. “You… couldn’t?”
You nod slowly. “I told myself it was just comfort. That it was just because I’m here a lot. That it would go away.”
You shake your head.
“It didn’t.”
He lets out a shaky laugh. “Of course it didn’t.”
You sit side by side now.
So close your shoulders touch.
“I was scared,” you confess. “Scared of ruining things. Scared of hurting her. Scared of losing you.”
His voice breaks. “Me too.”
He hesitates, then reaches out.
His fingers brush yours.
This time, he doesn’t pull away.
“I care about you,” he says softly. “More than I should. More than I planned.”
You turn to him. “I care about you too.”
His eyes shine.
“Not as a friend,” you add.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “For saying it first.”
You smile sadly. “We’re really doing this, huh?”
“Yeah,” he answers. “We are.”
You sit there, hands intertwined, hearts racing, knowing everything has changed.
The door suddenly opens.
“I’m back!” your friend calls.
You jump apart like you’ve been electrocuted.
Beomgyu almost drops his phone.
She walks in with bags and looks at you both.
Suspiciously.
“…Why do you look guilty?” she asks.
You and Beomgyu exchange a look.
And for the first time, you both smile.
Because there’s no going back now.
You don’t tell her right away.
Not that day.
Not the next.
You and Beomgyu try to act normal. Too normal. You sit a little closer than before. You smile at each other more. Sometimes you forget yourselves and laugh at nothing.
And she notices.
Of course she does.
She’s known you for years.
One afternoon, you’re all in her room. She’s lying on her bed, scrolling through her phone. You’re sitting on the floor. Beomgyu is leaning against the desk, pretending not to listen.
There’s a strange tension in the air.
Finally, she looks up.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “What is going on with you two?”
You freeze.
Beomgyu freezes harder.
“What do you mean?” you ask, trying to sound innocent.
She raises an eyebrow. “Don’t lie to me. You’ve been acting weird for days.”
She points at you. “You’re smiling too much.”
Then at Beomgyu. “You’re quieter than usual. And that’s saying something.”
He looks away.
You swallow.
“I… we…” you start.
Beomgyu takes a breath. “We need to tell you something.”
Her phone drops onto the bed.
“Oh my God,” she says. “You’re scaring me.”
You reach for her hand.
“We like each other,” you confess softly.
Silence.
She blinks.
Once.
Twice.
“…Wait,” she says. “That’s it?”
You stare at her. “What?”
“That’s what you were nervous about?” she asks. “I thought someone was dying.”
Beomgyu lets out a tiny laugh.
“But… you’re okay with it?” you ask carefully.
She looks at you like you just asked the dumbest question in the world.
“Okay with it?” she repeats.
Then she bursts out laughing.
Full laughter. Head back. Tears in her eyes.
“Wait,” she says between laughs. “You’re telling me it took you THIS long?”
You and Beomgyu exchange embarrassed looks.
“…Yes,” you admit.
She sits up.
“I literally left you alone on purpose,” she says.
You blink. “What.”
“Yeah,” she continues. “All the time.”
“Since when?” Beomgyu asks, shocked.
“Since you started bringing her water at 2 a.m. like a lovesick idiot,” she replies.
“WHAT?” he panics.
“And you,” she points at you, “since you kept asking ‘Is Beomgyu home?’ every time you came over.”
You cover your face. “Oh my God.”
She laughs harder.
“I was like, ‘Let me just… disappear for five minutes,’” she explains. “And you two still did nothing.”
“That’s so embarrassing,” you mumble.
She jumps off the bed and pulls both of you into a hug.
“Finally,” she says. “I’ve been waiting forever.”
You relax into her arms. “You’re really not mad?”
“Mad?” she scoffs. “Please. You’re perfect for each other.”
Beomgyu smiles softly. “Thank you.”
She pulls back and looks between you.
“Just don’t be weird,” she adds. “And don’t break each other’s hearts.”
“We won’t,” you promise together.
She grins.
“Good. Now I get to tease you both forever.”
You groan.
She laughs.
Everything feels different now.
Not in a dramatic way. Not in loud confessions or big gestures. In small things. In quiet moments. In the way Beomgyu doesn’t step back anymore when you stand close, in the way your hands sometimes touch on purpose, in the way you don’t pretend you’re “just friends” when it’s only the three of you.
You don’t have to hide anymore.
And it feels relieving.
One evening, you’re all in the living room. Your best friend is stretched out on the couch, watching something loud and dramatic, fully invested. You’re sitting on the floor with Beomgyu, backs against the sofa, sharing a blanket without even thinking about it.
It happens naturally.
Your shoulder leans into his.
He doesn’t tense. He doesn’t pull away. He just shifts a little closer, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. His arm rests beside you, then slowly, carefully, wraps around you.
Your heart skips.
No one says anything. No one makes it awkward. It’s just… comfortable. It’s just you.
Later, your friend yawns loudly and stretches. “I’m going to sleep,” she announces. “Try not to be disgusting.”
“HEY,” you protest, laughing.
She grins. “Love you. Night.”
“Good night,” Beomgyu says softly.
When her door closes, the house becomes quiet. Only the soft hum of the TV remains. Only the sound of breathing. Only the warmth between you.
You turn your head slightly. “Is this okay?” you whisper.
He nods immediately. “Yeah. More than okay.”
His voice is gentle. Honest. Like he means every word.
You smile and rest more comfortably against him.
You stay like that for a while. Warm. Safe. Like you finally belong in the same space without fear.
After a few minutes, he speaks again, staring at the screen without really watching it.
“You know,” he says quietly, “I used to rehearse conversations with you in my head.”
You blink and look up. “What.”
He gets shy instantly. “Like… what I would say if I wasn’t scared.”
“That’s adorable,” you tease softly.
He hides his face for a second. “It’s embarrassing.”
“It’s cute,” you insist.
He peeks at you. “You really think so?”
“Yes.”
He exhales slowly, relaxing again.
“I was afraid,” he admits. “Of ruining everything. Of hurting you. Of hurting her.”
“I know,” you reply. “Me too.”
He turns to look at you, eyes soft and sincere.
“But I’m glad we didn’t give up.”
You reach for his hand and lace your fingers together.
“I’m glad too.”
He squeezes back.
That night, when you’re about to go to your friend’s room, he stops you gently.
“Wait.”
You turn around.
He hesitates for half a second, then leans in and kisses you. Slow. Careful. Like he’s still learning. Like he’s still choosing you every day.
When you pull back, both of you are smiling.
“Good night,” he whispers.
“Good night,” you answer.
From then on, it becomes routine.
Movie nights turn into cuddle nights. Late talks turn into shared secrets. Studying turns into naps together. Sometimes you fall asleep on his shoulder. Sometimes he falls asleep holding your hand.
Sometimes your friend walks in, sees you, and sighs dramatically.
“Disgusting,” she says. “But also… cute.”
And you laugh.
Beomgyu keeps being soft.
He keeps opening doors for you. Keeps remembering your coffee order. Keeps asking if you’re tired, if you ate, if you’re okay. But now, he also holds you openly. Kisses you without fear. Looks at you like he still can’t believe you chose him.
One night, lying beside him in the dark, you whisper, “Do you ever regret it?”
He turns to you immediately. “Never.”
“Not even once?”
“Not for a second,” he answers. “Being with you makes me happy. Loving you feels right.”
as jake's girlfriend, you're his valentine too, right?
𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗎~~~~☆، ﹫cigsaftersuh
thank you so much for reading 🤍 happy merry valentine's day i hope you are always surrounded by love, i love you. my apolocheese if it moves too fast or is too confusing ;( the dates are so big in gaps because i was so confused as well i am sorry but thank you anyways i love you loads okay
— for my meow meow, my stella <3 user jayssucker 🐈⬛ @jayssuckerfromparadoxxxinvasion !
Sylus becomes a regular at the cafe you work at and tips crazy amounts when you're on shift.
-
Something was wrong with this man.
You weren't the kind of person to ask customers personal questions, nor were you the type to tell customers the truth if they asked about you. In food service, that's just how it's supposed to go.
Especially for regulars like Sylus, you forced yourself to ignore the darkening stains at the edges of his sleeve or the fresh scrapes on his cheekbones. You took his coffee order and then directed him to the other end of the counter where his drink would be ready and where another worker could strike up a conversation about what happened to him, but not you, never you.
He was a big tipper, but he never paid in cash. When he had just begun to come in consistently, your curiosity got the better of you and you looked through the payment history on the register to see his $100 tip on a $9 drink. It was obviously a mistake your manager would have to deal with later. The guy would call about the charge on his card anyways so you didn't bring it up. But there was no call. And then it kept happening. Whenever he came in, you checked his transaction information and shook your head.
You didn't know if it was generosity or if it was him continually making the same mistake unknowingly. In any case, it must've been nice to have so much money you didn't have to worry about it. But you figured his line of work wasn't very.. traditional, to put it delicately. You had a bad feeling about it, but it wasn't any of your business, so who cared.
"Your hands are red," he said one day. You were snapped out of your thoughts at his deviation from your usual routine with him. You looked down at your hands, which were indeed stained a faint orange-red.
That weekend, you decided to take on a pottery class on your own. You wanted to start a new hobby, but you were honestly terrible at it no matter how many hours you spent at the studio. The stains weren't intentional, though, and you almost forgot that they were there until he pointed it out.
"Oh," you said. "Don't worry, we wear gloves when we're handling food," you reassured him as you rang up his usual large, iced americano.
His laugh was warm and deep, something that made your skin prickle upon first hearing it. "I wasn't worried. I haven't had a bad experience here yet." He held his card against the payment dock and smiled as he tapped on the payment screen, all while resting his gaze on you.
You smiled at him politely. "We'll have it out for you on the other end."
His eyes lingered on you for a moment before he moved towards the other end of the counter like you instructed him so many times before. When you checked the transaction history at the end of your shift, the tip grew to $500.
You told your manager about it immediately, which prompted another useless attempt at trying to get into contact with Sylus. You left his tiny workspace and told your coworkers about the whole situation, much to their delight.
"Ah, I knew he would come in today," one of them said.
"He always comes when you're working," another added.
You rolled your eyes. "So is he stalking me?"
They all laughed. "If he is, can he stalk you more?"
"He only tips well when you're on shift."
You frowned at that. "What?"
They shrug collectively. "It's true. If it's someone else, he only tips a few dollars."
in which you and your best friend end up sharing a bed on a weekend getaway and everything changes
pairing: best friend!jay x fem!reader || wc: 9.7k || cw: fluff, smut! best friends to lovers, kissing, making out, praise, fingering, oral (f. rec), breast + nipple play, p in v, protected sex (we cheered!!), dirty talk, use of petnames, light-hearted teasing, swearing, slight hair pulling, slight marking, multiple orgasms, cum eating, playful restrain (just once, nothing too serious), so much lovemaking and sweetness :c (they’re so in love it’s almost disgusting) || warnings: +18 content, mdni!!! || a/n: i was so excited to write this oh my god,,, istg i never knew i was so into this tropes before </3 tysm to the lovely (non)anon for the request ilysm
you are the kind of person who packs too many scarves “just in case.” you are loud when you laugh, bad at parallel parking, and you still have that mixtape (yes, the old one) shoved behind a stack of books. you keep small things from your past — ticket stubs, a friendship bracelet jay made you when you were twelve — because they feel like proof that some parts of you don’t have to change. you are the one who still drags your feet through childhood neighborhoods when you’re nostalgic, who knows every stupid joke jay ever makes by heart. you are the person who, when things go wrong, texts him four words and somehow feels like the world rights itself: "please, pick me up."
jay is the steady one, he carries himself like someone who’s always been slightly ahead of the rest of the world. jay is the person who remembers your weird food order and sends you memes at two a.m. when you’re stressed. jay is the friend who will shove half your suitcase into his bag because you insist on carrying everything. he’s been there since backyard forts and playground vows. he’s the one with a measured laugh that comes late and soft, with hands that are always busy — checking a schedule, fixing the strap on your backpack, reaching for the jar of coffee without thinking. he is both impossibly steady and wildly impulsive. best friends since childhood, he knows which part of your pizza you always give up and can read the exact tone in your voice that means you need him without you having to say a word. he knows you in a way most people never will.
you’ve been planning this weekend for weeks: two nights away from the city, a small coastal town with a hotel that promises sea views and soft linen. the trip is a way for you to “decompress,” though you both know it’s a selfish excuse to spend some time with the person you adore the most. you both need the quiet; you both crave the plainness of two people who can be entirely themselves without the rest of the world.
you meet at jay’s apartment early on saturday. he’s already waiting by the door in an old band tee and jeans, hair messed up like he’s been up later than normal. when you walk in, he grins. “ready for an escape?” he asks, voice half-joke, half-relief.
“always,” you say, dropping your bag and grabbing the travel mug he hands you. it’s still warm. you both stand in the doorway for a second, jay nudges your shoulder. “let’s go get some fresh air.”
the drive there is effortless because he makes it so. windows down, music up. jay is a playlist master: he builds the soundtrack like he’s building the mood. his selections are small treasures — an old ballad you loved in high school, a song that you used to hum after an exam, a track you two once danced to in the kitchen at two in the morning. he sings along with the music, fingers drumming the steering wheel, and you watch the way sunlight lines his jaw when he smiles at a lyric. conversation is a steady stream of anecdotes, inside jokes, and comfortable silences where no one feels the need to fill the space.
“remember when we tried to build that tree fort?” jay asks, voice soft with the kind of fondness that makes the corners of your eyes crinkle.
“the one we almost set on fire?” you remind him, though the memory is fuzzy and ridiculous. you both laugh like it’s a secret you’ve shared too many times.
“i’ve got a vivid memory of my dad panicking and running when he saw you trying to light the lighter,” jay says, and you snort, pushing your hair back with a hand.
“you were the one who suggested setting the leaves on fire!” you point out.
“that’s because you were the one who suggested having a fireplace!” he retorts.
“nuh-uh, i was the architect. you were the disaster specialist.”
he grins, eyes warm. “okay, i’ll accept that title. disaster specialist. it fits.”
by the time the coastline unfurls, the town greets you with warm light and a salty breeze that makes your scalp tingle.
the plan is simple: wander, eat, and do nothing you would normally schedule. the first stop is a small café with mismatched chairs and a chalkboard menu. you both order the same thing without planning it. “of course we did,” jay says when the server walks away. “we’re synced.”
you sit, and conversation moves between silly and comfortable. you talk about the dumb things you did in school, the band practices that always ended in pizza, the way jay once tried to convince you that he could beatbox. you both laugh until your stomachs ache. “you sounded like a dying walrus,” you say, wincing with the memory.
“i was talented,” jay protests, mock-hurt. “and you never appreciated artistry.”
“i did appreciate it,” you lie, smiling. the truth is, you appreciated everything about him — the way he told stories, how his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the soft way he checked if you were okay.
after coffee, you wander down the pier together. the sea stretches into a steady horizon, glittering under the afternoon sun; warmth settles on the back of your neck and the breeze smells like salt and summer. jay walks just half a step ahead, hands tucked into his pockets, until something catches his eye: a seagull swoops down, triumphant, clutching someone’s sandwich in its beak.
“i wonder what that reminds me of…” he says, voice dripping with mischief.
you glare at him, already knowing where this is going. “don’t.”
he smirks. “jay—”
“i’m just saying, it’s impressive. most people only get their sandwich stolen once.”
you elbow him sharply. “i was six, and you were the one supposedly taking care of my food, you moron!”
he laughs, the sound bright and familiar, and nudges a puddle with his shoe. a thin arc of water sprays your jeans
“jay!” you yelp.
he shrugs innocently. “oops.”
you flick water back at him with your fingers — which, somehow, only splashes your own shoes. he bursts out laughing.
“that was the saddest attempt i’ve ever—”
before he can finish, you launch a real attack: kicking at the puddle with enough force to send a wave toward him. he dodges, still laughing, and you chase him down the pier, both of you splashing like children who’ve never grown up. your laughter mixes with the cries of gulls and the hush of the sea. it feels stupid and perfect.
when you finally slow down, breathless and damp, you notice a couple of people walking by — older, maybe tourists — who glance at the two of you and smile. one of them nudges the other, and there’s a tiny, knowing look passed between them. the kind of look people give when they see two people who clearly adore each other, even if neither of them is saying it out loud yet. jay notices, too. he tilts his head towards them, then towards you.
“what was that about?” he asks, light but curious.
you shrug, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing, his shoulder brushing yours.
“no idea,” you say — though your heart knows exactly.
after your clothes have been dried by the sun, you stop at a surf shack and decide to try the foam boards. “how hard can it be?” jay asks, grinning. he’s confident, and you know that sometimes his body can do the things his voice promises. the sea is cold but the sun makes up for it. you fall more than you stand, both of you laughing at each other’s ungraceful attempts. when you finally ride a small, sloppy wave, it feels like a victory. as the sun starts to lower, you both sit on a towel and watch the light go gold. jay tells a story about being lost when he was a kid — how he ended up in an ice cream truck because he followed the smell.
you tell him about a karaoke night with your friends which ended in a sore throat the next morning. jay watches your face as you talk like he’s memorizing it. when he tells his story, you see him soften in a way that surprises you: his voice drops, and his hands move in wide, careful circles as if tracing a figure on the sand.
dinner is small and warm. fairy lights hang low. you split a plate and an extra dessert because jay insists. “there’s always room for more dessert,” he says like it’s a moral code he follows strictly. you eat and joke and the conversation turns to the stuff that matters in tiny ways — your worries, the internships you both consider, the small fears.
the drive to the hotel is quiet in a comfortable way, you both feel tired in the best kind of way.
the hotel is a low building with whitewashed walls and a small, flourishing garden. it smells like lemon and seawater at the door, and for a beat you feel like you’ve stepped into a postcard. jay parks in a spot that has been gloriously unclaimed, and you step out together, shoulder to shoulder — the sort of unspoken choreography that makes you both laugh at how simple it feels.
the hotel lobby is cozy: wood floors, an old chandelier, and the receptionist offers a smile that’s almost too sincere. you move like one unit — jay on your left, his hand occasionally brushing the small of your back when the pavement dents or the door takes a gust of wind.
“welcome,” the receptionist says, handing you a key each. the keys are small metal things on old-fashioned loops. jay takes both and jokes about keeping them safe like they’re tiny treasures. the check-in goes smoothly. there’s a mild disappointment in the clerk’s face when he says over the computer, “we have you down for a double room… oh.” the clerk’s face changes. “i’m so sorry,” he says, scrolling. “there was a booking error. and— um—”
your stomach does a small, reflexive flip. “what kind of error?” you ask.
“the hotel is overbooked tonight. it looks like someone else booked your room — the double room with twin beds,” he explains, apologetic. “i’m so sorry. we can bump you up to a suite tomorrow, no costs, but tonight… we only have one room available. a standard double with one bed. it’s most likely a mistake on our end, but i can offer a complimentary breakfast, free minibar and a late checkout to make up for it.”
for a second, the news feels like a comic misstep. you both stand there blinking like two people on a sitcom. “one bed?” you repeat, because the idea is ridiculous and, somehow, makes your pulse skip.
you and jay exchange a glance so practiced it feels like a private joke handed down through years. jay’s brow arches, eyes searching your face as if to see how you’ll react. there’s a moment where you both silently consider demanding a refund and stomping out, but the tiredness in your limbs argues for a place to rest. you’ve come for quiet, and a little awkward intimacy in a single bed is still better than having to drive to the closest hotel possible.
jay rubs his forehead, then shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “we can share,” he says, the kind of simple solution he’s always offered when things go sideways.
“or i can sleep on the floor,” you offer, half-joke, half-serious. “i have a flexible spine.” he laughs.
“no way. we’re grown-ups. we’ll share.” his voice is steady. you feel easier because he always makes the small panic smaller.
“we’ll take it,” jay says finally, his voice steady. “one room. one bed. seems… cozy.”
the receptionist’s smile brightens like the problem is solved. you both pay the fee for the two nights and grab your keys. the elevator ride up is bright with awkward jokes. jay jokes about who will get which side of the bed, about knee territory.
“i get the window side,” you say, claiming it like a prize.
“fine, i get the remote,” he counters. “and the top sheet.”
the room is not big, but it is simple and kind, a wide window faces the ocean. the bed looks smaller than in the picture, white sheets tucked into a neat fold, but it still takes up most part of the room. there’s a vase with fresh flowers on the bedside table and a note from management, apologizing for the mix-up. there’s a soft hum in the air-conditioning, and the town’s urgency feels miles away.
you both make rituals out of mundane things: tossing your bags in a corner, ordering two glasses of iced water and a plate of fries to share. jay takes the window seat, tucking his feet under him and watching the waves. you sit on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, and the two of you settle into the unpretentious ease that’s defined your friendship for years.
“should we go out after this?” you ask after a while. “walk the beach near here? grab some snacks for later?”
jay glances at you and then the bed, a tiny smirk threatening mischief. “or,” he says slowly, “we could stay here, watch that awful romcom on the hotel channel, and eat these fries until our stomachs hurt.”
you groan, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. “eat fries until our stomachs hurt… what are we, twelve?”
you spend the late afternoon (after eating the whole plate of fries, that is) wandering the coastal streets: an old bookshop tucked between a fishmonger and a café, a little stall selling the most amazing scented candles, an ice cream place where jay insists you try a flavor called sea-salt caramel that you didn’t believe would be good but turns out to be divine. you throw yourself into the city’s rhythm — quiet markets, low-slung houses with wind-bent palms, the tang of salt on your lips. the sun slants golden and the ocean is a constant mood, a low storyboard of waves that outlines your day.
when evening comes, you head to a local bistro and order some plates to share. the conversation is easy, sometimes nostalgic, sometimes teasing. you revisit old embarrassments as though they are moments you both cherish, and you discover new quick truths: jay’s soft spot for an old childhood teacher, how he still hums that ridiculous jingle he used to perform for neighborhood kids, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles like he’s remembering something sweet. you find yourself leaning in more than usual, drawn to small gestures that have always been there but suddenly feel more luminous.
“do you ever think about how different things would be if we hadn’t been stuck living two houses apart?” you ask, swirling the rim of your glass.
jay pauses, lifting his fork like he’s considering the question as carefully as a strategic play. “no,” he says eventually. “maybe it would be different. but i like the way we’ve been pegged to each other — like a pair of constant variables. you know?”
you do. you know because jay has been constant in your calculus of life — the equation that solved itself with him in it. “i like it too,” you say, and mean it.
back at the hotel, the night unfurls with small rituals. you brush your teeth in the bathroom together because it feels like something you’ve always done, even though it’s oddly intimate, and you both laugh when a toothbrush falls and clatters. you change into pajamas in the same room, without looking at each other. it’s no big deal, because there’s years of trust there.
after closing the balcony’s door, you come back to the room while jay reads aloud the silly poem that was printed on the hotel pamphlet, turning it into a mock-serious performance.
“i have the perfect plan for tomorrow’s night,” he announces in a dramatic whisper, making you snort. “we conquer the buffet and then we empty the mini bar which, by the way, is free because of the hotel room thing.”
“incredible strategy, commander,” you mumble, tossing a pillow at him.
when you crawl into bed, the mattress feels even smaller than you thought. you both lie down on your backs, the covers tucked and your knees up. the hotel window shows the sliver moon and a smear of town lights. you don’t turn off the lamps because it feels like the night wants to be watched.
“i can feel it already… destiny. fate. the universe preparing to kick us with food poisoning from the buffet and—”
“what are you doing?” you ask, and he just grins.
“i’m narrating our lives. also, i never get to be dramatic out loud with anyone except you.”
the warmth in your chest is a gentle pressure.
you settle closer, legs tangling accidentally, and the bed feels too familiar and too intimate at once. there’s nothing sudden or electric in that moment — just the friendly gravity that has always existed between you two, the small ease that comes from a thousand shared food, errands and late-night confessions.
the distance closes so naturally you barely register it. one moment you’re side by side, and the next his foot nudges yours, a small accidental press that sends a quiet ripple through your chest. he doesn’t joke like he usually does. he just looks at you for a second — too long, too gentle — before glancing back at the ceiling. then, jay shifts, trying to get comfortable, and ends up knocking your knee.
“sorry,” he says softly — then adds, “but also… it’s your fault for having knees.” you snort, but you don’t move away. neither does he.
jay reaches for the remote, tapping your ankle with it. “okay,” he announces, “since your knees started this war, i get to pick the movie.”
“that’s not how this works,” you mutter, but you’re already smiling.
he scrolls until he finds a romcom with a 23% rating and a poster that looks like it was made in microsoft paint.
“perfect,” he declares.
“that looks terrible.”
“exactly, a cinematic masterpiece.”
he presses play, and the two of you settle closer, shoulders brushing as the opening credits flash like a warning.
later, long after the film fades and the television hums low, you find yourselves wide awake.
it’s the kind of quiet that makes every sound amplified; the ticking clock sounds like an orchestra. the ocean mutters in the background; a faint glow from the street below paints the curtains silver. you lie on opposite sides at first, an unconscious measure of space between your shoulders, but there’s something in the air that nudges at the perimeter.
you start with small talk — funny comments about the hotel’s art, the exact color of the blanket, how the protagonist of the last movie was an idiot — and then sink into quieter conversation. then you talk about work, about the small mistakes and the things that made you proud that day. the conversation is slow and easy. you nudge his knee with your foot and he squeezes your ankle in return, not even looking at you. the small touches are normal for you; they mean nothing more than warmth in the moment, but they make your heart skip a beat.
after a while the talk goes softer. jay says, “i’m glad we did this.” you answer, “me too.” he turns his head to look at you, face lit by the moonlight and softer than you remember in normal days.
“i don’t like being away from all of this,” he says, voice quiet. “i mean, from home, from my friends, from my family… from you.”
you feel a little jolt. “from me?” you ask, trying to make your voice casual.
“yeah. it’s weird,” he says, fingers tracing an absent path on the sheet. “i just… i like this. being with you like this. no pretending. no schedules. just us two.”
“i feel the same,” you say, and you mean it.
the room hums. you reach for his hand; your fingers fit his the way they always have. his grip tightens, then loosens, like he’s deciding how much to say. the closeness is comfortable and also suddenly sharper. you both stay awake, talking in half sentences, the kind of talk that means more than the words.
“do you ever think about how long it’s been?” jay asks suddenly, voice soft, not a joke this time.
“how long it’s been… since what?” you reply, turning your head to look at him.
“us,” he says. “you and me. the whole best friends thing. like… how long we’ve had each other.” there’s a hitch at the edge of his voice that makes you sit up a little.
he looks smaller now, exposed in the low glow of the lamp. your heart tugs at the rawness of the moment — the way time has folded you into adjacent lives.
“since kids,” you say, because the answer comes easily. “since we were both too young to know better. you were the one who taught me how to ride a bike after four tries and three scraped knees.”
he laughs then, because he remembers the bandages awkwardly wrapped on your knees.
“and you were the one who hid my vintage baseball cap because you thought it was stupid,” he reminds you, teasing but tender.
you roll your eyes. “it was stupid.”
“so was my hair, that’s why i wanted to hide it,” he says, and you both grin at the shared memory before a comfortable silence settles.
then, like an accidental gradual pull, his hand finds yours again. it’s easy and familiar: fingers slipping into those well-known places, a reflex that has always belonged only to you two. tonight, though, the touch feels charged, like it’s more meaningful than ever. for a second your fingers intertwine, and you turn to look at him fully, as if the light will reveal new shapes.
you tell him a small thing you’ve been holding for a while — how you worry about moving forward and losing pieces of your life that felt safe. he listens and then says, simply, “we’ll keep the important parts. we’ll keep the parts that matter. you’ll never lose me. ever.” his voice is calm but there’s an undercurrent of something else — care that feels weightier than usual.
the mood shifts in little ways. when you laugh, his look lingers. when you reach for the blanket and he helps you pull it, his hand covers yours a fraction longer than it needs to. you both notice but don’t comment. the night tightens from easy to intimate in a way that feels new. you lie facing each other now, closer than when you first got in bed. your shoulders almost touch. the two of you lie close enough that, if you wanted, you could trace the outline of his face with your thumb.
“remember when we used to stay up making forts?” you ask, voice small, half-trying to be playful.
“i remember you stealing my flashlight and refusing to share,” jay replies. he smiles, then grows quiet. his hand caresses yours under the cover, fingers warm around yours, his thumb drawing little circles that slow your breathing. “i like being near you,” he says again, but this time the words sound like a confession instead of a casual note. they hang between you, bright and risky.
you can feel your heart speed up. you look at him, really look — at the line of his jaw, the way his eyelashes shadow his cheek, the little scar on his nose.
the hotel room is full of the sound of quiet breathing. the air between you is different now — thiner, charged. you squeeze his hand back and the touch feels like a dare. the shift is gentle but certain: you both feel it, like the tide turning under the shore. you don’t fall asleep, neither of you do. you stay awake with your hands intertwined. what you’ve said is not yet the confession you both are afraid and eager to say, but it’s close enough. so much that the space between your faces feels like a wall you’re both willing to break.
“you’re quiet,” you murmur.
“i’m thinking,” he replies, looking at the ceiling as if the words are hiding up there. “about how different everything would be if i didn’t approach you that day at your porch, if we treated each other like strangers.” he turns his head slightly to meet your eyes. “but we’re not strangers, are we?”
you shake your head. “no. we’re… us.”
“us,” he says, saying the word like it’s a small, sacred thing. jay props himself up on an elbow, the lamp throwing shadows that make his face more serious than you usually see it. “i think i used to think that best friends were supposed to be… a constant. like okay, safe, habitual. and that was enough. but lately—” he pauses, fingers trailing idle patterns on the bedsheet. “lately i can’t tell whether what i feel is just familiarity or something else. something that makes me… not okay with you being with anyone else.”
the sentence drops, and your chest tightens in a way that spins your stomach. you liked to guess that, in small private moments, maybe jay felt things he didn’t say — the same things you felt — but he’s never voiced it like this. the admission is raw and honeyed at the same time.
“do you want to say it?” he asks suddenly, voice so soft it could be mistaken for sleep talking. he’s facing you now, eyes open and honest, the moonlight in the window making his skin look paler and a little electric.
you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. “say what?” you ask, though you already know.
“you know what it is... that,” he says, and his mouth quirks — nervous, silly, resigned. “that thing between us. that i’m tired of pretending doesn’t exist.” he swallows. “i’m tired of pretending i don’t think about you like that.”
your heart stutters. you feel it as a physical thing, as if someone has flicked a switch and warmth is flooding the room. you laugh, a small, incredulous sound that shakes with relief.
“you mean…” you begin, voice small.
“i mean,” he cuts in, not harshly but with a gravity that lands heavy, “i think i like you. more than a friend. and it’s been creeping up on me, and i don’t know when it started exactly, but i know when i notice it now. and it terrifies me because you’re my person. and the idea of losing you to… anything else makes my chest hurt in a way i don’t like.”
“you’re serious.”
“i’m extremely serious. i wouldn’t joke about this.” jay’s hand tightens around yours. “i—i’ve been stupid about it. scared, i guess. scared of what it would do to us. but i can’t keep pretending that i don’t care in a different way.” he breathes, “i like you. like-like you. more than best-friend-like.”
you stare at him for a second — at the honest way his lips tremble when he says the words — and your throat goes dry. the air between you tilts. your heart beats so fast you’re sure he can hear it; a dozen little memories — of his hand brushing yours, of the way he looked at you after your high school show, of how he'd walk you home after parties, of the way he always lent you his jacket — assemble into a shape that suddenly seems obvious. your fingers are limp in the space where his had been; you reach for them without thinking, and his hand closes around yours like a soft, heavy promise.
“i was so sure,” you say finally, and your voice is barely more than a rustle against the linens. “i was sure i was the one being an idiot. that it was only me who wanted more and—” you stop because the words begin to rearrange themselves into something urgent. you inhale, collecting courage. “jay i… i feel the same.”
jay’s shoulders deflate, a laugh escaping him that’s half disbelief and half joy. his face is a map of every possible emotion at once: relief that blooms into disbelief, then something tender and almost shy, like embarrassment and happiness braided together. he swallows audibly, then slides off the edge of the bed to sit beside you, thumb brushing your knuckles in a motion so slow it could be prayer.
“you do?” he asks, voice cracking. “you like me too?”
“i do,” you confirm, before you can overthink it. “i’ve wanted this — wanted you — for a while. and i’ve been trying to tell myself i was imagining things. i kept thinking if i said it out loud everything would change, and i was scared.” your voice thins and then steadies. “but i’m tired of being scared.” you let out a breath, laugh-crying a little. “i’m tired of pretending it hasn’t been you for ages.”
he cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek, and the gesture is tender and sudden. “hey, don’t be scared,” he whispers. “i don’t want to lose us either. but i don’t want to ignore this.”
“so… what do we do?” you whisper, the question monumental in the small room.
your faces are inches apart; you can almost count the soft baby hairs at his temple.
“we start,” he says, and the word feels like a vow. “we try, slowly, brick by brick, step by step. we don’t have to figure out the rest tonight.” you nod, slow and certain.
after seconds of silence, you finally break it.
“i want to,” you echo.
jay opens his mouth, then closes it. “are you sure?” you nod. “you know if we cross this line it’s going to be very hard to—”
“jay,” you stop him, looking into his eyes. “just kiss me already”
and then, in a moment that feels both like a cliff and landing, jay leans in. his lips find yours with a tenderness you’d only imagined in stolen movie scenes. it’s tentative at first — warm, probing — as if he’s afraid to wake something delicate, and you know he’s trying to be gentle because the moment matters. but the kiss soon deepens, becomes a conversation in itself. your hands find the familiar places — the little dip behind his ear, the nape of his neck — and he responds by threading his fingers through your hair, steadying himself against the newness of the feeling.
the world outside the window hums as if nothing at all has changed, but everything has. when he pulls back for air, his forehead rests against yours and both of you are breathless, eyes bright and shaking. you both pull back with nervous smiles that turn into laughter because everything feels suddenly lighter and impossibly good.
“god, i can’t believe we’re actually doing this, can you?” jay laughs, looking into your eyes.
you answer by kissing him deeper. this time there’s less carefulness and more hunger — years of small touches and bedside talks turning into something braver. your mouth opens under his, and the world narrows to the taste of him. you feel his breath hitch, a small sound that is part shock, part sweetness.
his hands are not tentative anymore. they travel down your sides, find the curve of your waist, pull you flush against him. you can feel the line of his ribs under the shirt, the steady beat of his heart, a drum that matches yours. he mumbles against your mouth, “i like you. so much. it’s stupid. it’s everything.”
“i love you,” you say before you can stop yourself — your words tumbling out in the dark and landing between you. you don’t take them back. you mean them; the truth feels heavy and right.
jay freezes for the tiniest second, disbelief and joy warring on his face. then he smiles like he’s been given a map to something he’s been searching for without knowing. “god, i love you, i love you too,” he says, and his voice is near-breaking. he says it again, this time firmer, like anchoring himself. “i’ve loved you for ages.”
you both breathe, the confession settling like a warm blanket. then the awkward, perfect, dangerous part: you both laugh because you’re unbelievably relieved and because it feels ridiculous to be this dramatic about words you should have said way sooner.
“so,” jay says, cheek pressed to yours, “now what?”
“now,” you answer, “we stop pretending we don’t want each other?” you murmur, tracing small, teasing, nervous circles on his chest with your fingertip, savoring the steady heat under your skin.
jay chuckles, shaking his head. “you’re impossible.” the he licks his lips, leaning against your ear. “but i wouldn’t have you any other way.”
he kisses your temple, then drags his mouth down your neck in slow, tender strokes that make you shiver. “is it okay if i show you how much i’ve wanted this, then?” he asks, the question gentler than the rest. you nod. “let me make this easy for you,” he murmurs, voice huskier now.
he slides his hand down to the small of your back and pulls you flush against him. the contact is immediate, grounding. his mouth finds yours again, deeper this time — hungry but still careful, wanting to memorize your reactions. you kiss him back with the same mix of desperation and care.
you can feel the change move through you like heat. jay’s hands are not shy; they explore your curves as if they’ve been waiting for permission. you hook your legs around him, instinctively, and the motion brings you both closer. the covers rustle; the room shrinks to the two of you. you laugh breathlessly against his lips. “we’re idiots,” you whisper.
“big idiots,” he replies, smiling into the kiss, then his voice drops. “i’ve wanted you for so long.” he breaks the kiss just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours.
the room condenses to the sound of your breaths and the soft rustle of the covers. the lamps throw a golden halo around you both, and the world outside the window recedes into a wash of distant traffic and the ocean’s hush. his hand slides up your side, careful, asking permission with the lightest pressure; you answer by angling your hip toward him. the motion is tiny, but it says everything you couldn’t say with words.
he keeps talking when he kisses you — low reassurances, little jokes that make you hiccup-laugh between soft, searching kisses. “i could do this forever,” he murmurs against your throat. “i will be very annoying and very attentive. is that okay?” you nod, because yes, yes, yes. your voice would betray you if you tried to say anything else.
suddenly, the room grows even hotter. he begins with soft worship — hands mapping your shoulders, the line of your collarbone, the dip of your neck. his mouth follows, leaving kisses that turn into gentle suckles, slow and intimate. every little noise he makes — soft groans, the way his breath catches — makes your pulse quicken.
as his kisses travel further, his hands move with purpose. he peels your shirt up slowly, as if practiced, just as if he was a man who had been rehearsing this exact scene in his head a hundred times. you help as he pauses to kiss the skin he reveals, fingers fumbling at the hem because you want him close, you want nothing between you. the fabric slips away and leaves you bare to the cool air and his eyes.
jay drinks in the sight quietly like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. “you’re beautiful,” he whispers, cheeks flushed and voice thick. it’s clumsy and perfect. “i mean it.”
you feel heat bloom in your chest. “you too,” you breathe. “you’re so, so beautiful.”
his hands find your waist again, pulling you until your bodies are flush. he kisses your throat, then your collarbone, lingering at points that make your back arch. his lips are everywhere, each kiss slow and worshipful. when his hand finds your breast, he cups it like it’s fragile, thumbs rolling your nipple with gentle, exploratory pressure. you gasp.
“you’re so perfect, baby,” he breathes, voice raw. when he finally takes a nipple into his mouth, it’s like a small electric shock — sharp and delicious. he sucks with a mix of need and adoration that makes your knees weak. you moan, which makes him hum against your breast, pleased and needy.
“do you want me to stop?” he murmurs against your skin, suddenly cautious.
“no,” you say, breathless. “jay, please, don’t stop.”
encouraged, jay’s mouth moves lower, trailing to the curve of your ribs, the slope of your belly. his hands keep you steady, one at the small of your back, the other sliding between you to trace the line of your hip. he breathes around your navel and then looks up at you, eyes dark with want. “are you sure? i don’t want to rush anything you’re not ready for.” he asks again, though the question is almost theatrical now, given the way your both lusting for each other.
you respond with your own hands, sliding up the back of his pajama shirt, feeling the tension of his muscles. “i’m sure. i want you. i’ve imagined this so many times,” you confess. “i want you so much, jay. i need you so much it hurts.” the confession is private, painful, but liberating to say.
he smiles like someone who finally got permission for something he’s been dreaming of. he answers by settling between your legs, careful as if you might break, but his eyes are bright and fierce with want. you can’t help but moan at the sight of your best friend licking his lip, so eager for your body, for you. “then… should i go on? i’m dying to taste you,” he says, voice low and breathy. you answer by nodding. “words, pretty girl, i need words.” he chuckles, caressing your skin.
you swallow, your throat caught between letting out a laugh or a sob of desperation. “god, jay, yes, please,” you groan, certain. your fingers tighten in the sheet, not out of fear but because you need something to steady you — something that isn’t him for a second, until your breath evens out and you remember how safe his hands always feel.
his hands keep hold of your hips, thumbs pressed into the skin. then his mouth is right there, a kiss low on your belly, slow and adoring, and when his tongue finally slips out it’s like heat and velvet at once. he starts at the curve beneath your ribs, lapping a smooth line down towards your center. the first touch makes you jerk, breath hitching; he hums against you, the sound vibrating through his chest and into you, pleased and hungry.
“fuck.” he groans, closing his eyes. and you feel yourself getting even wetter.
he doesn’t rush. that’s the first thing you notice, really notice, while your pulse is hammering against your ribs and the room feels too small for all the air you suddenly need. jay stays on his knees at the edge of the bed, palms sliding slow up the backs of your thighs like he has all the time in the world. his eyes flick up to yours, soft and dark and a little wrecked, and he smiles, small, reverent.
“you’re shaking,” he whispers, thumb stroking the crease where your leg meets your hip. “i’ve got you, okay? we can slow down.”
you shake your head before the words even form. “don’t you dare.”
he laughs, quiet, the sound warm against your skin. “okay. okay, baby.”
then he lowers his mouth and kisses you there, once, gentle, right over the cotton of your underwear, like he’s saying hello to something sacred. the second kiss is open-mouthed, hotter, and you feel the heat of his breath soak through the fabric. your hips jerk without permission as a moan escapes your throat.
he hooks his fingers in the waistband and drags the last scrap of clothing down your legs, slow enough that you feel every inch of air replacing it. when you’re bare, he just looks for a long second, eyes glassy, lips parted, like he’s trying to memorize you.
“baby,” he says, reverent. “look at you. you’re so fucking pretty i can’t think straight. god,” he breathes. “you’re so pretty. how are you this pretty everywhere?”
you try to laugh, but it comes out shaky. he kisses the inside of your knee, then higher, open-mouthed and lazy, like he’s tasting dessert he’s waited years for. every press of his lips is paired with a new praise whispered against your skin.
“so soft… you taste so good already. i’ve been dreaming about this for so long.”
the praise lands warm in your chest. he lowers himself between your thighs. his palms slide under you, lifting you gently toward his mouth like an offering.
the first touch of his tongue is soft, just a slow, flat lick from entrance to clit that makes your hips jerk, your back arch clean off the mattress. he groans like you’ve hurt him, arms banding under your thighs to hold you open.
“fuck, there it is,” he says, voice rough with wonder. “that’s my girl.”
he licks again, deeper this time, parting you with the tip of his tongue, tasting you like he’s starved. when he circles your clit, gentle, lazy circles, your breath catches so hard it sounds like a sob. he pulls back just enough to speak.
“you taste so good, sweetheart. i've been dreaming about this. been dying to know what you sound like when you let go for me.”
he settles in like it’s his life’s work. tongue flat and broad at first, just feeling you, learning every twitch and sigh. then he narrows it, circles your clit once, twice, light enough to make you crazy. you thread fingers into his hair and he hums approval, the vibration rolling straight through you.
“don’t be shy, pull harder,” he says against you. “i want to feel you.”
you do. he rewards you by sliding one finger inside, slow, eyes locked on your face to watch every flicker. when you clench around him he curses softly, adds a second, curls them just right.
“perfect,” he whispers. “so perfect for me. you always were.”
he seals his mouth over you and sucks, soft at first, then harder when your fingers fist in his hair. every time you tug, he groans like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. his tongue dips inside you, slow thrusts that match the roll of his thumb over your clit, and the room fills with the wet sounds of him devouring you.
“jay,” you whimper, thighs trembling on either side of his head.
“i know, baby,” he soothes, voice muffled. “i know. just let me take care of you.”
the way he curls his fingers, slow and perfect, stroking the exact spot, makes your back arch clean off the bed. his mouth never leaves your clit, licking, sucking, fluttering, sucking again until your legs try to close on instinct. he just gentles them open with his shoulders, kissing the inside of your thigh.
“stay open for me, love. wanna see all of you. wanna watch you fall apart on my tongue.”
he finds a rhythm that makes your thighs start to tremble, mouth relentless, fingers steady and deep. every time you get close he backs off just enough to keep you teetering, kissing your clit like an apology before he starts again. you’re babbling his name, pleas, broken little sounds you didn’t know you could make.
“jay, please, i’m so close i can’t—”
“i know, baby, i know. let me take care of you. you deserve it, you deserve everything.”
he sucks your clit gently, crooking his fingers at the same time, and the orgasm rolls over you slow and huge, like a wave that starts at your toes and crashes behind your eyes. you cry out, hips grinding against his face, and he works you through it, soft licks and praises the whole time.
“you’re doing so good for me,” he mumbles, kissing your thighs. “my beautiful girl, i love watching you fall apart.”
when you finally fall against the pillows, he crawls up your body, kissing every inch he passes, until he’s hovering over you, mouth shiny, eyes dazed.
“you look so pretty like this,” he whispers, voice cracked open.
you don’t waste another second: you pull him down into a kiss and taste yourself on his tongue. it’s filthy and perfect. he groans into your mouth, hips rolling instinctively against yours.
“i need you,” he says against your lips. “i need to be inside you. can i?” he says it like a prayer, lips brushing yours.
you nod, frantic. “yes. yes, jay, please.”
he pulls back just far enough to reach for the nightstand drawer. his fingers close around the little foil square and you both freeze for half a heartbeat, staring at it like it’s evidence.
a slow, wicked grin spreads across your face even as your cheeks burn.
“wait,” you breathe, propping yourself up on your elbows, hair falling messily over one shoulder. “did you… pack condoms for our little platonic weekend getaway?”
jay’s ears go scarlet. he tries to look dignified and fails completely. “i—”
“be honest,” you tease, poking his chest. “did you stand in the drugstore aisle going “hmm, better grab a three-pack just in case my best friend finally lets me ruin our friendship”?”
he groans, dropping his forehead to your collarbone, but he’s laughing, muffled and embarrassed. “shut up.”
“no, no, i need details.” you tilt his chin up so he has to meet your eyes. “how many scenarios did you run in that pretty head? did you practice this moment in the mirror?”
“i hate you,” he mutters, but he’s grinning so wide the crinckles by their eyes are showing. “i threw them in at the last second, okay? i told myself it was… responsible. like life-jacket thinking. just in case we, i don’t know, got on a boat, got shipwrecked and needed to improvise a water pouch or something.”
you burst out laughing, the sound bright in the quiet room. “a water pouch. smooth, park.”
he hides his face in your neck, voice muffled. “i was delusional and hopeful and terrified all at once. sue me.”
you soften, running your fingers through his hair. “so you’ve been carrying around the possibility of us for months?”
he lifts his head, eyes suddenly serious even while his cheeks are still pink. “years,” he corrects quietly. “i just finally grew a spine tonight.”
the laughter fades into something tender and huge. you cup his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “come here, you optimistic little boy scout.”
he kisses you again, slower this time, like he’s trying to say thank you and sorry and finally all at once.
you take the packet from his unsteady fingers, tear it open with your teeth because you can’t resist the way his breath catches, as much as you can’t stand not touching him another second. when you roll the condom down his length he’s trembling, biting his lip so hard you’re worried he’ll leave marks.
you guide him back to you with both hands on his hips, fingers pressing gentle crescents into his skin. he’s shaking, fine tremors running through his shoulders, his thighs his breath, like every nerve is lit up and waiting for permission. when the blunt head of him nudges against you, he stops. just stops. forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, sharing the same ragged air.
“tell me again,” he breathes, voice shredded. “please.”
you cup his face, thumb sweeping the sharp line of his cheekbone. “i love you, jay,” you say, clear and steady even though your heart is sprinting. “i want you. i want this. i only ever wanted this with you.”
his eyes flutter shut for a second, like the words are almost too much. when they open again they’re glassy, stunned, impossibly soft.
and because you can’t help yourself, because you need to see him laugh one more time before everything changes forever, you lean up and whisper against his mouth, “for the record… best emergency preparedness ever.”
a broken laugh punches out of him, half sob, half joy. “you’re the worst,” he chokes, but he’s smiling so wide it almost dimples both cheeks.
then the smile fades into something raw, and he pushes in.
slow. god, so slow you feel every single inch like it’s being carved into you. the stretch is perfect, almost too much, and you both exhale shakily when he’s halfway. he pauses again, sweat beading at his temple, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump, you hear him swear under his breath.
“it’s okay, jay,” you whisper, stroking his back. “i’ve got you too.”
he nods against your forehead and sinks the rest of the way in one smooth, trembling glide until there’s no space left between you. the sound he makes is wrecked, animal, grateful. he bottoms out and just stays there, buried to the hilt, pulsing inside you, breathing like he’s run miles.
“fuck,” he says, voice cracking on the single syllable. “fuck, you feel,” he swallows hard, tries again. “you feel like home. like every place i’ve ever wanted to be.”
your throat closes. you wrap your legs higher around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, and the tiny shift in angle makes you both gasp.
“move,” you beg quietly. “please move.”
he does.
long, unhurried strokes that drag over every sensitive spot like he already knows your body by heart. he watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and awed, lips parted. every time he pulls almost all the way out and slides back in he whispers something new against your skin.
“i love you,” he mumbles. “you’re so warm, so perfect… fuck, i can’t believe i get to call you mine.”
you meet him halfway, rolling your hips up, nails raking lightly down his spine. the rhythm builds steady and deep, not fast, never fast, like you have years to make up for and all the time in the world to do it. the headboard taps softly against the wall in a lazy, hypnotic beat that matches the hush of the ocean outside.
he kisses you constantly, messy, open-mouthed, swallowing every sound you make. when he angles his hips just right you see stars; your back arches and he groans like it hurts him how good you feel.
“right there, yeah? you want it there?” he asks, voice hoarse, doing it again, again, and again.
you can’t answer with words, just nod frantically and pull him down for a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue and pure need. sweat gathers where your bodies are pressed together, skin sliding slick and perfect. the room smells like salt and sex and the faint lemon of hotel soap and jay, always jay.
he buries his face in your neck, kissing the skin there, sucking gentle marks. the rhythm stays slow, deep, grinding on every thrust so his pelvis rubs your clit and you see stars. you can feel another orgasm building, softer this time, deeper.
“jay,” you whimper, clutching at his shoulders. “i’m close again.”
“i know,” he breathes, lifting his head to watch you. “i want you to come around me this time. i want to feel you let go while i’m inside you.”
he slips a hand between you, thumb finding your clit with devastating accuracy, and circles once, twice, gentle but relentless. your thighs start to shake against his sides and the orgasm rolls through you like warm honey, endless and shattering. you clench hard around him, crying out his name into his mouth, and the feeling of you coming undone around him finally breaks his control.
he thrusts deep one last time and stays there, hips stuttering, face buried in the damp curve of your neck. you feel him pulse inside you, again and again, each throb matched by a broken whisper of your name like it’s the only word he remembers until he finally spills inside you.
“jay, i love you,” you’re able to whimper. “i love you so much.”
after, he doesn’t pull out right away. he stays inside you, kissing your face, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, until you’re both giggling breathlessly at how tender it all is. his arms are trembling as they hold his weight off your chest, breath sawing in and out against your throat. you stroke his hair, his back, the nape of his neck, anywhere you can reach, until the shaking stops.
when he finally pulls out it’s careful, almost reluctant. eventually he ties off the condom and collapses beside you, pulling you into his chest. your legs tangle automatically. the room smells like sex and salt air and the two of you. he lifts his head. his eyes are a little red, wet at the corners, and he looks so young and stunned and happy it punches the air out of you.
“hi,” he whispers, voice completely shot.
you laugh, watery and wrecked. “hi.”
you end up half on top of him, cheek over his heart, one of his hands splayed possessively across your lower back, the other tangled in your hair. your legs are still intertwined, sticky and perfect.
the room is quiet except for breathing and the far-off shush of waves. moonlight has shifted; silver stripes paint his collarbone, the slope of your shoulder.
after a minute he starts laughing, soft and disbelieving.
“what?” you mumble into his skin.
“i just had sex with my best friend,” he says, like he’s testing the sentence for flaws and finding none. “and it was,” his voice cracks again. “it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
you press a kiss over his heart. “same.”
he squeezes you tighter. “we’re gonna be so annoying now.”
“the most annoying,” you agree, smiling against his chest. “oh, and, for the record, i’m not letting you leave this bed until we have to check out.”
“deal.” he tips your chin up, eyes shining.
for a long time you just breathe together. his fingers trace mindless patterns on your back.
“so,” he says finally, voice hoarse and soft, “what do we do now?”
you press your smile into his collarbone. “we date, i guess?”
he huffs a laugh. “yeah. we date. like, officially. you’re my girlfriend.”
the word makes something warm unfurl in your chest. “and you’re my boyfriend.”
“boyfriend,” he repeats, testing it, grinning. “i like that. a lot.”
you prop your chin on his chest to look at him. “people are gonna lose their minds.”
“let them.” he brushes your hair back. “my mom is gonna cry happy tears, and my own dad is gonna threaten to kill me if i hurt you.”
you snort. “he’ll have to get in line behind your grandma.”
jay’s quiet for a second, thumb stroking your cheek. “are you scared?”
you think about it, his thumb stroking your hip.
“a little,” you admit. “but mostly i’m… relieved.”
you turn in his arms so you’re face to face again.
“just so you know... i want mornings,” he says suddenly. “i want to wake up and make your coffee the way you like it, too much sugar, no matter how wrong it is. i want to argue about whose turn it is to do dishes and then make out against the fridge anyway. i want boring tuesday nights on the couch and big stupid anniversary trips and,” his voice cracks a little, “and i want to come home to you for the rest of my life, if you’ll let me.”
tears prick your eyes without warning.
“yes,” you whisper. “yes to all of it.”
he kisses you again, slow and sweet, like sealing a vow.
“i’ve been scared for years that one day you’d bring someone home and i’d have to smile and be happy for you while my chest caved in.” jay confesses. “but this is better. this is so much better.”
you kiss the center of his palm. “no more pretending.”
“no more pretending,” he echoes. “i get to hold your hand in public. kiss you when i want. tell everyone you’re mine.”
“possessive you is unexpectedly hot,” you tease.
he rolls you gently so you’re under him again, wrists pinned lightly above your head. “you have no idea.”
you arch up to kiss him, slow and lazy. when you break apart he rests his forehead against yours.
“we’ll take it slow with everyone else,” he says seriously. “we’ll tell our families first. then the group chat can explode. but us... we don’t have to figure everything out tonight. we just keep being us, but now i get to love you out loud.”
your eyes sting a little. “i like the sound of that.”
he kisses the tip of your nose. “good. because i plan on being disgustingly in love with you for a very long time.”
you laugh, watery. “disgustingly in love?”
“oh yeah. i’m talking matching halloween costumes, instagram hard launch in like, a week, writing songs about you… the whole cringe package.”
“i can’t wait.” you smile.
he settles beside you again, pulling the sheet up over both of you. you curl into his side, ear over his heart.
“jay?”
“mhm?”
“i’m really glad the hotel messed up the booking.
he laughs, the sound rumbling under your cheek. “me too, baby. me too.”
you talk until the sky outside starts to pale. about stupid little things — who gets the left side of the bed at home, whether you’ll keep separate toothbrushes at each other’s places or just share, if you’ll tell your friends or let them figure it out when you don’t stop touching each other —, and big things — moving in together one day, maybe in a year, maybe sooner; how you’ll handle fights when they come, because they will; how you’ll protect this new, bright thing between you.
and every time one of you starts to worry, the other kisses it quiet.
at some point you must doze off, because you wake to jay pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, whispering, “morning, girlfriend.”
you smile into the pillow. “morning, boyfriend.
outside, the waves keep rolling in, steady and sure, just like the two of you now, finally on the same page.
Despite the few posts regarding this type of situation, I really feel like people need to be aware because this is actively happening on Tumblr right now.
Hi everybody, I hope you’re all doing okay. Unfortunately, I need to raise a flag about something that could easily happen to any of us, even if you think you’d never fall for a scam.
A few days ago, oomf told me and a few other creators about a new method scammers are using to target Tumblr accounts through DMs. And now that it almost happened to me, I’m taking it seriously enough to make this public.
Here’s how the scam works:
You receive a DM from someone claiming they “accidentally reported your account,” since you had the same picture as the account they were intending to report. They sound apologetic, friendly, and insist they need to “fix the report” by adding you on Discord. Once you accept, they ask you to change the email associated with your Tumblr account under the excuse of “verifying you” or “reversing the report.”
That is the scam. If you change your email, you’re handing over full access.
It’s manipulative, and it preys on creators who don’t want their accounts taken down, plus they use those suspicious “do you write with AI?” messages and other baiting tactics that have been circulating recently.
Someone close to my friend almost lost all their information because of this exact trick: Here's the evidence:
And here's mine. Thankfully, I remembered the message and I didn't fall for that:
Also, it's not your normal bot account that does that, it leggit looks like a normal fan account (but it could be that the account also got hacked and is impersonating as that person), so please, please stay alert. Tumblr will never ask you to switch emails, join Discord, or speak to a third party to “fix” a report. If you ever get a message like this:
Do not add them anywhere.
Do not follow any instructions.
Do not change your email, password, or settings for them.
Just block, report, and move on.
I’m sharing this so no one else gets caught off guard. Stay safe, protect your accounts, and look out for each other. If you’re a creator, writer, or artist, you’re especially a target.
If anyone needs help figuring out whether a message is legit, feel free to ask me or others who’ve been warned about this (one example can be this post by @4doras)
pssst. texting your boyfriend.
ⓘ - his personality may not be as you want him to be
note .. im still experimenting w enhypen texts & im sleep deprieved (?) bear with me.. 😓
the air feels thick, heavy with something that doesn’t move. beomgyu walks the same street again, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching at nothing.
he’s not expecting anything. not tonight. not anymore.
but when he looks up- you’re there.
by the window again. the light behind you is soft, gold spilling out into the cold.
he freezes. every part of him forgets what to do. his heart trips over itself, stupid and alive.
he swallows hard, steps closer.
“you’re here,” he says, voice barely above a breath.
you don’t answer. you just stare down at him, face unreadable.
“i-” he starts, then stops, his voice shaking. “i didn’t think you’d still- i mean, after last time-”
“why do you keep coming here?”
your voice cuts through the air. quiet, but sharp.
he blinks. he wasn’t ready for it.
“because,” he says softly, “this is where you are.”
“you don’t even know if i want you here.”
“if you didn’t, you’d close the window.”
you flinch, just a little. his eyes catch it.
“that’s not fair,” you say.
“none of this is,” he answers. “you left without a word. i waited anyway. what part of that was supposed to be fair?”
you look down at the windowsill, your fingers curling around the edge.
“i didn’t know how to say goodbye.”
“so you said nothing?” his voice cracks. “you just disappeared?”
“i thought you’d hate me less if i didn’t explain.”
“you thought wrong.”
the silence that follows is thick. the kind that sticks to your ribs.
you take a slow breath. “you don’t understand, beomgyu.”
“then make me.”
your throat tightens. “i was scared. of what we were becoming. of how much it started to mean. you were everywhere, in everything. i couldn’t breathe without thinking of you.”
“that’s not fear,” he says quietly. “that’s love.”
you shake your head, eyes glistening under the dim light. “no, it wasn’t that simple. it felt too big. like it would swallow me whole. and i didn’t think you’d know how to hold it.”
he laughs, bitter and small. “you didn’t even give me the chance.”
you look away. “i know.”
beomgyu steps closer, just enough that his voice can reach you without the wind stealing it.
“do you know what it’s like,” he says, “to talk to a window for months? to keep waiting for a sound that never comes?”
your eyes meet his. “do you know what it’s like to listen every night and still not have the courage to answer?”
he freezes.
“you heard me?”
“every time,” you whisper. “i heard you. every single night.”
he takes another step forward, voice trembling. “then why didn’t you say something?”
“because i thought if i did, i’d never be able to stop.”
the words hang there, fragile and real. his breath shakes. he looks up at you like he’s seeing something sacred.
“say it now, then.”
you blink. “what?”
“whatever it is. whatever you’ve been holding back.”
you hesitate. the world feels too quiet. even the streetlight stops flickering for a second. then finally, you say it.
“i missed you.”
the words hang there, suspended in the cold air between them.
beomgyu forgets how to breathe for a moment. it’s all he’s wanted to hear, and now that it’s here, it doesn’t fit anywhere inside him.
he just stands there, eyes wide, chest rising too fast.
silence.
not empty- just full of everything they never said.
the curtain moves again. your breath fogs the glass. the streetlight hums, steady, almost kind.
he finally speaks, voice small.
“say it again.”
you blink. “what?”
“that you missed me.”
“why?”
“because i’ve been saying it to an empty window for months. i want to know what it sounds like when it’s real.”
you look at him, eyes soft but tired. “it was always real, beomgyu. you just didn’t want to believe the way it ended.”
his jaw tightens. “you call this an ending?”
“isn’t it?”
he laughs, dry, the kind that hurts on the way out. “you don’t get to disappear, come back, and ask me that.”
“i didn’t come back,” you say, voice trembling. “i just couldn’t keep pretending you weren’t there.”
“so what, this is pity?”
“don’t do that.”
“don’t do what?”
“turn it into something ugly just because you’re scared.”
he blinks, stung. “you left. i get to be scared.”
“and i get to regret it,” you snap, then instantly lower your voice. “but you don’t get to punish me for it.”
the streetlight flickers. neither of you moves.
he exhales, long and shaky. “you think this is punishment? i came here every night, hoping maybe you’d look. that’s not punishment, that’s-” he stops, words tripping over his tongue, too heavy.
“that’s what?” you whisper.
“i don’t know,” he admits, voice cracking. “something stupid. something i couldn’t stop.”
you rest your head against the window frame. “you were always like that. you never knew when to stop caring.”
he almost smiles. “and you never knew when to start.”
your eyes meet his, sharp and wet. “that’s not fair.”
“no,” he says softly. “it’s not.”
the silence stretches again. you both look anywhere but at each other. the city breathes around you — cars in the distance, wind moving through the trees.
he kicks at the ground, nervous energy shaking through his hands. “you think we could ever fix this?”
you hesitate. “maybe. but not tonight.”
something in him folds inward. he nods slowly. “yeah. i figured.”
“beomgyu.”
he looks up.
“you don’t have to come here anymore,” you say quietly.
he opens his mouth, closes it again. his throat works around words that won’t come out.
for a second, he looks like he might laugh. then he just shakes his head.
“if i don’t come here,” he says, “i won’t know where to go.”
you bite your lip. “home.”
“this was home.”
the words hit heavier than either of you expect. your eyes drop, his shoulders slump.
the streetlight hums once more, then goes still. no flicker, no warning. just steady light over two people who don’t know what to do with it anymore.
he finally steps back, slow.
“goodnight,” he says, voice breaking on the last syllable.
you whisper something, but the wind steals it before he hears.
he takes another step, then another. his shadow stretches down the street, long and tired.
he doesn’t look back this time.
you stand by the window until the sound of his footsteps fades.
the air feels heavier again, like it’s closing around the space he left behind.
you rest your forehead against the cold glass, whispering the words he’ll never hear.
“i didn’t mean for it to end like this.”
outside, the streetlight finally flickers. once, twice- then stays dark.
as beomgyu entered the street he was used to, his hands in his jacket pockets, he looked up at the streetlight that flickered on and off with the same rhythm every night.
the street looks the same. maybe a little quieter, maybe the air is colder, but it’s still the same stretch of cracked pavement and yellow light. beomgyu knows every sound it makes. every corner, every shadow. he’s been here too many times.
you know this street too. you left your silence here, hanging between the buildings. he still hears it when he breathes in.
tonight he walks slower. his shoes drag against the ground, like he’s afraid the sound might wake something he isn’t ready to face. his breath clouds in front of him, short and uneven. it’s not even that cold, but he’s shivering anyway.
your window is there. same as always. second floor, third from the left. the one with the curtain that never closes all the way. he looks up, and for a moment, the world feels like it stops.
you aren’t there.
of course you aren’t.
he stands under it anyway. hands buried in his pockets, shoulders hunched, head tilted back. the streetlight hums above him, flickering in a rhythm that almost feels alive.
you did this.
you left.
and he still comes here like he’s waiting for a different ending.
he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out at first. his voice catches somewhere in his throat, caught between fear and exhaustion. he tries again, softer this time.
“hey.”
it barely leaves his lips. the word vanishes into the air, swallowed by the sound of the wind. he laughs quietly, that nervous kind of laugh people make when they’re pretending they don’t care.
“hey,” he says again, louder now.
nothing.
the curtain doesn’t move.
the light doesn’t change.
it’s just him, standing there, talking to a window that forgot how to listen.
“you probably hate me for still coming here,” he says, half to himself. “or maybe you don’t think about it at all. maybe you don’t think about me at all.”
he waits.
he doesn’t even know what for.
a car passes at the end of the street. he steps closer to the building, close enough that he can see his reflection in the glass, pale, tired, a little broken. it looks like someone else.
“i keep thinking you’ll open it,” he whispers. “that maybe you’ll lean out, just once. i don’t even need you to say anything. you could just look at me. i’d know what it means.”
he looks down at his hands, rubs them together. the skin’s raw, red from the cold.
“you left without a reason. do you know how much that ruins a person? no explanation. no fight. just silence. i waited for a message, a word, anything. i still do. even when i tell myself i’m done.”
he looks back up, eyes stinging a little.
“i know you can’t hear me. or maybe you can, and you just don’t care. i don’t know which one’s worse.”
he takes a few steps closer. now he’s right under the window, almost touching the wall. his breath hits the glass, faint fog appearing at the bottom corner.
“you said i overthink. you were right. i think about you too much. i think about what i did wrong. i think about what i could’ve said to make you stay.”
for a second, the curtain moves. not much, just a shift, like air brushing against it. his chest tightens instantly. he freezes.
“is that you?” he says, voice shaking. “please don’t- don’t just stand there. say something. please.”
silence.
but you were there, angry that he was coming to your window again. Even though your heart ached like it was leaking blood, you were angry because you couldn't finish. both at him and at you. you were sitting at the edge of the window, listening to him silently. you couldn't look into those eyes; you couldn't bear it, you hugged him, came down.
the curtain falls still again.
he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
laughs, but this time there’s no humor in it.
“yeah. that’s what i thought.”
his hands drop to his sides. the sound of the city comes back, a distant train, a dog barking somewhere, the faint hum of a refrigerator through the window. he closes his eyes, trying to memorize it all, as if these noises are proof that something still exists between you and him.
you did this. you left.
but he’s the one who can’t let go.
he presses his palm against the cold brick wall, whispering the words that he doesn’t dare to shout:
“i miss you. i shouldn’t, but i do. i keep telling myself you’re okay without me, and maybe that’s true. but what am i supposed to do with all this?”
his voice breaks on the last word.
no one answers.
he stays like that for a long time. maybe minutes, maybe hours. the flickering light above him finally steadies, burning quietly, like even it’s too tired to fight the dark.
when he finally steps back, his shadow pulls away from the wall slowly, like it doesn’t want to leave either. he looks at your window one last time, the faint reflection of himself disappearing in the glass.
“goodnight,” he says, barely audible. “i’ll come back tomorrow.”
and he means it.
he always does.
he walks home through the empty streets, shoes scraping against the concrete, shoulders heavy. every few steps he looks back, just in case.
but the window stays dark.
when he reaches his door, he doesn’t turn on the lights. he sits on the floor, leans against the wall, and closes his eyes.
the silence feels the same as the one outside.
you did this.
you left.
but he’s still here, whispering your name into a night that forgot you.
SYNOPSIS. he hunts you before you even realize it. the werewolf who stalks the forest knows exactly how to push your boundaries, testing your fear, your desire, and your obedience. every brush of his claws, every growl in your ear, drags you deeper into a game where surrender isn’t optional—and the price for resisting might be more than just pleasure.
the forest smells like pine and damp earth and the sharp, metallic tang of your own fear, a scent so thick it clings to the back of your throat like copper pennies, choking every breath with the taste of panic. moonlight drips through the canopy in silver shards, fractured and cold, painting the undergrowth in ghostly streaks that twist and vanish the moment you try to follow them, leaving you blind, dependent on instinct alone. but it’s not enough to see by. not really. your ears—soft, velvet, the color of fresh cream, longer than your forearm—twitch at every rustle, every sigh of wind, every distant hoot of an owl that sounds too much like a warning, too much like him. you’re small here. prey. your cotton tail, fluffy and white, trembles against the small of your back, tucked tight beneath the hem of your oversized sweater, but it’s no use. he can smell you. he always smells you—sweet hay and crushed clover and the faint, unmistakable musk of a bunny in heat, even when you swear you’re not, even when you scrub yourself raw in the stream to hide it, to scrub him away.
you shouldn’t have come this deep. the elders warned you in hushed, trembling voices—stay to the burrows, little bun, the wolf prowls at dusk, and he does not play gentle, he does not leave survivors, he takes what he wants and leaves only bones—but the blackberries were fat and ripe, glistening like drops of blood on the brambles, heavy with summer’s last sweetness, calling to you like a siren song you couldn’t resist. you were greedy. you told yourself just one more handful, then just to the next bush, then just one more, until the path behind you vanished and the trees closed in like a fist, trunks pressing closer, branches clawing at your sweater, snagging on your ears. now the woven basket lies abandoned somewhere in the dark, handle snapped, berries crushed under your bare feet as you run, soles stinging on thorns and roots, tiny beads of blood welling up to mark your trail like breadcrumbs for the beast. your breath comes in panicked puffs, fogging in the chill, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he hears it—thump-thump-thump—a frantic drumbeat that calls to him like a dinner bell, like a mating call, like a challenge.
the first time was a glimpse—amber eyes between the trunks, glowing like twin coals in the dusk, gone when you blinked, leaving only the afterimage burned into your retinas, a warning you ignored. then a growl, low and rolling, curling around your spine like smoke, making your knees buckle even as you bolted, your tail fluffing in terror, ears flattening. then claws—long, black, glinting like obsidian—dragging slow across bark, leaving deep gouges you found the next morning, still wet with sap and reeking of musk, the scent thick enough to taste, to feel. he’s been circling, closer each time, testing the edges of your courage, your speed, your desire. he left gifts—rabbits, gutted and arranged in perfect circles around your burrow entrance, throats torn out, still warm, eyes glassy and accusing. you buried them, hands shaking, dirt under your nails for days, but the message was clear: i see you. i want you. run. tonight he’s done testing. tonight the circle snaps shut.
you hear him before you see him: a crack of branches, deliberate, unhurried, the sound of something that knows it has all the time in the world, that knows you’re already caught, already his. he’s not running. he’s hunting. your legs burn, lungs screaming, but you dart left, weaving between ferns taller than your waist, hoping the underbrush will slow him, tangle his paws, buy you seconds, anything. it doesn’t. a shadow melts from the trees ahead—tall, broad, impossibly fast—and you skid, claws (your own tiny, blunt ones) digging into moss, spinning to bolt the other way. too late. he’s there, cutting you off, a wall of muscle and fur and heat that blocks the moonlight entirely, casting you in his darkness, his shadow.
jay.
he’s half-shifted, caught between man and beast—shirt torn open down the middle, hanging in shreds from his shoulders, chest bare and heaving, every breath rippling the dark fur that dusts his pecs and trails down his abs in a thick, tempting line that disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans, low-slung and torn at the knee. his claws are fully extended, black and curved, catching the moonlight like scythes, long enough to gut you with a flick, to claim you with a swipe. his ears—wolf, pointed, tufted with silver—twitch forward, alert, and his grin is all fangs, sharp and wicked, lips peeled back to reveal canines that could snap your neck with a single bite, that will if you fight, that might even if you don’t. “found you, bunny.”
you freeze, ears pinned flat against your skull, tail quivering so hard it aches, a white flag of surrender you can’t control, can’t hide. “i—was just—” your voice cracks, high and reedy, the sound of a creature that knows it’s caught, that knows the game is over, that the hunt has ended and the feast begins.
“running.” his voice is gravel and smoke, laced with dark amusement that makes your stomach flip, your cunt clench, your thighs slick with shame. he steps closer, slow, letting you see the way his claws flex, the way his nostrils flare, drinking in your scent—fear, sweat, and beneath it all, the shameful slick of want that’s been building for weeks, that you’ve been denying even as you touched yourself in the dark. “thought you could outrun me? thought those pretty little legs could carry you faster than my hunger? than my need? than the way your scent calls to me every fucking night?”
you back up until your spine hits a tree, bark rough and unyielding against your sweater, scraping the soft skin between your shoulder blades, grounding you in the pain, in the realness of him. “please—” the word tumbles out, desperate, but you don’t even know what you’re begging for. mercy? more? your body doesn’t know either—it’s trembling, thighs slick, tail twitching like it’s trying to wag, like it’s happy to be caught.
he’s on you in a blink, one clawed hand slamming into the trunk beside your head with a thunk that vibrates through the wood and into your bones, the other gripping your chin, tilting your face up with bruising force until your neck aches, until you’re staring into eyes that burn gold. his thumb presses your lower lip, smearing the cherry gloss you wore for no one, dragging it across your teeth until your mouth parts on a gasp, until he can see the pink of your tongue, the wet of your mouth. he leans in, nose brushing your throat, inhaling deep, a rumble building in his chest that you feel in your core, in your cunt. “you smell like mine,” he growls, the sound vibrating against your pulse, making it race faster, making you dizzy. “been smelling it for weeks. sweet little bunny, dripping fear and cunt, leaving your scent on every leaf you brush, every blade of grass you crush. did you think i wouldn’t follow? did you think i wouldn’t hunt? did you think i wouldn’t take?”
you whimper, thighs clenching instinctively, the slick between them betraying you in a hot, shameful rush that coats your inner thighs, that drips down your leg. he smells it instantly—head snapping down, eyes narrowing to slits of molten gold—and laughs, dark and low, the sound curling around your spine like his growl, making your knees buckle, making you wet. “already wet. knew you’d be a good girl. knew you’d cream yourself the second i caught you, the second you realized you were mine, the second you stopped pretending you didn’t want this.”
his claws shred your sweater in one swipe, fabric parting like tissue paper, the sound of ripping threads loud in the silence, final. cool air hits your bare breasts, nipples pebbling instantly into tight, aching peaks, and he groans, a guttural sound that makes your cunt clench around nothing, makes slick drip down your thigh in a slow, sticky trail. he dips his head, mouth closing over one nipple, tongue rough and hot, teeth grazing just enough to sting, to send sparks shooting straight to your core, to make you arch. you arch, hands flying to his hair—thick, coarse, threaded with silver under the moonlight—and he growls approval, the vibration buzzing through your breast as he switches to the other, sucking hard, relentless, until you’re sobbing, hips rolling against nothing, chasing friction that isn’t there, that you need, that you crave.
“jay—please—” your voice breaks, a plea and a prayer, but you don’t know which god you’re begging—him, maybe, the beast who’s claimed you without a word, who’s marked you with his scent, his teeth, his hunger.
“please what?” he pulls back, eyes feral, pupils blown wide until only a thin ring of gold remains, glowing like embers in the dark. “please stop? or please fuck you right here against this tree until you can’t walk, until your legs give out and you’re dripping my cum, until you’re bred?” his claws drag down your sides, slow, deliberate, slicing through your shorts in a single, practiced motion, the fabric falling away to leave you bare, vulnerable, moonlight painting your skin in silver and shadow, highlighting every tremble, every flush, every mark. he steps back, just enough to look—your cunt glistening, thighs trembling, tail twitching uncontrollably, slick shining on your folds like dew—and licks his fangs, slow, savoring, like he’s tasting you already, like he’s memorizing. “look at you. soaked and shaking. bet you’ve been dreaming of this every night, fingers stuffed in that greedy little hole, pretending it was my cock, my knot, my cum, pretending it was me.”
you can’t answer. your voice is gone, stolen by the heat pooling low, by the way his claws tease the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, by the thick, musky scent of him—pine and smoke and alpha—filling your lungs until you’re dizzy, until your head spins, until you’re his. he drops to his knees, shoulders forcing your legs apart with bruising strength, claws digging into your hips just enough to warn, to hold, to claim, and buries his face between them without warning. his tongue is rough—long, thick, textured like velvet over steel—dragging from your entrance to your clit in one slow, filthy stroke that makes your knees buckle, makes you scream into the night, makes the forest hear. he pins your hips to the tree, claws pricking skin, drawing tiny beads of blood that he laps up with a growl, and devours.
he licks into you like he’s starving, nose pressed hard to your clit, growling into your folds until the vibration makes you see stars, until your legs shake so hard you’d fall if he wasn’t holding you up, if he wasn’t keeping you. his tongue fucks in and out, curling to lap at your walls, drinking down every gush of slick like it’s nectar, like it’s life, like it’s his. you come hard, sudden and shattering, gushing over his tongue, and he drinks it down, lapping every drop, teeth grazing your thighs as he marks them—bites that bloom red and purple, claiming, branding, mine. he doesn’t stop. he keeps licking, sucking, growling, until you’re sobbing, oversensitive, hips jerking away only for him to drag you back with a snarl. “stay still, bunny. alpha’s cleaning his mess. alpha’s tasting his prize. alpha’s marking what’s his.”
he stands, licking his lips, fangs glinting with your slick, your blood, and spins you with one hand, pressing your front to the tree. bark bites your breasts, your cheek, scraping skin raw, but you barely feel it over the ache between your legs, over the need, over the want. his claws rake down your back, not breaking skin, just teasing, raising goosebumps in their wake, and then his cock—hot, thick, knotted—nudges your entrance, the blunt head smearing through your folds, coating itself in your slick and his spit, in you. “gonna breed this little bunny cunt,” he snarls, voice shredded with lust, pushing in slow, stretching you open inch by agonizing inch until you’re sobbing, until your walls flutter around him, until you’re full. “gonna knot you, fill you, make you mine until you’re dripping my pups, until your belly swells with me, until you smell like me forever.”
you sob, clenching around him, the burn exquisite, the stretch impossible, perfect, right. he bottoms out with a growl, hips flush to your ass, balls heavy against your clit, and stills, letting you feel every inch, every pulse, every throb of his knot already swelling at the base, pressing against your entrance, promising. “fuck, so tight. made for me. made to take my cock, my come, my knots,” he groans, voice breaking on the last word, and you feel it—the way he’s holding back, the way he’s restraining himself for you, for this.
then he moves—hard, deep, relentless. the tree shakes with every thrust, bark flaking under your palms, your tits scraping raw, his claws digging into your hips hard enough to bruise, to mark, to claim. he reaches around, finds your clit, rubs brutal, precise circles until you’re screaming, coming again, pussy milking him in desperate, fluttering waves that make him growl, make his hips stutter, make him lose control. he doesn’t stop. he fucks you through it, knot swelling, catching at your entrance with every drag out, until you’re babbling—please, jay, please, too much, can’t—until your voice is gone, until you’re nothing but sensation, nothing but his, nothing but prey.
he knots you with a roar that shakes the leaves from the branches, cock pulsing, flooding you with heat, come spilling out around the stretch in thick, creamy rivulets that drip down your thighs, pool on the roots below, mark the earth. you come again, vision whiting out, body shaking apart, ears ringing, tail twitching helplessly, sated. he stays locked inside, grinding slow, milking every aftershock, every clench, until you’re limp, boneless, held up only by his knot and the tree, by him, by alpha.
but he’s not done. not even close.
he pulls out with a wet, obscene sound, come dripping down your thighs in slow, sticky trails, and scoops you up like you weigh nothing, carrying you through the trees to a clearing ringed by ancient oaks, their roots twisting like fingers into the earth, like they’re watching. moonlight pools on soft moss, cool and damp, and he lays you down gentle, reverent, but his eyes are still feral, still hungry, still alpha. he eats you out again—slow, lazy, licking his own release from your cunt, tongue delving deep to scoop out every drop, to taste the mix of you and him until you’re sobbing, oversensitive, hips jerking away only for him to drag you back with a growl. “stay still, bunny. alpha’s cleaning his mess. alpha’s savoring. alpha’s preparing you for more.”
then he flips you onto your knees, chest pressed to the moss, ass in the air, tail twitching helplessly, and mounts you from behind, cock sliding home in one brutal thrust, knot catching immediately. he fucks you like an animal—hips snapping, claws digging into your waist, growling filth into your ear. “gonna breed you again. gonna keep you knotted all night. gonna fill this cunt until it can’t hold any more, until you’re swollen with me, until you leak me for days, until every bunny in the warren smells me on you.” he edges you mercilessly, pulling out when you’re teetering on the edge, cockhead dragging over your clit until you’re crying, begging—please, alpha, need it, need your knot, need your come—until your voice is gone, throat raw, tears soaking the moss, until you’re nothing but need, nothing but his.
he knots you twice more in the clearing, each time more intense, come overflowing, dripping down your thighs, pooling beneath you in a sticky mess that marks the earth as much as it marks you, that claims the forest itself. he marks every inch of you—neck, breasts, thighs, the soft fur of your ears—with bites and claws and scent, rubbing his wrists against your skin, your throat, your cunt, until you reek of him, until anyone who comes near will know you’re claimed, bred, owned, loved.
the first knot locks in with a wet, obscene sound, his hips grinding deep, grinding deeper, as if he could burrow into your womb and never leave. your body shakes, thighs trembling, toes curling into the moss as he floods you—hot, thick pulses of come painting your insides, spilling out around his knot in messy rivulets that soak your fur and the earth beneath. you feel it everywhere: the stretch, the burn, the fullness, the way your belly already feels heavier, warmer, claimed. he stays buried, chest heaving against your back, one massive paw splayed over your stomach like he’s already cradling what he’s put inside you.
he doesn’t let you rest. doesn’t let you think. the second he feels his knot soften—just enough to pull free with a filthy, wet pop—he flips you again, this time onto your back, legs shoved wide, knees hooked over his thick forearms. your ears flop against the moss, damp with tears and sweat, and he looks at you—really looks—eyes glowing gold in the dim light, pupils blown wide with hunger and something darker, something possessive that makes your cunt clench around nothing.
“look at you,” he growls, voice rough as bark, “already leaking me. already mine.” he drags his cock through the mess between your thighs, smearing his spend over your clit, your folds, the soft fur of your mound, marking you with it like paint. then he lines up again and slams home, knot catching faster this time, your body so slick and open for him it takes him like it was made for this, like you were born for this.
this time he fucks you slow. cruel. every thrust deliberate, dragging over every sensitive spot inside you until you’re sobbing, arching, trying to chase the friction he denies you. he pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other sliding down to press just above your pubic bone, feeling himself move inside you, feeling the bulge of his cock beneath your skin. “feel that?” he snarls, teeth bared. “that’s me. that’s mine. gonna keep you like this—stuffed, swollen, dripping—until you can’t walk straight, until every step you take reminds you who you belong to.”
you come with a broken cry, walls fluttering around his knot, milking him as he grinds deep and spills again, more come, so much come, it gushes out around him, soaking your ass, your tail, the moss in a puddle that smells like sex and forest and him. he doesn’t pull out. just stays locked inside, licking the tears from your cheeks, nipping at your throat, your collarbone, the soft spot behind your ear where your scent is strongest.
“third time’s the charm,” he murmurs, voice softer now but no less dangerous, and you whimper because you know—you know he’s not done, know he’ll knot you again, breed you again, until you’re boneless and breathless and so full of him you’ll never be empty again.
he maneuvers you carefully this time, rolling you onto your side, one leg hooked over his hip, his knot still tying you together as he spoons you from behind. the position is almost tender—almost—except for the way his claws rake lightly down your belly, the way he growls every time your cunt flutters around him, the way he bites the back of your neck hard enough to bruise, to mark, to leave a brand that won’t fade for weeks.
the third knot swells slow, deliberate, his hips rocking in tiny, filthy circles that make you sob into the moss. he’s everywhere—inside you, around you, on you—his scent in your fur, his come in your womb, his teeth in your skin. when he finally comes, it’s with a guttural roar that shakes the leaves above, his cock pulsing so hard you feel it in your throat, come forcing its way out around his knot in thick, creamy waves that drip down your thighs in slow, obscene rivers.
he stays knotted longer this time. hours, maybe. the sun dips lower, painting the clearing in bruised golds and purples, and still he doesn’t move. just holds you, one arm banded under your breasts, the other splayed over your belly, thumb stroking the slight swell there like he’s already imagining it rounder, fuller, his.
“gonna keep you like this,” he whispers against your ear, voice hoarse from growling, from claiming. “gonna knot you every night. every morning. gonna breed you until you’re so full of me you can’t think of anything else. until your body knows me. until your cunt aches for me when i’m not inside you.”
you whimper, exhausted, oversensitive, but your hips still rock back against him, instinctive, needy, his. he chuckles—dark, satisfied—and licks a stripe up your throat, tasting salt and sex and you.
when his knot finally deflates, he doesn’t let you go far. just pulls out slow, watching with hungry eyes as his come gushes from your cunt in a thick, creamy flood, pooling between your thighs, soaking the moss in a claim that won’t wash away. he scoops some up with two fingers and pushes it back inside you, slow and deliberate, making you whine and clench around the intrusion.
“none of that,” he growls. “you keep it. you carry it.”
then he marks you again—rubbing his wrists over every inch of your skin, your throat, your breasts, the soft fur of your ears, the slick folds of your cunt—until you’re drenched in him, until you reek of him, until the forest itself smells like alpha and omega and mated.
he gathers you close as the stars come out, your body limp and trembling in his arms, come still leaking from you in slow, steady pulses. your tail twitches weakly against his thigh, and he presses a kiss to the bite mark on your neck, gentle now, almost reverent.
“mine,” he murmurs, voice soft but unbreakable. “all mine.”
and you are.
dawn creeps through the trees in pale gold fingers when he finally lets you rest, curled against his chest on the moss, his claws gentle now, stroking your ears with a tenderness that makes your chest ache, that makes you want to stay, to belong. “good bunny,” he murmurs, nosing your throat, scenting you one last time, his tongue lapping at the bite marks until they throb, until they heal under his care, until they’re permanent. “all mine. no more running. no more hiding. you’re home.”
you whimper, nuzzling closer, tail twitching against his thigh, slick and come drying sticky between your legs, on your skin, in your fur, in you. your body is wrecked—bruised, bitten, knotted raw—but you feel full, claimed, safe in a way you never did in the burrows, in a way you never thought you could, in a way you crave.
outside, the forest wakes, slow and deliberate, like a lover stretching after a long night of dreams. the first tentative chirp of a wren slices through the hush, answered by the rustle of leaves as a squirrel scampers along a branch overhead. dew clings to every blade of grass, every fern frond, every curling tendril of ivy that snakes up the ancient oaks. it catches the newborn light and fractures it into a thousand tiny rainbows, shimmering, fragile, untouched. the air is crisp, carrying the sharp bite of pine and the sweeter undertone of crushed blackberries from some distant thicket. a breeze stirs, cool and clean, lifting the scent of earth and moss and wild mint, weaving through the clearing like a promise that the world keeps turning, indifferent to the storm that just raged within it.
the sun climbs higher, spilling gold between the leaves in lazy, slanted beams that warm the moss where you lie, still tangled in him, still full of him. the light catches on the slick mess between your thighs, turning the pearly rivulets of his come into liquid silver that drips slow and steady from your swollen cunt. it pools beneath you, soaking into the earth, marking the forest floor with the proof of what he’s done, what you begged him to do. the ground drinks it greedily, just as you did, just as you still do, your body clenching weakly around the ghost of his knot even now, hours later, trying to keep every drop inside.
inside, you’re his. there is no other word for it. no softer way to say it. every inch of you bears the brand of his claiming, his teeth in the tender slope where neck meets shoulder, deep enough to bruise, to scar, to stay. his claws have left delicate crescents along your hips, your thighs, the soft curve of your waist, thin lines of red that bead with blood and then crust over, tiny constellations mapping the places he held you down, held you open, held you still while he took what was already his. his scent is everywhere, in your fur, your skin, the damp curls between your legs, the hollow of your throat where he rubbed his wrists again and again until the glands there wept their oily musk into your pores. you reek of him. you are him. alpha. mate. owner. the words circle in your mind like a prayer, like a curse, like the only truth left in the world.
and you don’t want to run anymore.
the thought arrives soft, almost shy, curling in your chest like smoke. you test it, roll it over your tongue the way you once tested the idea of escape, of burrows and warrens and the safety of numbers. back when you were just a bunny with quick feet and a quicker heart, when the forest was a maze of shadows to dart through, when alpha was a word hissed in warning around the fire, a shape in the dark that made kits whimper and does clutch their ears flat against their skulls. back then, running was instinct. it was breath and blood and the thunder of your pulse in your ears. it was the only thing that kept you alive.
but now.
now your legs won’t hold you. now your cunt throbs with the ache of being used, stretched, bred, and the ache is sweet, is right, is a hymn you want to sing with every step you’ll never take again. now the thought of leaving this clearing, of washing his scent from your fur, of letting the wind steal his come from between your thighs, it makes you whine low in your throat, a broken, needy sound that has him tightening his arms around you, his chest rumbling with a growl that’s half comfort, half warning.
“easy, little one,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear, the fur there damp with his spit and your tears. “i’ve got you.”
you believe him. gods help you, you believe him.
you want to stay. here, in this moss-soft cradle of earth and root and sky. here, where the birds are singing the sun higher and the dew is already starting to steam off the leaves. here, where his cock is half-hard against the small of your back, where his knot has finally, finally deflated enough for him to slip free, but he hasn’t. he’s still inside you, shallow and lazy, rocking in tiny, gentle thrusts that make you flutter and gasp and leak even more of him onto the ground. you want to stay knotted. you want to stay bred. you want to stay his. forever.
the word blooms in your mind like blood in water. forever. it should terrify you. it should send you scrambling for the underbrush, ears pinned, heart jackrabbit-fast. instead, it settles in your bones like warm honey, thick and golden and inevitable. you turn your face into the crook of his neck, nuzzle the thick fur there, inhale lungfuls of his scent, pine and smoke and hot iron and sex, until your head spins. your tongue darts out, tasting the salt of his skin, the faint copper of the scratch you left on his shoulder when you came the third time, claws digging in as he’d snarled mine, mine, mine against your throat.
he chuckles, low and rough, and the sound vibrates through your chest, through the place where your heart is trying to crawl out and nest inside his. “greedy bunny,” he says, and there’s fondness there, sharp as his teeth. “thought you’d had enough.”
“never,” you whisper, and it’s the truth. your voice is wrecked, hoarse from screaming, from begging, from praying his name like it could save you, like it could damn you. you clear your throat, try again. “never enough. want, want you always. want your knot. want your pups. want, want to smell like you until the stars fall.”
his arms tighten, almost painful, and then he’s rolling you, slow and careful, until you’re straddling his hips, his cock sliding deeper with the shift in angle. you both groan. you’re so full already, so ruined, but your body opens for him like it was carved for this purpose, like every inch of you was designed to take him and keep him and love him. he cups your face, thumbs smearing the tears and dirt and come across your cheeks, and his eyes, gold and glowing and ancient, search yours.
“say it again,” he demands, voice gravel and thunder. “say it so the forest hears. so the gods hear.”
you lean down, press your forehead to his, and let the words spill out raw and shaking and true. “i’m yours. bred. claimed. knotted. loved. forever. i don’t want to run. i want to stay. i want, want your teeth in my neck every night. want your come in my belly every morning. want your pups kicking inside me. want to leak you for days, weeks, years. want every bunny in every warren to smell you on me and know i’m taken. know i’m happy.”
his growl is a storm, a benediction, a vow. he surges up, claims your mouth in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and desperation, tasting himself on your lips, tasting you. when he pulls back, his eyes are wet. yours are too. neither of you care.
“then you’ll have it,” he says, fierce and soft all at once. “all of it. every knot. every drop. every pup. every sunrise with my cock inside you and my teeth in your skin. you’ll never be empty again, little one. never be alone. never be anything but mine.”
you nod, frantic, and then he’s moving again, slow, deep rolls of his hips that make you sob with overstimulation, with joy. the clearing spins. the birds keep singing. the dew keeps glittering. the world keeps turning. but inside this circle of moss and come and fur and love, time stops. there is only the wet slide of him inside you, the stretch of your cunt around his thickening knot, the way your belly already feels warmer, heavier, changed. there is only the way he holds you like you’re fragile and unbreakable all at once, the way he whispers filth and devotion in equal measure, the way your bodies fit together like they were never meant to be apart.
when his knot catches this time, it’s gentle. almost sweet. he locks inside you with a sigh instead of a snarl, buries his face in your neck and breathes you in, like you’re air, like you’re life. you come quietly, a soft, rolling wave that leaves you trembling and clinging, your walls milking him in slow, lazy pulses that draw his own release out in thick, endless spurts. you feel it everywhere, in your cunt, your womb, your blood. you feel claimed. you feel whole.
after, he doesn’t pull out. just holds you close, one massive hand splayed over your lower belly, thumb tracing circles over the faint swell there. the sun is high now, beating down warm on your fur, but you’re sweating for other reasons. your thighs are sticky, your cunt is throbbing, your heart is so full it hurts. you’re leaking again, his come and yours mixing in a slow trickle that drips down his balls, onto the moss, into the earth. the forest drinks it. the forest knows.
“gonna build you a nest,” he murmurs against your ear, voice drowsy and satisfied. “right here. softest moss, sweetest clover. gonna line it with my fur so you never forget who keeps you warm. gonna fuck you in it every night until the moon wanes and waxes again. gonna watch your belly grow round and heavy with me. gonna lick the milk from your breasts when it comes in. gonna teach our pups to hunt and to love and to claim what’s theirs.”
you whimper, hips rocking instinctively, a tiny, helpless roll that drags his knot along your oversensitive walls. the motion sparks lightning behind your eyelids, and he groans, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. his knot pulses inside you, thick and hot, answering your body’s plea with another lazy surge of come that pushes past the seal and trickles warm down your thighs. “yes,” you breathe, voice cracked and small, barely louder than the breeze. “yes, alpha. please. want it. want all of it.”
he kisses you again, slower this time, reverent. his tongue traces the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart, slipping inside to taste the salt of your tears and the sweetness of your surrender. he maps every corner of your mouth like he’s charting territory he intends to rule forever: the sharp edge of your teeth, the soft give of your tongue, the little hitch in your breath when he sucks gently on your lower lip. when he pulls back, his smile is crooked and fond and a little bit wicked, gold eyes glittering with promises that make your cunt flutter around him all over again. “then rest, little bunny,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across your swollen mouth. “you’ll need your strength. because when this knot goes down, i’m flipping you over and starting again. and again. and again. until the only thing you know how to say is my name. until the only thing you are is mine.”
the words settle in your bones like warm stones. you close your eyes, burrow into his chest, and let the forest sing you to sleep. the birds keep chirping, bright trills that stitch the morning together. the dew keeps shining, catching the sun in tiny prisms that dance across your fur. the world keeps turning, indifferent and ancient and alive.
but you, you’re still. you’re his. and you’re not going anywhere.
his heartbeat thuds steady beneath your ear, a drum that lulls you deeper. each pulse echoes the throb of his knot inside you, a matched rhythm that says stay, stay, stay. your own heart answers, softer, faster, a frantic little drum of yes, yes, yes. you can feel the slow drag of his claws through your fur, not scratching now, just petting, soothing the places he ravaged earlier. the sting of bite marks flares and fades under his touch, pleasure-pain braided so tight you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. his scent is everywhere: pine smoke, crushed moss, the sharp musk of sex and satisfaction. it clings to your tongue when you breathe, coats the back of your throat, sinks into your blood until you’re certain if someone cut you open they’d find him written in every drop.
sleep tugs at you, but you fight it just long enough to catalog the ache between your legs, the delicious ruin of being used so thoroughly. your cunt is swollen, slick, stretched around the thick base of his knot like it was molded for this purpose. every tiny shift sends a fresh pulse of come oozing out, warm and sticky, painting your thighs, his hips, the moss beneath. the earth drinks it greedily, the same way you drank him down, greedy and grateful and changed. you feel heavy with him, belly warm and full, the faint cramping deep inside already shifting into something softer, something that whispers ours. it’s too soon for certainty, but your body knows. your body remembers. every thrust, every snarl, every hot flood of seed painting your womb. you clench experimentally, and he groans again, hips jerking just enough to make you gasp.
“be still, bunny,” he rumbles, but there’s no heat in it, only fond exasperation. his hand slides down to cup your ass, holding you flush against him, keeping his knot seated deep. “let me keep you full.”
you nod against his chest, nuzzle into the thick fur there, and finally let sleep take you. it’s a gentle fall, like sinking into sun-warmed water. dreams come in fragments: his teeth in your throat, his cock splitting you open, the weight of a belly rounded with his pups. you dream of a burrow lined with his shed fur and soft clover, of mornings spent licking milk from your own breasts while he watches with hungry eyes, of nights spent knotted and breathless and loved. you dream of never running again.
when you wake, the sun has climbed higher, slanting golden bars across the clearing. his knot has softened, but he hasn’t moved. hasn’t let you go. his cock is half-hard inside you, nestled in the mess he made, and when you shift experimentally he growls low, fingers tightening on your hip. “told you,” he says, voice rough with sleep and satisfaction. “again.”
this time he’s gentle at first, rolling you onto your stomach, lifting your hips until you’re on your knees, chest pressed to the moss. he enters you slow, savoring the wet heat, the way your body parts for him like it’s been waiting its whole life for this. his hands roam your back, tracing the ladder of your spine, the curve of your waist, the swell of your ass. he fucks you in long, deep strokes that make you sob into the earth, make your toes curl, make your tail twitch helplessly against his stomach. when his knot catches, it’s with a sigh instead of a snarl, and he folds himself over you, chest to your back, arms caging you in.
“mine,” he whispers against your ear, and you echo it back, voice broken and blissful. “yours.”
he stays knotted longer this time, rocking gently, letting the aftershocks ripple through you both. when he finally slips free, he doesn’t let the emptiness last. two fingers scoop the come dripping from your cunt and push it back inside, slow and deliberate, making you whine and clench and beg. “keep it,” he says, voice dark with possession. “keep me inside you always.”
you nod, frantic, and he gathers you close, arranging you so you’re facing him, legs tangled, his cock soft but still pressed against your belly. he licks the tears from your cheeks, the sweat from your throat, the come from the corner of your mouth where it leaked when you screamed. his tongue is rough, reverent, marking you all over again with scent and spit and love.
outside, the forest keeps waking. a fox barks somewhere distant. a stream giggles over stones. the wind combs through the leaves, carrying the scent of rain on the horizon. inside this circle of moss and fur and come, time is measured in heartbeats and knots and the slow drag of his claws through your pelt. you are boneless, breathless, his. your cunt throbs with the memory of him, your womb aches with the weight of his seed, your skin sings with every bruise and bite and scratch. you are marked in ways that will never fade, claimed in ways that will never break.
and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
you press your face to his chest, breathe him in until your lungs burn, and whisper the only truth left: “again.”
his laugh is low, delighted, dangerous. “greedy little thing,” he says, and flips you over.
the birds keep singing. the dew keeps shining. the world keeps turning.
but you, you’re still. you’re his. and you’re not going anywhere.
romaincrisis
baratheonpilled
kaledo-art
gummygunk
pixelskylines
ellievsbear
izzy806
annaxmalina
andulkaphoto
snowghoul
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