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The floorboards creak under the weight of his steps in the hallway, and your breath hitches, a sharp, silent gasp that you swallow back down. The only light comes from the twinkling multicolored bulbs on the tree, casting shifting shadows across the living room, across your skin. The rough weave of the rug bites into the backs of your thighs, a tiny, grounding pain amidst the dizzying anticipation. You’re curled into a tight ball, knees to your chest, inside a giant cardboard box, the lid resting loosely on top. The only thing covering you is red satin ribbon, crisscrossed over your breasts, pulled taut around your nipples in a way that makes them ache with a delicious, constant pressure, and a single, flimsy strip that serves as a thong, the bow resting just above your clit.
The key turns in the lock. The door swings open. A flood of cool air from the hallway washes over your heated skin.
“Hello?” Jay’s voice, tired from the long day, echoes in the quiet apartment. “Babe? You here?”
You hear the thud of his work bag hitting the floor, the rustle of his coat being shrugged off. His footsteps come closer, moving past your hiding spot toward the kitchen. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat he must be able to hear. You shift just an inch, making the box rustle.
He freezes. “What the…”
He walks back into the room, his form a dark silhouette against the doorway. You see his head tilt. He takes a cautious step toward the tree, toward the one large, lidless box that wasn’t there this morning. You hold your breath, pressing your lips together to keep from laughing, from giving yourself away.
He kneels. The scent of his cologne, something warm and woody, cuts through the piney smell of the tree. His fingers, still cold from outside, grip the edge of the cardboard. He hesitates for a second, then lifts the lid completely away.
His sharp intake of breath is the best gift you could have asked for. His eyes, wide and dark in the dim light, travel over the ribbons, over the obscene bow on your chest, down the narrow path of your stomach to the flimsy knot between your legs. He just stares, his mouth slightly agape, processing the sight of you, his present, trussed up and waiting.
“Merry Christmas, Jay,” you whisper, your voice husky.
A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. “Well, fuck me. Is this all for me?”
“All for you,” you confirm, arching your back just a little, making your breasts push against their satin binds. “Every fucking inch.”
He doesn’t tear the ribbon. His approach is agonizingly slow, deliberate. He reaches out, and his thumb, now warmer, brushes over the red satin stretched tight across your left nipple. The sensation is electric, a jolt of pure need that arcs straight to your core. You moan, and the sound seems to break whatever spell of hesitation held him.
“These fucking ribbons,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with desire. “Tied around these perfect fucking tits. I’ve been dreaming about these tits all goddamn day.” He hooks a finger under the ribbon on your right breast and pulls, just enough to make the pressure intensify, to make you gasp and buck your hips off the floor. “Look at how they’re spilling over this pretty red bow. Fuck, you have no idea what that does to me.”
He leans down, and his hot mouth closes over the ribbon, over the nipple beneath it. He sucks, hard, through the satin, the fabric becoming wet and slick against your skin. The dual sensation—the rough drag of the material and the fierce pull of his mouth—is overwhelming. You cry out, your fingers digging into the carpet.
“Jay, please…”
“Please what?” he asks, pulling away, a string of saliva connecting his lip to the wet satin. “Tell me exactly what you want. Use your fucking words.”
“I want your mouth on me. On my skin. I want you to unwrap me with your teeth.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He lowers his head again, and this time, his teeth catch the end of the knot on your left breast. He tugs, his breath hot on your skin. The bow gives way with a soft whisper, the ribbon loosening. He pulls it free with his teeth, letting it fall away, and your breast springs free, the nipple hard and aching and exposed to the cool air. He does the same to the other side, his movements quick and hungry now. The ribbons fall away, and he immediately palms your freed breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples, making you writhe.
“So fucking perfect,” he groans, squeezing the heavy weight of them, watching them jiggle in his hands. “I just want to fuck them. I want to slide my cock between these gorgeous tits and watch them swallow me whole.”
He moves lower, his hands sliding down your sides, over your hips. He pauses at the makeshift thong. “And this,” he says, his voice dripping with lust. “This little fucking nothing of a ribbon.” He hooks his fingers into the thin satin strip on your hips. “This is what’s keeping me from what’s mine?”
With one sharp yank, the ribbon snaps. The sound is obscenely loud. You are completely bare, completely exposed to him under the Christmas lights.
“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes, his eyes raking over your naked body. He doesn’t wait. He shoves his own clothes off in a frantic rush, his belt buckle clanging, his jeans hitting the floor. His cock springs free, thick and already leaking, and he doesn’t give you a second to prepare. He’s on you, pushing your legs apart with his knees, his body covering yours.
He drives into you in one smooth, brutal thrust, filling you completely, stretching you in the most perfect way. You scream, a raw, unfiltered sound of pure pleasure, as he bottoms out inside you.
“Yes! God, Jay! Fuck me!”
“That’s the plan, baby,” he grunts, already setting a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming into yours. “You wanted a present? You’ve got it. You’ve got all of it.”
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper with every thrust. The room fills with the sounds of your bodies meeting, your ragged breaths, your filthy, desperate praises. He leans up on one hand, the other grabbing your breast, kneading it roughly as he fucks you.
“Watch,” he commands, his voice guttural. “Watch your tits bounce for me while I ruin this pretty little pussy.”
You look down, and the sight is dizzying. Your breasts are bouncing in time with his thrusts, a lewd, hypnotic rhythm. He’s hitting a spot deep inside you that makes your vision blur, that coils the tension in your belly tighter and tighter.
“I’m gonna come, Jay, I’m gonna come so fucking hard,” you babble, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“Not yet,” he growls, but his own rhythm is faltering, becoming more erratic. “Fuck, I can’t… I’m gonna fill you up. I’m gonna pump my fucking load so deep inside you.”
His words are your undoing. The coil snaps, and your orgasm crashes over you, a tidal wave of pleasure that whites out your mind. Your body clenches around him, milking his own release from him. With a roar that is part your name, part animalistic groan, he pulses inside you, his hot cum flooding your depths, wave after wave of it.
But he doesn’t pull out. He collapses on top of you, his weight a comforting anchor, his cock still twitching inside you as the last spurts leave him. He keeps it there, buried to the hilt, as both of you struggle to breathe. The sensation is incredible—the fullness, the intimacy, the hot, wet connection that extends far beyond the orgasm itself. You can feel every last throb of him, every slight movement as he shifts to kiss your neck.
“Holy fuck,” he pants into your skin, his breath hot. “You’re still so tight. I can still feel you squeezing me.” He grinds his hips faintly, a lazy, possessive movement, making you both gasp at the oversensitive, raw feeling. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m gonna stay right here, buried in your perfect cunt, all damn night."
The floorboards creak under the weight of his steps in the hallway, and your breath hitches, a sharp, silent gasp that you swallow back down. The only light comes from the twinkling multicolored bulbs on the tree, casting shifting shadows across the living room, across your skin. The rough weave of the rug bites into the backs of your thighs, a tiny, grounding pain amidst the dizzying anticipation. You’re curled into a tight ball, knees to your chest, inside a giant cardboard box, the lid resting loosely on top. The only thing covering you is red satin ribbon, crisscrossed over your breasts, pulled taut around your nipples in a way that makes them ache with a delicious, constant pressure, and a single, flimsy strip that serves as a thong, the bow resting just above your clit.
The key turns in the lock. The door swings open. A flood of cool air from the hallway washes over your heated skin.
“Hello?” Jay’s voice, tired from the long day, echoes in the quiet apartment. “Babe? You here?”
You hear the thud of his work bag hitting the floor, the rustle of his coat being shrugged off. His footsteps come closer, moving past your hiding spot toward the kitchen. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat he must be able to hear. You shift just an inch, making the box rustle.
He freezes. “What the…”
He walks back into the room, his form a dark silhouette against the doorway. You see his head tilt. He takes a cautious step toward the tree, toward the one large, lidless box that wasn’t there this morning. You hold your breath, pressing your lips together to keep from laughing, from giving yourself away.
He kneels. The scent of his cologne, something warm and woody, cuts through the piney smell of the tree. His fingers, still cold from outside, grip the edge of the cardboard. He hesitates for a second, then lifts the lid completely away.
His sharp intake of breath is the best gift you could have asked for. His eyes, wide and dark in the dim light, travel over the ribbons, over the obscene bow on your chest, down the narrow path of your stomach to the flimsy knot between your legs. He just stares, his mouth slightly agape, processing the sight of you, his present, trussed up and waiting.
“Merry Christmas, Jay,” you whisper, your voice husky.
A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. “Well, fuck me. Is this all for me?”
“All for you,” you confirm, arching your back just a little, making your breasts push against their satin binds. “Every fucking inch.”
He doesn’t tear the ribbon. His approach is agonizingly slow, deliberate. He reaches out, and his thumb, now warmer, brushes over the red satin stretched tight across your left nipple. The sensation is electric, a jolt of pure need that arcs straight to your core. You moan, and the sound seems to break whatever spell of hesitation held him.
“These fucking ribbons,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with desire. “Tied around these perfect fucking tits. I’ve been dreaming about these tits all goddamn day.” He hooks a finger under the ribbon on your right breast and pulls, just enough to make the pressure intensify, to make you gasp and buck your hips off the floor. “Look at how they’re spilling over this pretty red bow. Fuck, you have no idea what that does to me.”
He leans down, and his hot mouth closes over the ribbon, over the nipple beneath it. He sucks, hard, through the satin, the fabric becoming wet and slick against your skin. The dual sensation—the rough drag of the material and the fierce pull of his mouth—is overwhelming. You cry out, your fingers digging into the carpet.
“Jay, please…”
“Please what?” he asks, pulling away, a string of saliva connecting his lip to the wet satin. “Tell me exactly what you want. Use your fucking words.”
“I want your mouth on me. On my skin. I want you to unwrap me with your teeth.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He lowers his head again, and this time, his teeth catch the end of the knot on your left breast. He tugs, his breath hot on your skin. The bow gives way with a soft whisper, the ribbon loosening. He pulls it free with his teeth, letting it fall away, and your breast springs free, the nipple hard and aching and exposed to the cool air. He does the same to the other side, his movements quick and hungry now. The ribbons fall away, and he immediately palms your freed breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples, making you writhe.
“So fucking perfect,” he groans, squeezing the heavy weight of them, watching them jiggle in his hands. “I just want to fuck them. I want to slide my cock between these gorgeous tits and watch them swallow me whole.”
He moves lower, his hands sliding down your sides, over your hips. He pauses at the makeshift thong. “And this,” he says, his voice dripping with lust. “This little fucking nothing of a ribbon.” He hooks his fingers into the thin satin strip on your hips. “This is what’s keeping me from what’s mine?”
With one sharp yank, the ribbon snaps. The sound is obscenely loud. You are completely bare, completely exposed to him under the Christmas lights.
“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes, his eyes raking over your naked body. He doesn’t wait. He shoves his own clothes off in a frantic rush, his belt buckle clanging, his jeans hitting the floor. His cock springs free, thick and already leaking, and he doesn’t give you a second to prepare. He’s on you, pushing your legs apart with his knees, his body covering yours.
He drives into you in one smooth, brutal thrust, filling you completely, stretching you in the most perfect way. You scream, a raw, unfiltered sound of pure pleasure, as he bottoms out inside you.
“Yes! God, Jay! Fuck me!”
“That’s the plan, baby,” he grunts, already setting a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming into yours. “You wanted a present? You’ve got it. You’ve got all of it.”
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper with every thrust. The room fills with the sounds of your bodies meeting, your ragged breaths, your filthy, desperate praises. He leans up on one hand, the other grabbing your breast, kneading it roughly as he fucks you.
“Watch,” he commands, his voice guttural. “Watch your tits bounce for me while I ruin this pretty little pussy.”
You look down, and the sight is dizzying. Your breasts are bouncing in time with his thrusts, a lewd, hypnotic rhythm. He’s hitting a spot deep inside you that makes your vision blur, that coils the tension in your belly tighter and tighter.
“I’m gonna come, Jay, I’m gonna come so fucking hard,” you babble, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“Not yet,” he growls, but his own rhythm is faltering, becoming more erratic. “Fuck, I can’t… I’m gonna fill you up. I’m gonna pump my fucking load so deep inside you.”
His words are your undoing. The coil snaps, and your orgasm crashes over you, a tidal wave of pleasure that whites out your mind. Your body clenches around him, milking his own release from him. With a roar that is part your name, part animalistic groan, he pulses inside you, his hot cum flooding your depths, wave after wave of it.
But he doesn’t pull out. He collapses on top of you, his weight a comforting anchor, his cock still twitching inside you as the last spurts leave him. He keeps it there, buried to the hilt, as both of you struggle to breathe. The sensation is incredible—the fullness, the intimacy, the hot, wet connection that extends far beyond the orgasm itself. You can feel every last throb of him, every slight movement as he shifts to kiss your neck.
“Holy fuck,” he pants into your skin, his breath hot. “You’re still so tight. I can still feel you squeezing me.” He grinds his hips faintly, a lazy, possessive movement, making you both gasp at the oversensitive, raw feeling. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m gonna stay right here, buried in your perfect cunt, all damn night."
Synopsis- you both decided to try wax play using a candle made for bodies.
Warnings- mdni NSFW, wax play, tits obsession, a photo taken, marking, nipple play, lmk if there's more!
The warm, honeyed scent of vanilla and sandalwood filled the room, a stark contrast to the frantic, hungry energy crackling between you and Sunghoon. His lips were on yours, his tongue a demanding invasion you welcomed with a soft moan. His hands were everywhere at once—tangled in your hair, gripping your waist, palming your ass through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts.
He broke the kiss, his breath hot against your neck. “I’ve been thinking about these all fucking day,” he growled, his voice rough with want as his thumbs found your nipples through your shirt, rubbing them into hard, aching points.
You gasped, arching into his touch. “Yeah? What about them?”
“Just how fucking perfect they are. How they look in that tight black top you wore to the store. How I knew you weren’t wearing a bra.” He punctuated each sentence with a sharp pinch that made you jump, a jolt of pure heat shooting straight to your cunt. “Drove me insane. Couldn’t focus on anything else.”
His mouth found yours again, a messy, wet clash of teeth and tongue. As he kissed you, his hand slid under your shirt, his calloused fingers scraping against the soft skin of your stomach before finally, finally closing around the bare, heavy weight of your breast. He groaned into your mouth, a deep, guttural sound of pure possession.
“Fuck, I love how these feel in my hand,” he murmured, breaking the kiss to watch his own work. He squeezed, his fingers digging into the pliant flesh, then rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger until you were whimpering. “So full. So fucking soft.”
His eyes, dark and blown wide with lust, flicked up to the bedside table. The new candle you’d bought together today sat there, its flame dancing. A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. “You know what the girl said that thing was for, right?”
“For… ambiance?” you breathed, your mind hazy with pleasure.
He chuckled, a low, dirty sound. “She said it was a body candle. For massage. For… other things.” His gaze was locked on your chest, on the way your tits rose and fell with your ragged breathing. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About the wax.”
A thrill, dangerous and electric, shot through you. “Sunghoon… is that safe?”
“It’s soy, baby. Low melting point. Made for skin.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper, hypnotic. “I need to see it. I need to see it drip on these perfect fucking tits. I need to watch it coat them. Please.”
The raw need in his voice was your undoing. You nodded, your throat too tight to form words.
“Good girl,” he purred, his praise making you clench around nothing.
He moved with a focused intensity that left you breathless. He positioned you back against the pillows, propping you up so your chest was on full display. He pulled your shirt up and over your head, tossing it to the floor without a second glance. His eyes were devouring you, worshiping the sight of your bare breasts, the way they settled against your chest, heavy and inviting.
He grabbed the candle. The flame guttered as he tilted it. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a mix of fear and desperate anticipation. The first drop was a surprise. A hot, sudden pinpoint of sensation on the upper slope of your right breast. You flinched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” he soothed, his voice thick with fascination. “Look.”
You looked down. The wax had cooled almost instantly into a perfect, creamy white teardrop against your skin. It didn’t hurt. It was just… intense. A shocking, beautiful heat.
He tilted the candle again. Another drop. This one landed lower, closer to your nipple. You watched, mesmerized, as the molten bead traced a path down the curve before solidifying. He was creating a map of your skin, a stark white pattern on your flushed flesh.
“God, you look incredible,” he breathed. “A fucking work of art.”
He continued, his hand steady. Drip. Another one, right on the areola, making you cry out as the heat bloomed across the hypersensitive nerve endings. Drip. A trail of them down the valley between your breasts. Each new drop was a tiny shock, a burst of heat that made your nipples tighten impossibly further and your pussy weep with need. You could feel your own wetness, a slick, hot pulse between your legs.
Sunghoon’s free hand was on himself, stroking his hard length through his pants, his eyes glued to the spectacle he was creating on your body. “Stick out your tongue,” he commanded, his voice rough.
You obeyed without thought, the tip of your tongue peeking out between your lips.
The click of his phone camera was obscenely loud in the quiet room. He did it again. And again. You could see the screen, see his own reflection in it—his face a mask of primal lust, focused entirely on your wax-dripped tits.
He put the candle down, the artistic part of his obsession seemingly satisfied. The carnal part was just beginning. He crawled over you, his body caging you in. “Don’t move,” he ordered. “I’m not done.”
He lowered his head, his breath ghosting over the intricate web of wax on your right breast. Then his mouth was on you. His tongue, hot and wet, lapped at the wax, tasting it, tasting you. He sucked a patch clean, his mouth working over your skin with a fervent hunger before moving to the next drop.
“You taste like vanilla and you,” he groaned against your skin, his teeth grazing a sensitive spot he’d just cleaned. “Fuck, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Ever tasted.”
His mouth was everywhere, worshiping, devouring. He was meticulous, cleaning every last drop of wax from your breasts until your skin was pink and glistening from his attention. He paid special attention to your nipples, sucking each one deep into the heat of his mouth, his tongue flicking and circling until you were writhing beneath him, begging for more.
He shifted lower, his hands hooking in the waistband of your shorts and panties, dragging them down your legs in one swift motion. The cool air hit your wet cunt and you shuddered. He knelt between your legs, his eyes drinking in the sight of you, completely bare and utterly his.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice full of awe. “All mine. Every fucking inch.”
He didn’t enter you. Not yet. He leaned forward, his hands spreading your folds, and his tongue found your clit. It was a flat, slow, deliberate lick that had you seeing stars. He ate you like a man possessed, his tongue delving into your entrance before returning to circle your clit with relentless pressure. You could feel the orgasm building, a tight coil deep in your belly, spurred on by the visual of him between your legs, by the memory of the wax, by the possessive, filthy things he was muttering against your wet flesh.
“Gonna come for me, baby? Gonna come all over my face while I think about that picture? Your perfect tits on my screen forever…”
His words were the final push. Your back arched off the bed as you came, a silent scream on your lips as pleasure, white-hot and devastating, ripped through you. He didn’t let up, lapping at you, drawing out every last shuddering wave until you were limp and boneless.
He rose above you, fumbling with his own clothes, his cock springing free, thick and veined and glistening at the tip. He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your soaked folds. He was breathing heavily, his eyes locked on yours.
“I’m never deleting that picture,” he panted, his hips nudging forward, just an inch, making you gasp at the stretch. “It’s going right on my fucking lockscreen.”
Synopsis- heeseung made you horny. Even when he's miles away.
Warnings- NSFW. Mdni. Self pleasing (both) video call, dirty talk? Lmk if there's more!
“Fuck, just like that. Don’t stop. I want to watch you ruin that pretty little cunt for me.”
Heeseung’s voice is a low, ragged growl through your phone speaker, and it goes straight to your core, a live wire of pure, fucking need. You’re propped against your pillows, the blue light of the screen illuminating your naked body, your fingers working in a slick, desperate rhythm between your legs. On the screen, miles and time zones away, Heeseung is a vision of pure sin. Shirtless, his lean muscles taut and gleaming with a faint sweat, his own fist is pumping his thick, hard cock in a brutal, matching tempo.
You whimper, your head falling back. “Heeseung…”
“No, look at me,” he commands, his voice sharp, leaving no room for argument. “Eyes on me, baby. I want to see every single fucking thing that crosses your face when you come.”
Your gaze snaps back to the screen, to his dark, hungry eyes.
It started an hour ago. The ache had been building for days, a low, constant thrum of frustration since he’d left for his world tour. You’d scrolled through your phone, through edits fans had made of him—Heeseung on stage, his hips moving in that hypnotic way; Heeseung backstage, a glimpse of his tattooed chest; Heeseung smiling, all dark promise. It made you wet, and furious, and so unbelievably horny you could scream.
The video call request was impulsive. He answered on the second ring, his face filling the screen, handsome and tired but lighting up when he saw you.
“Miss me?” he’d teased, his voice sleep-rough.
“You have no idea,” you’d purred back, the bravado feeling thin. The conversation was light, but your blood was already heating. You told him about the edits you’d seen, how they’d made you feel. You saw the exact moment his playful smirk shifted into something darker, more possessive. He told you to show him what those videos did to you. And when you’d run a hand over your breast, pinching your own nipple through your shirt, his breath had hitched. The game was on.
Now, there are no more clothes. There is only the ache and his voice guiding you through it.
“You’re so fucking wet for me, I can hear it,” he rasps, his own breathing becoming more labored. “Tell me how it feels.”
“It’s… it’s so slippery,” you gasp, your fingers sliding easily over your swollen clit. “My fingers keep sliding right over my clit, it’s so sensitive, Heeseung, fuck…”
“That’s it,” he encourages, a groan rumbling in his chest as his fist speeds up. “Fuck, that’s my good girl. Now put two fingers inside that tight little hole. I want to watch you stretch yourself open for me.”
You obey without thought, your middle and ring finger pushing into your cunt. The stretch is immediate and delicious, a sharp fullness that makes you cry out. “Oh god…”
“Yeah, take it,” he grunts, his hips pumping into his own hand. “Imagine it’s my cock stretching you wide open. Filling you up. You remember how my cock feels, don’t you? How fucking thick it is?”
“Yes,” you whine, your back arching off the bed as you fuck yourself on your own fingers. “I remember, I need it.”
“You’re gonna come all over your fingers and pretend it’s my dick,” he orders, his voice cracking with the strain of his own pleasure. “And I’m gonna come all over my fist and pretend it’s your tight, hot cunt milking me dry. You understand? We’re gonna come together, baby.”
His words are a filthy, perfect catalyst. You can feel the coil in your belly tightening to a breaking point, a white-hot pressure building behind your eyes. Your fingers are a frantic mess, plunging in and out of your dripping pussy, your thumb circling your clit in rough, frantic circles.
“I’m close, Heeseung, I’m so close,” you plead, your vision starting to blur at the edges.
“Not yet,” he snarls. “Look at me. Watch me. See what you do to me.”
You force your eyes open, locking onto the screen. His jaw is clenched, his abs are flexed, and his biceps are straining as he fucks his fist, his knuckles white around the base of his cock. The sight is the final push you need.
“Now, baby. Come for me right the fuck now,” he commands, his voice a raw, guttural sound.
The orgasm shatters through you, violent and absolute. A broken scream tears from your throat as your body convulses, your cunt clenching hard around your buried fingers, a gush of wetness coating your hand. Your eyes are locked on his as you fall apart, watching the intense, primal focus on his face.
Seeing you come is all it takes for him. With a roar that’s half your name, half a curse, his body goes rigid. Thick, white ropes of cum spurt from the tip of his cock, splattering over his hand and stomach in hot, pulsing jets. His face is a mask of ecstasy, his eyes squeezed shut as he rides out his own release, fucking his fist through the last waves of it.
For a long moment, there’s only the sound of heavy, ragged breathing from both of you.
Heeseung’s eyes flutter open, dark and satisfied. A slow, wicked smile spreads across his lips as he looks at you, a spent, trembling mess on your bed. He brings his cum-covered fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean without breaking eye contact.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, his voice hoarse. “Next time I’m home, I’m not letting you out of that bed for a week.” He glances down at the sticky mess on his stomach
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✦ wrapping up the year 2025 we've seen beautiful fics from all our lovely writers everywhere smaller or larger writers, now it's time to show them how grateful we are to the creative writers for this fandom giving them more than an ask or a comment, what's better than nominating them for awards they could receive.
what's the best part?
you will be nominating your favourites, yes, you! and its finally time to show your authors how much their work and creativity means to us readers. enhablr has been going through a rough patch so what better way to get these lovely and gifted authors that write for us more recognition and love than this? 💐💐
⭑HOW DOES VOTING/NOMINATIONS WORK?
⸝⸝⸝how does the nominations and submission, voting process work?⸝⸝⸝
⚚ we will be receiving your favourite fic/genre/author based on the specific category in the form of asks and messages. Anonymous asks are strictly not allowed. This is so we make sure no one is nominating one single fic or author multiple times and everyone gets a clear chance.
⚚ nominations will be held from 9th of december to 21st of december and then the inbox will be closed.
⚚ after the first round of voting that will close on 21st of december KST 11:49 PM, we will be releasing the final nominations and from then onwards from 22nd December to 2nd January the voting process for fully specified categories will be hosted.
⚚ but these votes specified are for the main big categories. which will be the live voting for the following:
1) best writer, 2) best fanfiction, 3) best series, 4) best social media au, 5) best lee heeseung fic, 6) best yang jungwon fic, 7) best park jjongseong fic, 8) best park sunghoon fic, 9) best kim sunoo fic, 10) best nishimura ni-ki fic
⚚ nominations categories here!!
🦇LIVE VOTING AFTER 21ST ONLY FOR THESE CATEGORIES.🦇
☏ PLEASE KEEP IN MIND ALL OF THIS IS JUST FOR APPRECIATION AND BRINGING MORE FUN INTO THE ENHABLR COMMUNITY. PLEASE DO NOT FEEL BAD IF YOUR FIC IS NOT NOMINATED, WE HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH THE NOMINATIONS WE ARE ONLY HERE FOR MEDIATING THE PROCESS. ASKS AND QUESTIONS ARE ALLOWED. BUT ANY HATE WILL NOT BE TOLERATED. ☏
the idea was taken from another fandom @katseyeawards on tumblr and the concept seemed really cool and interactive between fans on tumblr and our beloved writers.
Synopsis- jay surprised you with vibrating underwear keeping the remote to himself
Warnings- NSFW, mdni, public, vibrator, coming in clothes, dirty talk?? Lmk if there's more!
“Don’t you fucking dare move.” His voice was a low, gravelly whisper directly in your ear, a stark contrast to the broad, polite smile he offered the couple across the table. His hand on your waist under the tablecloth was an iron clamp, holding your trembling body still against his solid thigh.
You buried your face deeper into the warm, wool-smelling fabric of his suit jacket, your teeth sinking into the muscle of his shoulder to stifle the ragged whimper clawing its way up your throat. The vibrations from the slick, sodden lace between your legs intensified again, a relentless, buzzing thrum that made your vision blur at the edges.
Oh god, not again. Not here.
It had started two hours ago, just as you were putting the final touches on your makeup. Jay had slipped into the bathroom, holding a sliver of black lace you’d never seen before.
“Something new for tonight, baby,” he’d said, his voice already dripping with that possessive, knowing tone that made your core clench. “A little surprise.”
You’d been amused, thinking it was just a sexy pair of panties. You’d let him kneel and slide your old cotton ones down your legs, his warm hands caressing your calves. He’d helped you step into the new ones, his fingers grazing your bare cunt, making you shiver. Then you felt it. The subtle, rigid little panel of silicone nestled right against your clit. And you saw the tiny, almost invisible remote control he palmed before slipping it into his trouser pocket.
The wicked, conspiratorial grin he gave you then should have been your warning. This isn’t for later. This is for now.
The entire car ride to the restaurant was a special kind of torture. The low hum was a constant, maddening presence. Every time the car hit a bump, the vibration would jolt through your entire body. You’d squirmed in the passenger seat, your thighs pressed tightly together.
“You alright over there?” Jay had asked, his tone laced with false innocence as his thumb casually stroked the remote in his pocket. The buzz stuttered, then kicked up a notch.
“I’m fine,” you’d gritted out, staring out the window, trying to focus on anything but the heat blooming low in your belly. “Just… the seatbelt.”
He’d just chuckled, a deep, smoky sound that went straight to your already-throbbing pussy.
Dinner was a meticulously crafted hell. Jay was the picture of charm, engaging his new colleagues—Mark and his wife, Sarah—in easy conversation about market trends and their recent vacation. All the while, his hand was in his pocket, playing you like a fucking instrument.
A gentle pulse during the appetizer, just enough to make you shift in your seat. A sudden, intense burst when you reached for your wine glass, causing your hand to jerk and nearly spill it. He’d cover by gently taking your hand in his, kissing your knuckles while his other thumb pressed the ‘high’ button again, holding it down.
“She’s just a bit nervous meeting new people,” he’d explain smoothly, and they’d smile, completely fooled.
You were drowning in sensation. Your pretty dress felt like a prison. Every laugh from the group, every clink of silverware, was punctuated by the secret, electric thrum against your most sensitive spot. Your cunt was dripping, the slickness soaking the lace and making the vibrations feel even more intense, more intimate. You could feel your own wetness beginning to seep through the fabric, a dark, secret shame.
You were on the edge for forty-five fucking minutes. Teetering. Your knuckles were white where you gripped the tablecloth. Your polite smiles were strained, your replies to questions becoming monosyllabic. All you could think about was the hard line of Jay’s thigh next to you under the table and the desperate, aching need to grind down on it.
“You look flushed, honey,” Jay said, his voice full of faux concern. He placed a cool hand on your cheek. “Are you feeling okay?” As his fingers touched your skin, the vibrator clicked off.
The sudden absence was a shock. The relief was so immense it was almost painful, leaving you hollow and yearning. You gasped, the sound covered by Sarah’s story about her dog.
And then, as she finished her sentence, Jay gave you a look that was pure, unadulterated filth. His eyes darkened, and his thumb moved.
It was the highest setting. A brutal, immediate, and constant buzz that was less a vibration and more a frantic, demanding pounding right on your swollen clit.
That was the final straw.
A broken sound escaped your lips. You couldn’t sit in your own chair for one more second. You pushed back, your legs unsteady, and before anyone could react, you simply sank into Jay’s lap, turning to bury your face in his neck.
“Oh!” Sarah giggled. “A little cuddly, are we?”
Jay’s arms came around you instantly, one hand splaying possessively across the small of your back, the other anchoring your hip, holding you firmly in place on his thigh. “She’s just affectionate when she’s had a little wine,” he lied effortlessly, his chest rumbling against yours.
But his hand on your hip was forcing you down, grinding you against the hard muscle of his leg. The pressure was exquisite, aligning the buzzing torment perfectly with your clit. You couldn’t stop the motion of your hips, a tiny, frantic rocking that you prayed looked like simple affection.
“Please,” you whimpered into his skin, your voice a ragged mess. “Jay, please, I can’t—”
“Shhh, it’s okay, baby,” he cooed for the benefit of the table. But his next words were for you alone, a hot, vicious whisper in your ear. “Cum for them. Right now. I want to feel you soak through my fucking pants.”
The command, the crude, nasty words, combined with the relentless pressure and vibration, shattered the last of your control. Your body went rigid against his. A silent, searing scream was trapped in your throat as your orgasm detonated, a white-hot wave of pure sensation that ripped through you without mercy. Your cunt clenched around nothing, spasming wildly, and a gush of your release soaked through the thin lace and his trousers, a hot, slick flood that you knew was leaving a dark, claiming patch on the fine fabric.
The vibrations didn’t stop. They milked the orgasm, drawing it out into an endless, shuddering cascade of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. You shook violently in his arms, your teeth biting into his shoulder to keep from crying out, your fingers clutching at his jacket. Every nerve ending was on fire.
Slowly, so slowly, the world began to seep back in. The low murmur of the restaurant. The clinking of glasses. The feel of Jay’s heart hammering against your chest.
He was still holding you tightly, his own breathing slightly ragged. He finally, mercifully, switched the vibrator off. The sudden silence between your legs was almost deafening.
You were limp, boneless, collapsed against him, panting into his neck.
“See?” Jay said, his voice a little hoarse but still perfectly composed for his audience. He rubbed your back. “She just needed to curl up for a second. She’s fine now.”
You felt him shift slightly beneath you, and then his lips were at your ear again, his voice dripping with dark, triumphant pride.
“That’s my good girl. Now sit still. I’m not done with you yet.”
The first thing you feel isn’t the morning sun, but the relentless, hot grind of Jake’s cock against your ass, a desperate, rhythmic pressure even through the thin layers of your sweatpants and thong. A low, pleading whine vibrates against the back of your neck, all breath and want.
“Baby, please… c’mon, wake up… I’m fucking dying here. I need you so bad.”
You groan, a sleepy, guttural sound, and try to shuffle away from the persistent nudge of his hard-on. It’s a useless effort. His arm, a heavy, familiar weight, is already locked around your waist, holding you firmly in place against the proof of his need. He grinds harder, his boxer briefs the only pathetic barrier between his throbbing dick and your skin.
“Feel that?” he murmurs, his voice husky with sleep and lust. “That’s all for you. It’s been aching for you since 5 AM. Gonna fucking explode.”
A slow, reluctant wakefulness begins to heat your own blood. You can feel the solid, insistent length of him, a brand against your curves. With a sigh that’s more surrender than complaint, you reach back with one hand, not to push him away, but to shove your own sweatpants and the flimsy scrap of your thong down past your hips.
The cool morning air kisses your exposed skin for only a second before his feverish heat replaces it. A sharp, approving gasp escapes him as his bare, slick cockhead finds the smooth skin of your ass cheek. The friction is electric, immediate.
“Fuck yes, that’s my girl,” he breathes, his hips stuttering against you. His hand slides from your waist, his fingers splaying possessively across your stomach to pull you even tighter against him.
But you’re not done. You’re awake now, and your own need is a coiling, liquid fire in your belly. You reach back further, your fingers finding the full curves of your own ass. You dig your fingers in and pull, spreading yourself open for him, offering him everything.
The sound he makes is pure, animalistic hunger. “Oh, fuck… look at that. You’re offering me that sweet, tight little hole.”
He doesn’t waste another second. His hand leaves your stomach and guides his dick, the fat, leaking head nudging through your slick folds, not quite entering, just painting your slit with his pre-cum, teasing you both. The sensation is maddening—a promise of the incredible friction to come.
“You want this cock buried in your wet cunt, baby? You want me to fuck you full?” he rasps, his voice raw.
“Yes, Jake, god, please… stop teasing and just fucking ruin me,” you moan, pushing your hips back against him, a silent, desperate plea.
That’s all the encouragement he needs. With one final, brutal thrust of his hips, he sheathes himself inside you to the hilt in a single, breathtaking stroke. Your back arches violently as a ragged cry is torn from your throat. He’s so big, stretching you exquisitely, filling you so completely you can’t think of anything else.
“Fuck! So goddamn tight,” he grunts, his body shuddering as he holds himself deep, letting you adjust to the overwhelming invasion. “Your cunt is fucking gripping my cock like a fist.”
Then he begins to move. There’s no gentle rhythm, only a frantic, driving pace born of hours of pent-up frustration. His grip on your hip is iron-tight, holding you in place as he pistons into you, each thrust a jolt of pure pleasure straight to your core. The slap of his skin against yours, the wet, filthy sounds of your joined bodies, his ragged panting in your ear—it’s a symphony of raw, nasty fucking.
You meet him thrust for thrust, your own hips rolling back, taking him deeper, harder. One of your hands tangles in the sheets, the other reaches back to clutch at his thigh, needing to feel the powerful muscles working as he drives into you.
“You feel so fucking good, Jake,” you cry out, your voice cracking. “Your cock is so deep! Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop!”
“I’m not gonna last,” he warns, his movements becoming more erratic, more frantic. “I’m gonna fill your pretty little pussy up. Gonna pump my fucking load so deep inside you.”
His words push you over the edge. The coil in your belly snaps, and your orgasm slams into you with the force of a train. Your cunt clenches around him in vicious, rippling waves, milking his dick, pulling his own climax from him.
With a guttural roar that’s ripped from the depths of his soul, Jake buries himself as deep as he can possibly go. You feel the hot, sudden pulse of his cum flooding your core, jet after jet of it, marking you, claiming you. His entire body goes rigid against yours, trembling violently with the force of his release before he collapses, spent, his weight a heavy, comforting blanket on top of you.
For long moments, there is only the sound of your ragged breathing and the feeling of him still inside you, softening slowly. The warmth of his cum is a slick, intimate pool within you. He doesn’t pull out. Instead, he nuzzles into your neck, placing a soft, lazy kiss there.
“Fuck,” he whispers, his voice muffled against your skin. “Nothing feels better than that. Nothing.”
His hand finds yours and laces your fingers together. He gives a slow, gentle roll of his hips, not to start again, but just to feel the connection, to feel the proof of what you’d just shared seep out around where you’re still joined.
“Mmm, feel that?” he murmurs, his voice thick with sated lust and something deeper, more possessive. “My cum leaking out of your well-fucked cunt. It’s fucking beautiful.” He holds you tighter, his body a cage of warmth and satisfaction. _“Stay right here. Don’t move an inch. I’m not done feeling you yet.”
The first thing you feel isn’t the morning sun, but the relentless, hot grind of Jake’s cock against your ass, a desperate, rhythmic pressure even through the thin layers of your sweatpants and thong. A low, pleading whine vibrates against the back of your neck, all breath and want.
“Baby, please… c’mon, wake up… I’m fucking dying here. I need you so bad.”
You groan, a sleepy, guttural sound, and try to shuffle away from the persistent nudge of his hard-on. It’s a useless effort. His arm, a heavy, familiar weight, is already locked around your waist, holding you firmly in place against the proof of his need. He grinds harder, his boxer briefs the only pathetic barrier between his throbbing dick and your skin.
“Feel that?” he murmurs, his voice husky with sleep and lust. “That’s all for you. It’s been aching for you since 5 AM. Gonna fucking explode.”
A slow, reluctant wakefulness begins to heat your own blood. You can feel the solid, insistent length of him, a brand against your curves. With a sigh that’s more surrender than complaint, you reach back with one hand, not to push him away, but to shove your own sweatpants and the flimsy scrap of your thong down past your hips.
The cool morning air kisses your exposed skin for only a second before his feverish heat replaces it. A sharp, approving gasp escapes him as his bare, slick cockhead finds the smooth skin of your ass cheek. The friction is electric, immediate.
“Fuck yes, that’s my girl,” he breathes, his hips stuttering against you. His hand slides from your waist, his fingers splaying possessively across your stomach to pull you even tighter against him.
But you’re not done. You’re awake now, and your own need is a coiling, liquid fire in your belly. You reach back further, your fingers finding the full curves of your own ass. You dig your fingers in and pull, spreading yourself open for him, offering him everything.
The sound he makes is pure, animalistic hunger. “Oh, fuck… look at that. You’re offering me that sweet, tight little hole.”
He doesn’t waste another second. His hand leaves your stomach and guides his dick, the fat, leaking head nudging through your slick folds, not quite entering, just painting your slit with his pre-cum, teasing you both. The sensation is maddening—a promise of the incredible friction to come.
“You want this cock buried in your wet cunt, baby? You want me to fuck you full?” he rasps, his voice raw.
“Yes, Jake, god, please… stop teasing and just fucking ruin me,” you moan, pushing your hips back against him, a silent, desperate plea.
That’s all the encouragement he needs. With one final, brutal thrust of his hips, he sheathes himself inside you to the hilt in a single, breathtaking stroke. Your back arches violently as a ragged cry is torn from your throat. He’s so big, stretching you exquisitely, filling you so completely you can’t think of anything else.
“Fuck! So goddamn tight,” he grunts, his body shuddering as he holds himself deep, letting you adjust to the overwhelming invasion. “Your cunt is fucking gripping my cock like a fist.”
Then he begins to move. There’s no gentle rhythm, only a frantic, driving pace born of hours of pent-up frustration. His grip on your hip is iron-tight, holding you in place as he pistons into you, each thrust a jolt of pure pleasure straight to your core. The slap of his skin against yours, the wet, filthy sounds of your joined bodies, his ragged panting in your ear—it’s a symphony of raw, nasty fucking.
You meet him thrust for thrust, your own hips rolling back, taking him deeper, harder. One of your hands tangles in the sheets, the other reaches back to clutch at his thigh, needing to feel the powerful muscles working as he drives into you.
“You feel so fucking good, Jake,” you cry out, your voice cracking. “Your cock is so deep! Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop!”
“I’m not gonna last,” he warns, his movements becoming more erratic, more frantic. “I’m gonna fill your pretty little pussy up. Gonna pump my fucking load so deep inside you.”
His words push you over the edge. The coil in your belly snaps, and your orgasm slams into you with the force of a train. Your cunt clenches around him in vicious, rippling waves, milking his dick, pulling his own climax from him.
With a guttural roar that’s ripped from the depths of his soul, Jake buries himself as deep as he can possibly go. You feel the hot, sudden pulse of his cum flooding your core, jet after jet of it, marking you, claiming you. His entire body goes rigid against yours, trembling violently with the force of his release before he collapses, spent, his weight a heavy, comforting blanket on top of you.
For long moments, there is only the sound of your ragged breathing and the feeling of him still inside you, softening slowly. The warmth of his cum is a slick, intimate pool within you. He doesn’t pull out. Instead, he nuzzles into your neck, placing a soft, lazy kiss there.
“Fuck,” he whispers, his voice muffled against your skin. “Nothing feels better than that. Nothing.”
His hand finds yours and laces your fingers together. He gives a slow, gentle roll of his hips, not to start again, but just to feel the connection, to feel the proof of what you’d just shared seep out around where you’re still joined.
“Mmm, feel that?” he murmurs, his voice thick with sated lust and something deeper, more possessive. “My cum leaking out of your well-fucked cunt. It’s fucking beautiful.” He holds you tighter, his body a cage of warmth and satisfaction. _“Stay right here. Don’t move an inch. I’m not done feeling you yet.”
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can i request smth ive been wanting someone to write for a really long time?
any enha member YEARNING for y/n, theres so much of angst like him begging & yearning for y/n with a happy ending please 🥹
is it also okay if i request it to be pretty long? like not 10k but a bit longer than a drabble would be amazing!!
ehem here u go <3
Jake had told you that today was for the both of you.
“You and me, baby. No schedules, no distractions, just us,” he’d said that morning while hugging you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder.
And you believed him.
But now it had been almost two and a half hours of Jake gaming nonstop, headset on, eyes glued to his screen, completely absorbed. He hadn’t looked at you once since he joined that stupid match. His fingers were flying across the keyboard, his jaw clenched in concentration, leaning closer and closer to the monitor like it was oxygen.
You sat on his bed, hugging your knees, watching the way his eyebrows furrowed, how he smirked when he won a fight, how he whispered strategies to his teammates. He looked good. Way too good. But you weren’t supposed to be watching him from the side — you were supposed to be with him. On his lap, under his arms, his attention on you.
After waiting and waiting, you finally tried again.
“Jakey?” you said softly.
He didn’t even turn.
Just mumbled, “Yeah, babe, two minutes.”
Two minutes turned into ten.
Then fifteen.
Then twenty.
You tried again, a little quieter this time. “Jake, you remember we were supposed to—”
“I REMEMBER,” he snapped suddenly, not yelling but sharp enough that you flinched. “Can you stop? You’re being annoying. I need to focus.”
The moment the word “annoying” left his lips, he didn’t react.
But you did.
Your heart dropped so fast it felt physical.
You went still. Completely silent.
You stared at him — at the back of his head, at the boy who had called you his favorite person only hours ago.
Annoying.
Not cute.
Not distracting in a good way.
Not “baby give me two seconds.”
Just annoying.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, stood up without a word, and walked out of the room.
You didn’t slam the door.
You just shut it quietly — and that quiet was somehow louder than anything you could’ve screamed.
---
Jake didn’t even look up at first.
He kept playing.
Shot an enemy.
Won a round.
Then he realized…
You hadn’t answered.
You hadn’t complained.
You hadn’t said “fine.”
You just disappeared.
He blinked, looked at the empty space where you had been, and something cold slid down his spine.
“Y/N?” he called, confused, looking around the room.
Nothing.
He pulled off his headset with one hand, still staring at the door.
“…Did she leave?”
He replayed what he said.
Slowly.
Painfully.
“Can you stop? You’re being annoying.”
His heart dropped like a stone.
“Oh no. No, no, no—oh my god, what did I do?”
He didn’t even log out of the game.
His teammates were yelling his name, but he didn’t hear a word.
He practically jumped out of his chair, stumbling over wires, running out into the hallway with panic tightening his chest.
---
He found you in the living room, sitting on the couch — curled up, silent, hugging a pillow like you were trying to make yourself smaller. You weren’t crying. You weren’t pouting. You were just… quiet. And Jake hated that. He would take yelling, crying, throwing something — anything — over that empty quietness.
He approached slowly, his voice a whisper.
“Baby?”
You didn’t move.
Jake instantly softened, kneeling in front of you, hands resting on the couch, face tilted up to look at you.
“Y/N… please look at me.”
Still nothing.
He felt his throat tighten.
He reached out slowly, gently, brushing his fingers against your knee.
“Angel,” he said softly, almost begging, “don’t freeze me out. Please.”
You finally looked at him — and the hurt in your eyes made his breath catch.
“You called me annoying,” you said quietly. “Just because I wanted to spend time with you.”
Jake’s entire expression collapsed. His mouth fell open, he shook his head instantly, frantically, like he was denying a crime.
“No—no, baby—no. That’s not—I didn’t mean—god, I’m such an idiot.”
He ran a hand through his hair, genuinely distressed.
“I wasn’t talking to you. I wasn’t even thinking. I was just… frustrated in the game. But that’s not an excuse. I shouldn’t have said that. Not to you. Never to you.”
You looked away, hugging the pillow closer.
Jake felt physically sick.
He scooted closer, placing both hands gently on your thighs, rubbing slow circles like he was grounding you.
“Y/N,” he whispered, voice trembling, “you’re not annoying. You’re not even close to annoying. You’re… you’re my comfort person. My peace. I love when you talk to me. I love when you ask me things. I love when you want me.”
You stayed silent, jaw tight, eyes watery but you refused to let them fall.
Jake panicked a little, leaning even closer, his face inches away from yours.
“Baby, look at me,” he whispered, heart in his throat. “Please. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear on my life you’re the last person I’d ever call annoying.”
You finally turned toward him.
He saw the pain in your eyes and instantly — instantly — he leaned forward and pressed the softest kiss to your cheek.
Then another.
Then another.
Like he couldn’t stop himself.
“I’m sorry.” kiss
“You’re perfect.” kiss
“I love you.” kiss kiss
“You’re not annoying.” kiss
“You’re everything to me.” kiss
“Please forgive me.” kiss kiss kiss
He cupped your face with both hands now, covering your cheeks in a slow rain of tiny kisses, forehead pressed to yours, breathing shakily.
You exhaled, relaxing slowly, your shoulders dropping.
“You’re being dramatic,” you murmured.
Jake pulled back, eyes wide.
“Dramatic?? BABY YOU LEFT THE ROOM LIKE I KILLED YOUR PET HAMSTER.”
You choked on a laugh, covering your mouth.
Jake’s entire face lit up.
“Oh thank GOD—she laughed—okay okay, come here.”
He pulled you onto his lap without hesitation, arms wrapping around your waist, face burying into your neck like he needed to breathe you in.
He kissed your neck.
Then your shoulder.
Then up your jaw.
Slow, apologetic, warm kisses trailing every inch he could reach.
You sighed.
“You ignored me for two hours.”
He whined — genuinely whined — and hugged you tighter.
“I know,” he mumbled into your skin. “I’m the worst. I’m an idiot. I’ll throw my PC out the window. I’ll delete every game I own. I’ll—”
“Jake—”
“I’ll become an anti-gamer monk—”
“JAKE.”
He froze.
You cupped his face.
“I just wanted you,” you said softly. “That’s all.”
Jake’s eyes softened instantly — warm, tender, painfully in love.
“You have me,” he whispered. “Fully. Completely. Forever. I promise.”
He leaned in and kissed you — properly this time — slow and deep, thumb brushing your cheek, the kind of kiss that erased the last two hours entirely.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.
“No more games when you’re here,” he whispered. “You come first. Always.”
You smiled softly.
“So… you’re forgiven?”
Jake nodded rapidly like a puppy.
“I’ll earn it,” he said, peppering your cheeks with more kisses. “Every second. Starting now.”
Synopsis- you were having a bad day and well your darling boyfriend came to your rescue immediately
Warnings- none!
You weren’t having a bad day.
You were having a terrible one.
The kind of day that starts wrong and refuses to get better where your alarm doesn’t ring, your favorite shirt mysteriously disappears, and the world just seems committed to testing your patience.
By the time you got home, you were done. Not in the dramatic way, not in the loud way just quietly exhausted. The kind of tired that sits behind your ribs and doesn’t move, no matter how many deep breaths you take.
You dropped your bag by the door and sank onto the couch. Silence. You didn’t even turn the lights on.
Then, your phone buzzed.
You ignored it once.
It buzzed again.
And again.
Finally, you grabbed it.
sunniboo: are u alive
sunniboo: you sounded weird earlier
sunniboo: im coming over
YOU: you don’t have to
sunniboo: too late i already packed snacks bye
You sighed, but a tiny smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. Of course he was.
Twenty minutes later, there was a loud, unmistakable knock.
“Special delivery for the world’s saddest human!” Sunoo’s voice called through the door, chipper as ever.
You rolled your eyes but got up anyway, opening the door to find him standing there hair slightly messy from the wind, one arm loaded with snacks, and a tote bag hanging off the other shoulder.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, pushing past you to step inside. “When I hear ‘I had a bad day,’ I take it as a mission from the universe.”
You blinked at the sheer number of things he carried: chips, instant ramen, face masks, candles, a fuzzy blanket, and inexplicably a disco ball keychain.
“Sunoo, what is all this?”
He looked at you with mock seriousness. “Emergency emotional support supplies.”
You couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re insane.”
“Thank you,” he said, setting everything down with a flourish. “Now sit. You are officially banned from being sad in my presence.”
“I can’t just—”
He clapped his hands. “Nope! No arguing with the self-care CEO.”
You watched, amused, as he bustled around your living room. He lit two candles (“for the vibe”), arranged snacks on a tray (“presentation matters”), and wrapped the blanket around your shoulders with the precision of a stylist on set.
“There,” he said, stepping back to admire his work. “You look like a cozy burrito of emotional recovery.”
You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Correction: I’m effective.”
He plopped down next to you, grinning. “Now. Tell me everything.”
You hesitated. “It’s… nothing big. Just one of those days.”
Sunoo tilted his head, expression softening. “Hey. ‘Just one of those days’ still counts.”
Something about the way he said it — light, but sincere — made the knot in your chest loosen just a little.
So you told him. About your morning, about how everything kept going wrong, how you’d tried to hold it together but it just kept piling up.
He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t try to fix it. He just listened, his eyes warm, hands resting in his lap, nodding every now and then.
When you finally trailed off, you sighed. “Sorry. That was a lot.”
He shook his head. “No sorrys. I signed up for this friendship knowing full well you’d have dramatic days.”
You chuckled softly. “Oh, so you admit I’m dramatic.”
He gasped. “No, no, I’m dramatic. You’re emotionally cinematic. There’s a difference.”
You couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped you — a real one this time, not the tired kind.
Sunoo grinned, mission accomplished. “There it is. The sound of healing.”
“You’re so cheesy,” you said, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you.
An hour later, the two of you were surrounded by half-empty snack bags and candlelight. The room smelled faintly like vanilla and something citrusy one of the candles he’d brought from home.
Sunoo leaned back against the couch, hair falling into his eyes. “Okay,” he said suddenly, “step two of Operation De-Stress.”
You looked at him suspiciously. “There’s a step two?”
“There’s always a step two,” he said, pulling out two face masks from the bag. “Spa night.”
You blinked. “You’re kidding.”
He gave you a look that said have you met me?
Ten minutes later, you were both sitting there with cooling sheet masks on your faces, trying not to laugh as he narrated the experience like a beauty vlogger.
“Self-care is about inner peace,” he said in a calm, meditative voice. “And also good lighting.”
You giggled. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossible,” he said proudly, “but glowing.”
You looked at him his eyes crinkled in laughter, the faint reflection of candlelight on his skin and felt something shift. You weren’t sad anymore. Not really. You were just… calm.
He noticed you staring and smiled. “Better?”
You nodded. “Much.”
“Good,” he said, satisfied. “Now we move to the final stage.”
You raised an eyebrow. “There’s a final stage?”
He leaned closer, whispering dramatically. “Comfort playlist. Mandatory.”
He grabbed his phone, scrolled for a second, and hit play. Soft, happy music filled the room the kind you could sway to without realizing.
Sunoo hummed along under his breath, and for a while, neither of you said anything. You just sat there, side by side, wrapped in blankets and quiet.
Then he spoke, voice gentle. “You know, bad days happen. But they don’t stay forever.”
You looked at him, surprised by the softness in his tone.
He smiled faintly. “Sometimes, the best you can do is let someone else carry a little bit of the weight for you.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Thanks for carrying it today.”
He shrugged playfully, though his eyes stayed kind. “Anytime. I have strong emotional biceps.”
You laughed again, shaking your head. “You’re the weirdest person I know.”
“And your favorite,” he said, smug.
You didn’t argue.
Later, after cleaning up, you found yourselves sitting on the floor, talking about everything and nothing. He told you a story about his trainee days that had you laughing so hard you cried, and then you told him something random from school that made him snort his drink.
The candles had burned low by then, the room dim except for their soft flicker. The chaos of the day felt like a distant thing now, something that couldn’t quite touch you anymore.
Sunoo leaned his head on the back of the couch, eyes half-closed. “See?” he murmured. “You survived another terrible day.”
You nodded. “Thanks to you.”
He grinned sleepily. “You make it sound like I did something heroic.”
“You did,” you said softly. “You showed up.”
That made him pause. His smile softened small, genuine, and full of that unspoken warmth he carried so easily.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I guess I did.”
You sat there a little longer, just letting the calm settle. The rain outside had stopped, replaced by the steady hum of nighttime.
Sunoo eventually got up, stretching with a groan. “Okay, my work here is done,” he announced dramatically. “The vibes are restored.”
You laughed, getting up too. “You should get a medal.”
“I’ll settle for snacks,” he said, already eyeing the leftover chips.
As he packed his things to leave, he glanced at you and smiled softer this time, almost shy. “Hey. You’ll call me next time, right? Before the day gets this bad?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I promise.”
“Good,” he said, slipping his shoes on. “Because I have plenty more candles and emotional biceps to spare.”
You laughed, following him to the door. “You’re unbelievable.”
He grinned over his shoulder. “And yet, here I am, everyone’s favorite life coach.”
You shook your head, smiling as he waved and stepped out into the cool night.
When you closed the door behind him, the room was still faintly glowing candles flickering, blankets half-folded, the air still carrying the sound of laughter.
The day had been terrible. But the night, somehow, had turned out perfect.
And that was the thing about Sunoo he didn’t just make bad days better. He made them worth getting through.
Synopsis- you both drift....so do the memories...and maybe some letters
You wrote the letter on a night when everything felt too loud.
The rain was falling outside, steady and rhythmic, hitting against your window in the kind of way that makes silence even louder. The room smelled faintly like vanilla candles and ink, and your hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Maybe from the cold. Maybe from everything you wanted to say but couldn’t.
Jake had always been the type to make things feel lighter—like a sunny morning, or laughter after a long day. But lately, it wasn’t like that anymore. Conversations had started turning into pauses. Smiles had started fading before they reached your eyes. And every time you looked at him, you felt like you were staring at a memory that was slipping away too fast.
So you sat at your desk that night, pen hovering over paper, and you started writing.
> “Jake,”
That was as far as you got before your chest tightened. You paused, staring at the name. It looked strange in your handwriting. Too small for everything he meant.
You took a deep breath and kept going.
> “I don’t even know where to start. I guess I just miss how easy everything used to be. We used to talk for hours, about nothing and everything. Now, it feels like I’m saying all the wrong things, and you’re hearing something I didn’t mean.”
You hesitated, pressing the pen against the paper until the ink started to pool slightly.
> “Maybe I’m overthinking. Maybe this is just what happens when people drift. But it hurts, Jake. It hurts more than I want to admit. I keep replaying our last conversation, wondering what I could’ve said differently. You looked tired, and I wanted to ask if you were okay, but the words just… didn’t come out.”
You paused again. The room felt smaller somehow, as if the walls were listening. You thought about how he used to laugh—head tilted back, eyes half-moon shaped—and how that sound had once been the safest thing in the world.
> “You probably won’t ever read this,” you wrote, your throat tight. “But I need to say it somewhere. I’m sorry for every time I made things harder. I never wanted to. I just—wanted to matter. Maybe I still do, somewhere in your day, even if it’s just a passing thought.”
You read over the words, heart beating too fast, and finally added the last line:
> “If you ever wonder, even for a second, if I stopped caring — I didn’t.”
You signed your name, folded the letter, and placed it inside an envelope. You even wrote his name on it in your neatest handwriting. But you didn’t send it.
You told yourself you’d give it to him when things felt right again. When you could talk without the tension, when he looked at you the same way he used to. But the right time never came.
Days passed. Then weeks.
Jake still showed up sometimes — same gentle smile, same calm tone — but something had changed between you. You both felt it, and neither of you said it. It was easier to pretend that everything was fine.
The letter stayed tucked in your drawer, hidden between old notebooks and ticket stubs.
Until one afternoon, when you were cleaning, you found it again.
The paper had softened over time, edges curling a little. You ran your thumb over his name, tracing the faint imprint of ink, and smiled — a small, tired kind of smile that felt warm and sad at the same time.
You thought about everything that had happened since then. About how you and Jake still talked sometimes — not as much, not as easily, but still. He’d text you random things, like, “this song reminded me of you,” or “remember when we got lost that one time?”
It wasn’t the same as before, but it wasn’t gone either.
You opened the letter, expecting to feel embarrassed, but instead, you just felt… calm. You read your words again — the raw, shaky kind of honesty that only comes out when you think no one’s ever going to see it.
You realized then that maybe it didn’t need to be sent.
Because the person who needed those words the most was you. The you who wrote it — scared and lost and unsure if Jake still cared. That version of you finally got her answer, in her own handwriting.
You folded the paper carefully, smoothing out the creases. For a moment, you almost thought about sending a photo of it to him. Just to say, “I wrote this once.” But you didn’t.
Instead, you slipped it back into the envelope, smiled faintly, and whispered to the air,
“Thank you for being someone worth writing about.”
The rain started again outside — soft, steady, familiar. And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t sound sad.
Synopsis- just you, sunoo and Lord greenie the third
Warnings- none!
You never thought a quick grocery trip would end with you and Sunoo becoming “parents.”
It started innocently enough you were supposed to grab snacks, maybe a drink or two, but then Sunoo spotted the little plant display near the checkout line. Rows of tiny succulents sat in pastel pots, each one looking like it had been designed specifically for him.
“Oh my gosh,” he gasped, clutching your sleeve dramatically. “Look at them. They’re so cute.”
You tried not to laugh. “You have, like, three plants already.”
“Correction,” he said, pointing with mock seriousness. “Two are alive, one is… in the process of being reborn.”
You raised an eyebrow. “It’s been brown for a month.”
He ignored that. “This one,” he declared, crouching to eye a small, spiky succulent with a mint-green tint, “this one is calling to me.”
You couldn’t help smiling. “It’s calling to you?”
“Yes. Spiritually. We’re connected now.”
Before you could stop him, he grabbed a pot and marched to the cashier with the confidence of someone adopting a child. You followed, trying not to laugh as he carefully carried it in both hands like it was made of glass.
By the time you got home, Sunoo had already named it.
“Everyone, meet Lord Greenie the Third,” he said solemnly, placing it on your shared coffee table as though introducing a royal guest.
You blinked. “Third?”
“The first and second were… casualties,” he said with mock tragedy. “We do not speak of them.”
You burst out laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”
He gasped in mock offense. “Excuse you, I am a responsible plant parent.”
“Uh-huh,” you teased, sitting on the couch. “So what’s Lord Greenie’s care plan?”
He pulled out his phone, already typing something furiously. “Sunlight: check. Water: check. Emotional support: double check. You’ll be the co-parent, of course.”
You stared at him. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Yes, you did,” he said sweetly. “By being my favorite person, you automatically share custody.”
You pretended to groan, but there was no hiding your grin. “Fine. But I’m not singing lullabies to a plant.”
Sunoo gasped dramatically. “You’d let our child grow up without love?!”
You threw a cushion at him, and he caught it midair, laughing so hard his shoulders shook.
Later that evening, the two of you sat cross-legged on the floor, rearranging the table to make space for Lord Greenie’s “habitat.” Sunoo had found a tiny LED lamp (“For mood lighting,” he’d said seriously) and was now gently misting the plant with a spray bottle.
“Okay, he’s thriving,” Sunoo said proudly, leaning back to admire his work. “Look at that angle. He’s basically a model.”
You giggled. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I prefer dedicated.”
You rested your chin on your hand, watching him. He was so full of energy, talking to the plant like it could actually understand him, face glowing under the soft yellow light. It was one of those moments that felt small, but you knew you’d remember it — the kind of warmth that made you feel safe just by being there.
Sunoo noticed your stare and smiled. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly. “You’re just… really into this.”
He grinned. “Of course I am. You have to commit to the bit.”
You rolled your eyes affectionately. “You’re something else.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
A few days passed, and Lord Greenie settled into your lives as if he’d always been there. Sunoo would text you photos of him at random times — “He’s getting taller 😭,” or “look at him glowing in the sun like a proud son.”
Sometimes, when you’d come over, you’d find him giving motivational speeches to the plant.
“You can do it, little guy,” he’d say, crouched by the window. “Grow. Flourish. Make your parents proud.”
You’d just stand there, smiling like an idiot.
One night, you both ended up watching a movie on the couch. Lord Greenie sat on the coffee table, his tiny pot now decorated with stickers Sunoo had carefully chosen (“to build his personality,” he explained).
Halfway through the movie, you realized Sunoo had fallen asleep beside you, head resting lightly against your shoulder. His hair brushed your sleeve, and his breathing was steady calm and soft.
You glanced at the little plant and whispered, “He’s a good parent, huh?”
The room was quiet except for the hum of the movie and the faint sound of rain outside. You felt a small smile tug at your lips.
Maybe it was silly. Maybe the whole “plant parent” thing was just a joke. But somewhere between all the laughter, the teasing, and the little moments of quiet like this, it had turned into something else — a small reminder of how nice it felt to have someone like him around.
You gently shifted the blanket to cover him too, careful not to wake him.
He stirred a little, mumbling something half-asleep. “Don’t forget to water Greenie…”
You laughed softly. “Don’t worry. We’ve got him.”
The next morning, Sunoo woke up and caught you humming while you watered the plant.
He blinked blearily. “Are you… serenading Lord Greenie?”
You flushed. “You’re imagining things.”
He smiled, still sleepy, voice warm. “You’re cute when you lie.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to hide your grin. “Go back to sleep, plant dad.”
“Can’t,” he said, stretching with a yawn. “Too happy. My family’s thriving.”
You laughed, and he joined in, the sound light and easy. Lord Greenie sat between you, basking in the morning sunlight, perfectly oblivious to how much laughter and comfort he’d brought into your little world.
Maybe you weren’t really “parents.” Maybe you were just two people learning how to care for something and, in a way, for each other too.
And as Sunoo nudged your shoulder with his and said, “He’s growing, just like us,” you couldn’t help but think he was right
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Synopsis- after a fight, both of you wait for the other to apologize first, and the silence stretches longer than either expected.
The fight wasn’t supposed to happen.
It started as something small something so small you can’t even remember what the first word was anymore. Maybe it was about time, or promises, or the way Ni-ki forgot to text you back after saying he would. Maybe it wasn’t even about that at all. Maybe it was just one of those days when everything feels a little heavier than usual, and one careless comment tips it all over.
Now, the air between you is thick with everything unsaid.
He’s sitting across the room, phone in his hand, pretending to scroll. You can tell he hasn’t looked at the screen in minutes. You want to say something anything but the words stay stuck in your throat, trapped somewhere between pride and fear.
You glance at him, hoping maybe he’ll look up first. He doesn’t.
Ni-ki has always been good at waiting. When he’s learning choreography, when he’s focusing on something, he can stay still for hours. But this… this is different. This silence isn’t patient; it’s heavy and sharp, and every second stretches longer than the last.
Your chest tightens. “Are we just not going to talk about it?” you ask quietly.
He looks up then, eyes tired. “What’s there to talk about?”
The question stings more than it should. “A lot,” you say, voice softer now. “Everything.”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Every time we talk about it, it turns into a fight.”
“Maybe because you never listen,” you whisper.
That makes him flinch just slightly but enough that guilt pools in your stomach. You didn’t mean for it to sound cruel. But it’s out now, hanging in the air between you like static.
He doesn’t respond. Just stares down at the floor, thumb tracing the cracked edge of his phone case. You wait for him to say something, to deny it, to defend himself, to do something but all he does is breathe slowly, quietly, and stay silent.
You wish he’d yell. You wish he’d say you’re wrong or that he’s sorry. You wish you could just meet in the middle like you always used to.
But instead, the room fills with the sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the background.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
He finally stands, slipping his phone into his pocket. You feel your heart drop even before he moves.
“You’re leaving?”
“I just need air,” he says. It’s flat, but not cold—like he’s trying to be careful with his words. “I don’t want to make it worse.”
You swallow hard. “You think walking away makes it better?”
He hesitates by the door. “I think not saying something I’ll regret makes it better.”
It’s logical. It’s mature. It’s exactly what Ni-ki would say. But it still hurts. Because it means he’s choosing silence over you.
He doesn’t slam the door when he leaves. He just… disappears. Quietly.
The sound of it closing echoes in your head long after he’s gone.
You sink into the couch, staring at the spot where he was sitting just moments ago. There’s a dent in the cushion where his hand rested, the faint smell of his cologne lingering in the air. Everything feels wrong.
You reach for your phone out of habit. Open your messages.
Type:
> “I didn’t mean what I said.”
You stare at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the send button. Then you erase it. Type again.
> “Can we talk?”
Erase.
> “I miss you.”
Erase.
Each version sounds too desperate, too small, too late.
So you put your phone down and tell yourself that he’ll text first. That he should text first. Because he left, because he didn’t try, because it’s not always on you to fix things.
But the hours pass, and your phone stays silent.
By the time the sky turns dark, you find yourself replaying the fight in your head, over and over, trying to find the exact moment where it went wrong. You can hear his voice in your memory—low, careful, tired—and your own overlapping it, sharp and defensive. It’s messy, tangled.
You realize too late that he was never really angry. He was just hurt.
And maybe you were, too.
The thought makes your chest ache in that quiet, dull way that doesn’t go away no matter how many times you take a deep breath. You grab a blanket, curl up on the couch, and try to convince yourself that sleep will help.
But even as your eyes start to close, you can still see the way he looked before he left—the way his shoulders sank, the way his jaw tightened like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.
Maybe he was waiting for you to apologize first.
Maybe you both were.
When your phone finally buzzes, your heart leaps only for it to sink again when you see it’s just a notification, not him. You let out a shaky laugh, one of those hollow ones that sound like they could turn into tears if you’re not careful.
You turn your phone over so you don’t have to see the screen.
Somewhere out there, maybe Ni-ki is lying in his bed doing the exact same thing staring at his phone, typing and deleting, thinking about you but not ready to break the silence.
Maybe his thumb hovers over your name the same way yours hovers over his.
Maybe his chest feels just as tight.
Maybe tomorrow one of you will give in.
Or maybe this is how it ends quietly, with no apology, no closure, just the sound of everything that should’ve been said fading into the dark.
Synopsis- he carries the groceries but keeps feeding you strawberries throughout
Warnings- none!
The moment you step into the grocery store, Heeseung’s grin is practically contagious.
“I’ve got this,” he announces, grabbing a basket and hoisting it over one shoulder like it weighs nothing. You raise an eyebrow at him, already knowing that he always says that but never quite manages to carry everything gracefully.
“You sure? It’s a lot,” you warn, balancing your own small basket in your hands.
“Please,” he says, striding ahead with that confident swagger, “I can handle it. I’m strong.”
You hum skeptically but let him take the lead, secretly enjoying how eager he is to play the hero. Almost immediately, though, he spots the strawberries and stops dead in his tracks.
“Hold up,” he says, kneeling in front of the display. “You have to try these.”
“Try what?” you ask, peering over the top of the basket.
“Strawberries,” he insists, plucking a bright red berry and offering it to you. His grin is wide and teasing, like he knows he’s charming you—and he is.
You roll your eyes, but the second you taste the strawberry, your defenses crumble. “Okay, fine,” you admit, smiling. “That’s… actually really good.”
“Of course it’s good,” he says with mock pride, tossing another strawberry in your direction like he’s a game show host giving out prizes. “Hand-picked for you.”
“Hand-picked, huh?” you tease, brushing a tiny spot of juice off your hand. “Careful, or I’ll start expecting this level of service every grocery trip.”
“Not a problem,” he says, effortlessly sliding your hand into his as you walk down the produce aisle. “I’m here to serve you. Just part of my charm.”
You can’t help but laugh. Even though his basket is loaded and your arms are barely holding your own, he stops at every display, insisting you try a piece of this or that. A cherry tomato here, a slice of melon there, all accompanied by that soft smile that makes your chest feel warm.
By the time you reach the frozen section, your small basket is practically empty because your attention is completely stolen by him. Heeseung is busy juggling two large bags now, one in each hand, and somehow still manages to hand you a small chocolate bar to taste.
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, snatching the chocolate with one hand while steadying his wobbling bag with the other.
“And you love it,” he points out with a wink, teetering slightly but refusing to drop a single item. “Come on, let’s grab the rest before my heroism collapses entirely.”
You follow him down the aisles, watching as he somehow manages to lift a giant pack of milk cartons with one arm while handing you a tiny bag of your favorite nuts with the other. You can’t decide if you’re impressed or ready to laugh yourself into tears.
“Seriously,” you say, grinning, “how are you carrying all of that?”
“Skill,” he replies solemnly, though his eyes are twinkling. “Pure skill. And maybe a little magic.”
You snort, shoving a small box of cereal into your basket. “Magic, huh? That’s convenient.”
Heeseung glances at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Magic works best when there’s an audience,” he says, offering you a small bite of a granola bar he picked up from the display. “Eat this. For demonstration purposes.”
You take it, laughing when he deliberately holds it just out of reach for a second before letting you bite. The flourishes, the little pauses, the playful glances—everything about him is designed to make you smile. And it works. Every single time.
By the time you’re at the checkout line, both of your baskets are overflowing. Heeseung balances the heavy bags with astonishing care, even holding one in the crook of his elbow while he helps unload the conveyor belt.
“You’ve been full-on adorable this whole time,” you say, leaning against him for a moment as he reaches for another bag. “And I mean that in the nicest possible way.”
“Adorable?” he repeats, pretending to be offended. “I thought I was heroic.”
“You’re both,” you correct him, laughing. “Heroic and adorable. Mostly adorable though.”
Heeseung grins, leaning down just slightly to press a quick, soft kiss to your temple. “I’ll take it,” he says, returning to the bags. “But don’t tell anyone. My heroism has a reputation to uphold.”
Once you get back to the car, he loads the trunk with all the groceries while you buckle yourself in. Every so often, he passes a snack through the window with that same teasing smile that makes your stomach flip.
“Here,” he says, handing you a bag of mini cookies. “For the ride home. You’ve earned it.”
“You’re spoiling me,” you tell him, shaking your head, though your smile says otherwise.
“And you deserve it,” he replies softly, finally climbing into the driver’s seat. “Besides, it’s fun.”
The drive back is filled with quiet chatter, occasional laughter, and more tiny bites of snacks passed back and forth. By the time you reach home, the sun is dipping low in the sky, casting a soft golden glow over everything.
“You know,” you say as you step inside, “this was maybe the most chaotic grocery trip ever. But it was… perfect.”
Heeseung shrugs, a small, satisfied smile on his lips. “What can I say? Chaos and strawberries are my specialty.”
You laugh, leaning against him as he sets down the bags. “Well, you win this round, Heeseung.”
“And I’ll win the next one too,” he says, squeezing your hand gently. “Every time.”
You shake your head, grinning, but secretly, you’re already looking forward to it. Because with him, even something as ordinary as grocery shopping feels like a little adventure—a little messy, a little playful, and completely full of heart.
And that, you realize with a soft sigh, is why you keep coming back for all of it: the strawberries, the teasing, the warmth, and the way he somehow makes everyday life feel like the sweetest kind of magic.
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