diana

never did you see yourself experiencing a love like in the movies. the red string of fate, the twin flame, the soulmate – all concepts that were fictional to you. you got really close, once, and was humbled so badly that you had sworn off of love. you wouldn’t search for it, or even try for it ever again. 

but that’s the thing about love, isn’t it? it happens when you’re least expecting it. you don’t find it, it finds you, and pulls you under so quickly that there’s no time to resist. to you, heartbroken and hopeless you, this took form in the sudden presence of the boy called jake. 

jake had always been around – he’s a friend of your ex (he who shall not be named). not a close one, but one you still saw often at hangouts and parties. that one smiley, golden retriever boy with the bleached blonde hair. 

he was always such a gentleman with you, at least in the fleeting interactions before your ex would interrupt or steal you away. you still adored those brief moments with jake, and if your ex wasn’t so cutthroat about being the only man in your life, you might’ve found a good friend in jake. 

none of it could’ve prepared you for what you ended up finding in him instead. 

love. real love, pure love. a love that didn’t keep you waiting, that didn’t have you terrified of it vanishing. a love that was gentle and sweet and understanding. a love that you know you didn’t deserve, and yet a love he fought tooth and nail to give you. 

after your messy and very public breakup, jake swooped in like some type of guardian angel. one harmless text of him checking up on you later, and you found yourself attached to his side quicker than you could start missing your ex. 

he comforted you through it – held you in his arms when you were ugly crying, cooked meals for you when you couldn’t take care of yourself – and all he asked for in return was to continue being by your side. 

once you finally mustered the strength to leave bed after a week of rotting, jake was there to help clean your room of any traces of your ex. he then chucked all of his belongings in his car to drive to the dump, just so you didn’t have to be around the stuff any longer.

jake is a million dollar man. a once in a lifetime man. he is every bit the man that you wanted your ex to be, and better. because jake has none of his flaws. in fact, you’re not sure if jake even has any. he’s so perfect for you, and somehow, he feels like deja vu. 

you’re convinced he was a lover in your past life, someone you’ve reincarnated with to find in every reality, with how familiar he seems, how in tune he is with your needs. 

you’re so helplessly in love, and you know that someway, somehow – he loves you even more. 

—

not a day goes by where jake doesn’t think about marrying you. 

you don’t even have to do anything and already, he’s picturing you walking down the aisle, your belly swell with his child. patience, though. he needs enough for both of you. he’s been very intentional in restraining from going that far with you yet. he’s not prepared enough. but he will be, soon. 

he smiles to himself as he heart-reacts to your cute little ‘take your time handsome :)’ text, in reply to him apologising for being a few minutes late to come over. he had to wait for the dryer load to be done so he could wear his grey sweatpants – jay’s sweatpants. 

every time he wears these, without fail, you go crazy over him. the first time was a carelessly stupid mistake – you’d called him in tears, and in his rush to drive to your place, he’d thrown on the first pair of pants he could find, which he hadn’t realised was from the pile of your ex’s clothes.

by some luck, or perhaps by design, it had worked in his favour. your tears had quickly dried when you saw him walk in with those loose sweats hanging from his hips, and not long after you’d had him pressed to the couch, your lips devouring his. it was the first time you kissed him since the breakup, and it would’ve been your first time having sex since, if only jake hadn’t stopped things before they could escalate. 

you’re too affectionate for your own good. it will get your heart broken one day, and it did. but you never have to worry about that happening again – not after you handed it over to jake’s hands. 

jay may not be in your life anymore, but bits and pieces of him never really left. you don’t even realise it, but it’s why you fell for jake so hard and fast in the first place. 

jake pockets his phone into jay’s sweats. he throws a hoodie over his shirt – also jay’s – before spritzing on a layer of jay’s favourite cologne, then popping a stick of jay’s favourite gum in his mouth. referencing the polaroid taped to his mirror, jake styles his hair, just like jay’s. you first met him when he had the bleached hair, but once he’d heard the news of your breakup, he didn’t think twice about dyeing it back to black. 

jake slides the insoles into his sneakers before putting them on, matching jay’s height as he stands up. he clips on the watch around his wrist from the same brand as jay’s. 

jake gives himself a once over in the mirror, and clears his throat for one last practice before he leaves. his reflection talks like jay, walks like jay, perfectly mimics his loud laugh and his shy mannerisms. only when jake doesn’t recognise himself anymore does he feel satisfied, and texts you a quick ‘On my way cutie <3’ before grabbing his car keys from the pocket of jay’s jeans he wore yesterday on the floor. 

jake hadn’t thrown out a single possession of your ex’s like he promised you. that day he drove them to the ‘dump’ to end up in a heap of landfill, he’d actually just taken them right back to his house, where he’s since been studying them harder than his college finals. 

every handmade gift that he can recreate better, every love letter that he can plagiarise and whisper into your ear. he’s even tried learning some of jay’s homemade recipes, and bought a guitar to practise jay’s scribbled songs. he wears some clothing from jay’s closet each time he sees you. he analyses photos to pose like jay, videos to act like jay – every second of every day in his head is just jay, jay, jay. jake thinks about him so much you’d think he was in love. 

no part of jay is unknown to him. he wants to know exactly the type of man you fell so deeply in love with, so he can do it all better.

what you don’t know is that jake wanted you first, from afar – from passing by you in the halls and sitting behind you in class. all before jay just swooped in and bagged you like nothing. 

you don’t even remember jake’s existence before you met him as jay’s friend. he wasn’t memorable enough, not worthy enough. so, he had to become the man you wanted, the man your broken heart longed for: jay. 

and it’s worked better than he could’ve ever imagined. 

yesterday, while he was over, you’d shyly (adorably) admitted to jake that you used to journal. you lost motivation to keep up with it after he who shall not be named.

“you should start again,” he had suggested to you, rubbing your arm as he held you under his shoulder. “it’s a healthy hobby to have.”

“i only ever wrote when i was upset.” you looked up at him with eyes full of hearts. “i don’t need it anymore.”

so today, he has an objective. 

jake had treated you to a date night-in. he’d cooked a big, hearty meal using one of jay’s recipes – including all the fucking expensive exotic ingredients – then popped a fine wine to share over a binge of the james bond movies. jay loves them, and jay complained about how you’d fall asleep whenever he put them on.

drinking wine and watching a movie that bores you, jake hadn’t expected you to last long. and yet you’d hardly done either with your tongue down his throat and your hand palming the front of his pants. 

jake had excused himself to the bathroom before he could embarrass himself, furiously jerked off into your toilet, and by the time he returned you were knocked out on the couch. fast asleep, just like he’d planned. 

your sweet, unassuming boyfriend had tip-toed into your bedroom and gone straight for the bottom drawer of your dresser, hitting the jackpot. 

diaries. a whole stack of them. licking his lips, he pulled out his phone and opened up the first one, pressing record as he began to flip through each page. 

all of your thoughts from your relationship with jay, perfectly preserved in writing. every time he upset you, hurt you, every time you fell in and out of love. 

he moved quickly – since there’s no telling if you’d miss him in your slumber and wake up to realise he’s gone – so he could only skim the words as he flicked through, feeling his chest stir and pants tighten with the excitement. he’ll be watching the video back later anyways, when he’s alone and has the time to read it like his own personal bible. 

as much as it kills him inside to turn you down each time you’re both hot and bothered, practically fucking already through your clothes, the sole reason jake has been waiting for is this. he needed to know exactly how jay did it, how you liked it, how he kept you with him for so long. he needs to know the right steps to ensure you’ll never want to leave him. and now he’s got it, in between the pages he flicks with his finger, every word captured on camera. fucking jackpot.

“jakey?”

the diary nearly falls from his hands as you call out to him. it fumbles in his grip, and he holds onto it before it can clatter on the wooden dresser. blowing out a breath to calm himself, he responds right away, “yeah baby?” 

“where’d y’go?” you drawl back, audibly still half-asleep. 

“just getting the bed ready,” he continues to flip through the diary under the sound of his voice, recording the last few pages he needs. “i’ll carry you in, okay?” 

“m’kay..”

jake waits for minutes, putting the diary back and periodically inching the dresser shut, right until it quietly sets back into place. like he was never there. 

yeesh, not even james bond could understand the panic that just coursed through jake’s body. he did it though – he fucking did it! he’s gonna make you his for life. 

—

two pages in and jake thinks he’s scarred for life. 

he already knew you were easy.. he can tell how desperately you’ve wanted it since you’ve started dating, and he could tell throughout your entire relationship with jay. 

not just from jay’s own word of mouth – loudly bragging about how you were always down, how he ‘didn’t know how to handle all that’ – but from jake’s own ears too. he’d walk past locked bathrooms at house parties, recognising the pitch of your moans in a heartbeat through the thin walls. they’d be playing video games over discord calls, and your voice in the background of jay’s mic would disappear, his breaths growing suspiciously heavier.

being around it happening implicitly is one thing, filling the blanks with his imagination as he fucks his fist is another – but this… this is far worse. you really leave nothing to interpretation. 

you slept with jay on the first date – or rather he fucked you, so good and thoroughly that you had no choice but to keep coming back, whether or not he wanted to put a label on it you didn’t care. 

here jake is, playing the long game like a fucking idiot, when you were drunk off jay from one sip. 

he’s helpless to do anything but keep reading though, turning to the next page while it turns his guts inside out. like a car crash he just can’t look away. he needs this knowledge – he needs to know precisely how you want him inside you, so you have no choice but to believe he’s made for you. 

he memorises the words jay used to talk you through it. the details of how his hands and his mouth worked at you expertly. the nitty gritty of how he took you from behind and plowed you. how he was so rough you couldn’t do anything but scream and take it, and yet you loved every second of it. you loved him, and you would’ve let him do whatever he wanted if it meant he loved you back. 

hm. 

jake peaks under the blanket, eyes falling on the tent in his (jay’s) sweats. there’s even a few dark spots on the grey fabric. picking his phone back up, he starts reading where he left off, sighing in relief as he grips himself through the pants. 

who would’ve thought.. reading everything jay did to your body and envisioning it in his head, would have jake this hard. 

shameless, he pulls the waistband down to grip himself properly, wincing as he gathers pre on his palm before coating it over his length. jake whimpers, wrapping his fingers tight and jerking his wrist fast, forcing his eyes open so he can keep reading. 

that time when jay forced your legs apart even though you were overstimulated, how he filled your pussy to the brim with cum and ate it out, spat it in your mouth then fucked it down your throat–

jake moans pathetically as he coats his hoodie in a sudden spurt of cum. his hips kick weakly into his fist, his eyes fluttering shut as he still attempts to read what happened after jay plugged your mouth with his dick. 

with his clean hand, he checks the timestamp on the video, and groans when he sees he’s not even halfway through. he hasn’t even reached the first rough patch (of many) in the relationship, where there’s sure to be copious hate and make-up sex stories awaiting him. 

he’s in for a long night with his right hand. 

—

“jake, what are you thinking?”

jake licks his lips, tasting your spit coating them, as he buys himself time to reply. his hands run up and down your sides, squeezing the curves in his fingers as his length states his exact thoughts where it twitches below you. you chuckle as you feel it, running a hand through his tousled hair, the light scratch of your nails enough to have him whimpering softly. 

honest answer? jake’s thinking about how he spent the last 24 hours reading your diary front to back, how he memorised every single time jay fucked you throughout your entire relationship, how he tired himself out by jerking off to it all night and into the early morning. 

he’d surprised you today by coming over unannounced, capturing your lips in a kiss before you could even greet him as you opened your front door, walking you back into the couch where you’ve been buried in each other’s mouths since. 

somewhere during your needy gropes and whiney kisses, you’d taken the initiative to climb into his lap – and where he’d usually stop things before they could go further, jake had let you rut against him. desperately grinding against the sensitive heat of each other’s bodies, months worth of bottled tension finally let loose. 

“jakey,” you cooed, ripping him from his thoughts as you slowly rolled your hips against him. “what’s up?”

he huffs a laugh. “me.” you roll your eyes, quickly distracted by how his hands guide you to grind harder, earning a shudder from the boy below you. “nah, i’m just.. i still can’t believe you’re real.”

and he means that more than you could know. he’s spent years yearning over the view of the back of your head or your blurry figure in the distance, and now you’re on top of him, when all it took was fitting the mold your ex left behind. in every way.

his breath hitches, length giving another harsh pulse beneath you, and you throw your head back with a frustrated groan, “urgh, i’ve been waiting so long, jake.”

“i know,” he stifles another whimper, trying to keep a cool, collected composure as he praises you. just how you like. “you’ve done so well, baby, i’m proud of you–”

“just let me sit on your dick already!”

jake stammers, completely taken aback. he mentally cross-references how you’re behaving with him right now to how you wrote about jay. you enjoyed intimacy best when jay guided and talked you through it. you liked being manhandled, you loved being fucked, and yet you’re.. bossing jake around? 

this isn’t going how it should be…

“i want you in me, jake.” you utter, breath fanning his lips as your hand wedges between where your bodies connect. “i wanna ride you.” his eyes flutter shut at the feel of your palm gripping his length, while you grind yourself against your own hand, too worked up for how slow he’s taking this. “let me?” 

shit, he almost did. he lost himself for a moment there – slipping back into the fumbling, awkward mess he is and not the stone-faced dominant man that he’s supposed to be right now. he needs to be jay for you. 

“you think you can tell me what to do?” he sneers, grabbing your ass with a slap, hard enough to make you gasp. he pushes down the swell in his chest that feels bad for being rough. “that’s no way to get what you want, baby.”

“jake–” you squeak out, gasping again louder as he pushes you down by the hips, hard enough for his length to dig up into you with a roll of his hips. your eyes widen, from his size and from this new side of him. “i– i’m sorry..”

he hums, unconvinced. “you use your manners when you ask.” jake commands, not even recognising himself from this foreign tone of voice. he’d bet he sounds exactly like your ex with how your body turns to putty under his hands. 

you gulp, your eyes glazing over with something he doesn’t recognise. submission, must be. “please?” your voice comes out barely above a whisper.

jake pokes his cheek with his tongue – something jay did that drove you crazy – and watches the effect it has on you in real time as your hips grind on him once more, needy for some damn relief. jake’s grip on you tightens enough to make you pause, and he tuts at you in disapproval. 

“please.” you almost whine. “jake, please, i’ve needed you so bad. please let me ride you, i’ll be so good.”

the sweetest girl he’s ever known, reduced to a begging mess because of how perfectly he embodied your ex. he almost loses it again, almost gives in and lets you ride him until he sees stars, but jake locks back in with a reminder: what would jay do?

he runs through each verse of your diary he knows by heart at this point, and after coming to a conclusion of how jay would proceed – jake chuckles in your face. 

“nah.”

within a blink jake’s got you off his lap and on your back, pressed into the couch by his chest on yours. 

“we’re doing this my way,” he talks you through it as he tugs down your pants, unsurprised to find an absence of underwear. easy. “what you need, baby, is to get fucked.” you whine as his teeth nip at your neck, his tongue licking the sting. “then maybe, if you’re so good, you can ask again.” he almost cries out as his fingers find your pussy, wetness coating the tips. “nicely this time.”

“ah, jake–” you moan loudly for him, two fingers running through your folds before settling at your clit, rubbing digit eights over the throbbing bundle of nerves. 

“you’ve been waiting so long?” jake scoffs, quick fingers circling your clit as you writhe beneath him. “baby. you have no idea about me.”

“a-ah! i’m sorry!” you babble, to jake’s confusion. your big, glossy eyes find his, your puffy lips from all his kisses trembling. ah, you must be deep in it. this is seriously too easy. you’ll really get off on being talked down on by jake, just because your ex did it first?

not even a few seconds later you’re clamping your thighs around his wrist, mouth dropping open in a moan, and it takes him a moment to realise you’re cumming already. that took.. nothing. he makes sure to rub you through it, and even a little after until you’re pushing at his chest, whining that it’s too much. 

jake’s dick throbs in his sweats, the grey sweats, diary passages flashing in his mind of you writing about jay getting you off. how you’d daydream about the sex for weeks after because of how well he worked your body, how obsessed you were with it. jake almost cums in his fucking pants just thinking about how well he’s doing in mimicking your ex – and you’re drunk off it, you don’t even realise that you’re about to get fucked by the exact same man. 

jake rips off both layers restraining him almost painfully at this point, tugging them down only to his knees before he’s back on top of you, lining his cock up with your sopping pussy. you just whimper, too far gone to even beg for him anymore. 

with one thrust, jake slides all the way in, the tight fit airing out every thought in his brain. you try to hold onto him with shaky fingers, and he softly shushes each of your whimpers, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. trying to comforting you, even as you’re gripping him like a fucking vice. everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s sacrificed his entire identity for, gripping him. wet and hot and perfect and so fucking worth it.

he’s able to hold back on cumming solely because of all the recent jerking off to your diary. he sucks in a breath through his teeth, forcing himself to speak, to keep you under his spell. 

“you feel so perfect, baby,” he kisses your forehead, and you stare up at him with that dazed look still in your eyes. “i’m gonna fucking wreck you.”

jake snaps his hips, roughly pushing every inch in, and you break off into helpless little moans as he starts to fuck you properly. he bites his lower lip, keeping all of his own in so he can stay the picture of the cold, dominant man you want so badly. he only lets you adjust to the fit while he’s fucking you, your pussy fluttering around him. it must sting, it must be pain mixed with pleasure right now, and yet you’re taking all of him without protest. because that’s just how you like it. 

once you’ve adjusted enough to stop sucking him in, jake tilts his hips to angle his thrusts up, hitting that sweet spot that has you whimpering his name. 

“yeah, baby?” he almost taunts you as he pushes himself all the way in, soiling his balls in your sticky arousal as he grinds forward, tip nudging your cervix. jake laughs through his sudden rage of jay having this under him everyday and still breaking your heart. that’d be the one difference between them – jake won’t be that stupid. “feels good huh?”

you can’t even get his name out, let alone words anymore, as you lay limply beneath him, heat blooming in your gut as he rubs his length along your g-spot. your eyes roll back into your head, lips stretching in a silent moan, and jake cusses as he realises what’s happening before you clamp down on him, too tight for him to pull back. 

you cum again, overcome with twitches through your body and around his cock, and jake just watches in bewilderment. of course you wouldn’t lie in your own diary, but.. you really are too easy. you’ve popped off twice and he’s barely gotten started. 

jake runs his hands over your body as he waits for you to come back to him, sliding his palms under your shirt to pinch and twist at your nipples. you whimper, so sensitive. 

“c’mere, baby, you’re doing so well,” he pulls your chin into a sweet kiss, right before he slides back into jay. “you’re gonna take more for me. right?”

you nod. pliant, fucked out, so so perfect.

jake smiles, thinking of where to even start with the things he wants to do to you, before remembering that one story in your diary he kept coming back to, the one he came hard to like none other. the one you said was the moment you knew you’d fallen in love with jay. 

he wants to see it happen for himself. 

jake pins your thighs down to the couch cushions, pries your legs apart, and fucks into you like a madman, like a dog in heat. he’s chasing nothing but his own release as he pounds you into the couch, and he can’t help the soft whimpers he lets slip as the aftershocks of your orgasms has your pussy fluttering around him. 

jake’s vision whites out, his ears ring, as pure bliss floods his body, his hips kicking rapidly until he’s spilling out inside of you. he’s so possessed he doesn’t even stop fucking you, not fully registering that he came with how in his head he is. what would jay sound like? how hard would jay go?

“ja..” you try to say his name, trailing off halfway. 

he opens his eyes – not even realising they closed – as he looks down at you. you’re even more gone than he is. do you even realise that it’s not your ex fucking you stupid right now? 

with a perfect face like that under him, wrapped around him, how is he ever meant to stop?

jake hisses as he pulls out abruptly, leaving a quick kiss on your lips before he crawls down, latching his mouth around your pussy. you scream for him, shoved way past overstim as his tongue ravages you, the mixture of cum gushing onto jake’s tongue. 

“j-ja–! ja– ja–!” you stutter, too weak to even get his full name out. jake’s groan rumbles on your clit, his cock leaking into the cushions as it hardens again, realising that his stuttered name sounds like you’re saying jay. 

j-jay! jay– jay–!

he’s done it. he succeeded, he won. he became jay. 

“keep on saying that, baby,” jake manages to huff out while he laps at you feverishly, the taste of your shared love lighting up his tongue as he eats the cum out of you – right until you’re letting loose for a third time, moaning that broken version of his name through it and driving him fucking insane. jake lets it all flood into his mouth, sucking his lips until he’s releasing your clit with a wet pop. 

he lifts himself up again until he’s at level with you, parting your lips with his thumb and waiting until you meet his eyes before he spits the mess of fluids directly onto your tongue. your lashes flutter, and he can see it as you sink even further into that floaty state of mind. 

“hold it.” he tells you, rising on his knees and shuffling forward, holding his cock by the base as he directs it to your mouth. “open, baby.”

you do as told, of course you do, letting jake bury himself to the hilt in the wet heat of your mouth. the underside glides over the cum still warm on your tongue, and jake shudders above you, feeling faint in the head from just how fucking hard he is for you. 

“you gotta return the favour, yeah?” he only hopes you don’t notice how breathless he is, how he’s just as much of a mess as you are. if he wasn’t putting on this whole jay persona, he’d be a fucking embarrasing bitch for you right now. 

you nod, and jake pulls out before pushing back in, tip bumping the back of your throat. he moans unabashedly, fucking the hollow of your mouth, feeling how you constrict around him. how you gag yet make no move to push him off. easy. perfect. just like jay made you, just like you are for jake to have now. 

jake snaps his hips ruthlessly until his abs tighten, his cock pulsing until he’s shooting out down your throat. he stays shaking above you, sweating all over, until slowly pulling himself out. he catches your throat bob in a gulp, and he thinks he’s ready for yet another round. 

before he can even put a thought to it though, a sudden sob from you has his entire being seizing in panic. tears burst out from your eyes, streaming down your face as you try to cover it with your hands. 

“oh no, no, hey,” jake pulls you into a hug, what jay would do the last thought in his mind as he instantly worries he took it too far. he reminded you too much of him, you caught on to his act. “baby, did i hurt you? did i–”

“no, jake,” you cut in, and he pulls back, his brows pinched in confusion. “you didn’t do anything. it all felt really good, you were really good, i just–” another sob chokes up your words, and he just shushes you as he cradles you to his chest, relief flooding all the worry in his system.

what you don’t tell him, what you chose to keep to yourself, is that you thought of jay. when jake was eating you out, and you’re sure you must’ve even said your ex’s name a few times as you came, too deep in subspace to realise what you were doing. to realise that it was your boyfriend and not the last man who’d put you there.

everything jake was doing and saying, it just.. reminded you of him, so much. you don’t miss him, you don’t still love him. it’s just hard for your body to unlearn the ways that someone else has already hammered into them. 

“i’m so sorry,” you sniffle. “jake.” you tack on, as if trying to remind your body who you’re with. 

“no, no.” he shushes you, stroking your hair. “it’s okay, there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

he really is too perfect for you. you don’t know how you’ll ever deserve someone as pure as him. 

“i love you.” 

jake pulls back, eyes flitting around your face as if searching for any sign that you’re not serious. “wh– you.. you mean that?”

“i do.” you smile, and he mirrors you, lips stretching wide. “i love you, jakey.”

it’s the first time he’s heard it from you. it might be too early, but you don’t care. nothing’s too early if it’s all fate, all meant to be. 

“i love you more.” he rocks you in his arms, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “more than you could ever know.”

your body stiffens as you’re suddenly transported back in time – living out a once fond memory with jay, how he’d said those exact words back after you’d said you love him first. 

jay– no, jake, just holds you tighter, snapping you clean out of your silly rumination. you curl into your boyfriend, forcing your ex out of your mind where he had no business hanging around.

jake wasn’t him, he’d never be him. what were you tripping for?

You had to. 

There was no universe where you posted that bikini photo, the one where the teal fabric clung to your tits like it was painted on, water droplets rolling down your collarbone, sun making your skin glow like something divine, and didn't know what it would do to him. 

Heeseung had been the first person to like it. Three seconds after it went up. He reshared it to his story with a black heart emoji and nobody understood why. His friends thought it was sweet. His followers assumed it was a casual boyfriend thing. But they didn't know that his hand was already down his sweatpants when he did it, that his cock was achingly hard and leaking against his palm, that the black heart was a coded message: I'm losing my fucking mind.

Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. He counted. He wasn't proud of it.

The first two days were manageable. 

You sent him good morning texts with selfies, soft, sleepy, your hair messy and pillow creases on your cheek, and he could handle that. He'd smile at his phone like an idiot, type something disgusting like "you're so cute," and go about his day. But by day three, the photos started arriving. Not the public ones, those were a different kind of torture that he'd scroll through obsessively, zooming in on the curve of your waist, the glimpse of your thighs, the way your lips wrapped around that cocktail straw. 

No, the private ones were what broke him.

The first was innocent enough. You were changing after the beach, and you sent a mirror selfie from the hotel bathroom — your damp hair, a white shirt that was slightly see-through from the moisture, clinging to the shape of your breasts, nipples pressing faintly against the fabric, and a pair of black panties underneath. That was it. Just that. You added a caption: "oops, forgot u were on read 🫩" and he stopped breathing for a full five seconds.

He screenshotted it. He hated himself for it. He screenshotted it and then he stared at it for twenty minutes, thumb hovering over the call button, cock throbbing in his jeans, and he didn't call because he knew if he heard your voice right then he'd say something pathetic. Something like “please come home” or “I need you so bad it's making me sick” or “I've been hard for three hours and I can't make it stop.”

So he jerked off instead. Right there on the couch, phone in one hand, cock in the other, scrolling through your story, pausing on every frame where your body was visible. 

He came embarrassingly fast, under two minutes, with a broken sound that was half moan, half whine, hips bucking up into his fist, and when it was over he felt worse. Not better. Worse. Because his hand wasn't your hand, wasn't your mouth, wasn't your body, and his own orgasm felt like a consolation prize compared to what he actually wanted.

He cleaned up and stared at the ceiling and missed you so much it felt like a physical wound.

Day four was when you sent the photo. He'd later think of it that way, with reverential dread, the way people talk about natural disasters that ruin their lives.

It was a full body shot. You were wearing his black shorts, the ones that were baggy on you, the ones you'd stolen from his drawer before you left, the ones that had to be pinned at the back with a safety pin because they wouldn't stay up. They were slung low on your hips, and he could see the edge of your panties sticking out from underneath, pale pink, a thin strip of lace, the kind you wore when you wanted to feel pretty and not when you wanted to be practical. 

Above the waistband, your bare stomach, your navel, and then just a bra, black, simple, pushing your breasts up in a way that made his mouth water. And your hand. Your hand was on your breast, fingers splayed, cupping it through the fabric, and you were looking at the camera with this expression that knowing. It was cruel. You knew what this would do to him. You were doing it on purpose.

His favorite. His absolute favorite. He saved it, he screenshotted it, he sent it to his hidden album, and then he put his phone down and pressed his palms against his eyes and breathed through the wave of arousal that hit him so hard it made his vision blur.

you're wearing my shorts 🤨

That's what he texted you. That's all he could manage.

yeahhh 😿 they smell like u & imy already 🙁 i sleep in them every night, you sent back. 

He threw his phone across the couch.

Then he picked it back up, because of course he did.

Day five, you sent nudes. Not even strategically angled ones, real ones, the kind that left nothing to imagination. You were changing, you said, and you just had to show him. Your breasts, bare, your nipples peaked from the air conditioning, one arm stretched out holding the phone, the other covering just enough to be teasing but not enough to hide anything. A second photo: your back, arched, looking over your shoulder, the curve of your ass in those white panties, the dip of your spine, and he could see the strap marks from your bikini, tan lines that made him want to trace them with his tongue.

He sent a voicemail back. He couldn't type. He couldn't form words. So he hit record, and the sound that came out of him was filthy. He was jerking himself off, fast and wet, and he didn't even try to be quiet about it. 

He let you hear everything: the slick sound of his fist, the desperate little "hah, hah" of his breathing, the whine that built in his throat, the way he said your name like a prayer and a curse at the same time. "Fuck, baby, I—I need you so bad, I can't—"and then he came, mid-sentence, with a broken moan that cracked at the end, and the voicemail ended with him panting, shaky, barely audible: "Please come home."

You sent back a voice note of your own. Just your voice, breathy and amused: "Aww. Poor baby." And then, softer, almost tender: "Four more days. You can last four more days, right?"

He couldn't. He really, truly couldn't.

Day six, the sexting happened. It started with a check-in, him asking if you'd eaten, if you were staying hydrated, if you were wearing sunscreen, and somehow, inevitably, it derailed. You told him you'd been thinking about him on the beach. About how the water felt, cold and slippery against your skin, and how you wished it was his hands instead. How you'd touched yourself in the shower that morning and imagined it was him, imagined him pressing you against the tile, imagined his mouth on your neck, his fingers inside you.

He was hard before you finished the second message.

"I want to eat you out so bad," he typed, not even caring how desperate he sounded. "I want to put my mouth on you and not stop until you're crying."

"You want to make me cry?"

"I want to make you feel so good you can't help it. I want to taste you. I want—I want—" He couldn't finish. He was too busy coming again, cock pulsing in his grip, spurting over his knuckles, and he hadn't even been looking at anything. Just the words on his screen. Just the thought of you. He came from reading a text message. 

Heeseung, twenty-five years old, who prided himself on at least a little stamina, came from words on a screen like a fucking teenager, and he groaned through it, jaw clenched, and thought: I am so, so fucked.

Day seven, the last day, he didn't even touch himself. He just lay in bed and stared at your photos and throbbed. His cock was so hard it ached, flushed and angry and leaking, and he didn't wrap his hand around it because he knew it would be over in seconds and he'd feel even emptier afterward. He just let himself suffer. He let the want build until it was a living thing in his chest, a hollow hunger that no amount of his own touch could fill.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you'd be home.

He didn't sleep.

You walked through the door at exactly 4:47 PM, and Heeseung was already standing in the hallway like he'd been waiting there for hours, which he had been, since you'd texted him your flight landed, since you'd texted him you were in the cab, since you'd texted him you were five minutes away. 

He was wearing his grey sweatpants and an oversized black t-shirt and his hair was messy and he looked like he hadn't slept in a week, and the look on his face when he saw you—

It was hunger. Pure, unfiltered, desperate hunger.

And you looked so fucking good. That was the thing. You knew you did. You'd changed at the airport, into the tiniest denim shorts you owned, the ones that barely covered the bottom curve of your ass, the ones that rode up when you walked. A white tank top, thin enough that the outline of your bikini top was visible underneath, thin enough that if you took that off there would be nothing between your nipples and the fabric but air. Your skin was tanned and glowing and you smelled like coconut and sunlight and he was on you before you even set your suitcase down.

"I missed you," he breathed against your mouth, and then he was kissing you, hands everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding down to grip your ass through those ridiculous shorts, and he was already hard. You could feel him against your thigh, thick and hot, and he was pressing into you like he couldn't help it, like his body was moving on autopilot, chasing contact.

"I missed you too, baby," you murmured against his lips, and you felt him shiver at the endearment. Your hands came up to card through his hair, and you tugged, just a gentle pull, just enough to tilt his head back, and his breath caught audibly. A small, broken sound that went straight between your legs.

Heeseung, your boyfriend, your pathetic, beautiful, desperate boy, was already trembling.

"Let me—can I—" He couldn't finish a sentence. His hands were shaking where they gripped your waist. He was looking at you with those big, dark eyes, pupils blown so wide the brown was barely visible, and there was a flush creeping up his neck, staining his cheeks pink. "Please. I need—it's been a week and I can't—"

"Can't what?" you asked, and your voice was low and teasing, a dangerous lilt that made his cock twitch. You knew exactly what he couldn't do. You wanted to hear him say it.

"I can't think about anything except you," he said, and his voice cracked on the word you, cracked like he was about to cry, and god, that did something to you. "I've been—I've been so hard, all week, and my hand isn't enough, and I keep coming but it doesn't help, and I—"

"Shh," you said, and you pressed your thumb to his lower lip, and his mouth fell open instantly, pliant and willing, and his tongue darted out to wet the pad of your thumb and you felt a pulse of heat between your thighs. "I'm here now. I'm going to take care of you, okay?"

He nodded frantically, your thumb still on his lips, and he looked so pretty like this — desperate and flushed and hanging on your every word.

You pulled his hair again, harder this time, and he moaned. Actually moaned, loud and shameless, head tipping back to expose the long line of his throat, and you took the opportunity to bite his neck, not gently, not a love bite, a real bite, teeth sinking into the muscle, and he bucked against you with a sound that was dangerously close to a whimper.

"Bedroom," you said. 

Heeseung was on the bed before you finished the word, sitting on the edge, looking up at you with those wide, eager eyes, and you stood between his spread legs and looked down at him and felt powerful. You felt powerful alright. This boy, this beautiful, needy, pathetic boy, was literally shaking with want for you, and you'd barely touched him.

You reached down and took off your tank top, slow, dragging it up your body, and his eyes tracked the movement like he was hypnotized. Underneath was the bikini top, teal, the same one from the photo, the one he'd jerked off to four times. Your breasts were spilling out of it, the fabric barely containing them, and he made a sound — not a word, just a noise, like all the air had been punched out of him.

"You like this one?" you asked, running a finger along the edge of the fabric, pushing your breast up slightly. "You seemed to. You watched the story it was in about forty times."

"I—" His voice was raw. "I lost count."

"Take off your shirt."

He ripped it off so fast the seams made a sound, and his chest was heaving, skin flushed pink from his collarbones to his stomach, and you could see the tent in his sweatpants, could see the dark spot of precum soaking through the grey fabric. He was leaking. Just from this. Just from you standing in front of him in a bikini top.

"You're already making a mess," you observed, and you reached down and ran a single finger along the length of his cock through his pants, feather-light, and he jerked like he'd been electrocuted. His hips chased your hand the moment you pulled away, thrusting up into empty air, and he let out a whine that was so pitiful, so utterly desperate, that you felt your own arousal pulse, hot and slick, between your legs.

"Please touch me," he begged. "Please, I need—"

"In a minute." You unbuttoned your shorts and shimmied them down your legs, and underneath were the black panties. The ones from the mirror photo. The see-through ones. And he was staring at them like he was having a religious experience, mouth open, breath ragged, and you could see his cock twitch in his pants, could see another pulse of precum darken the fabric.

"Remember these?" You turned around slowly, letting him see the back, the sheer fabric clinging to the curve of your ass, the lace trim riding up just slightly, and you looked over your shoulder at him and bit your lip. "You came so hard to this picture. I heard the voicemail, baby. You sounded so pathetic. So needy. Were you that desperate for me?"

"Yes," he choked out. "Yes, I was—I am—please—"

You turned back around and stepped closer, close enough that if he leaned forward his face would be inches from your body, and you reached behind yourself and unclasped the bikini top. It fell away, and your breasts were bare, nipples hard from the cool air and from the way he was looking at you, like he was starving and you were the first meal he'd seen in a week.

He lunged forward, mouth open, aiming for your breast, and you grabbed his hair and pulled him back.

"Did I say you could touch?"

The sound he made was devastating. A sob, cut off halfway, and his eyes were wet, actually wet, glassy with unshed tears, and his lower lip was trembling, and he looked so wrecked, so utterly desperate, that for a moment you almost caved. Almost. But you wanted to draw this out. You wanted to make it good.

"Tell me what you want," you said.

"I want—I want to taste you." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I want to put my mouth on you. I want—gosh, I want to eat you out so bad, I've been thinking about it all week, thinking about how you'd sound, how you'd feel on my tongue, and I—"

"Then do it."

He didn't need to be told twice. 

His hands grabbed your hips and he pulled you forward and pressed his face between your legs, mouth against your pussy through the sheer fabric of your panties, and you felt the heat of his breath, the desperate slide of his tongue against the wet material. He was moaning into you, actual moans, vibrating against your clit, and the fabric was getting wetter, your wetness, his saliva, the barrier between his tongue and you becoming translucent with moisture.

"Take them off," you said, breathless, and he hooked his fingers in the waistband and dragged them down so fast the lace scratched against your thighs, and then his mouth was on you, bare, and—

Fuck. 

He was good at this. He'd always been good at this, enthusiastic and sloppy and absolutely relentless, but today, after a week of wanting, a week of desperate late-night phone calls and photos and voicemails, he ate you out like he was dying. His tongue was everywhere, broad strokes through your folds, pointed flicks against your clit, and then he sucked your clit into his mouth and you gasped and your hand flew to his hair and pulled and he whimpered against you, the vibration making your knees buckle.

"Shit, baby—"

He looked up at you from between your thighs, lips swollen and glistening, chin wet, eyes glassy and pleading, and he didn't stop, he kept licking, kept sucking, kept making those small, desperate sounds against your body, and you could feel his hips rutting against the edge of the mattress, grinding against nothing, chasing friction because he was so turned on he couldn't help it.

You pushed him back, and he made a sound of protest, raw and bereft, but you were climbing onto the bed, straddling his face, and then you lowered yourself onto his mouth and he grabbed your thighs and held you there and devoured you. 

His tongue was inside you, then on your clit, then inside again, and he was making sounds like he was the one being eaten out, little muffled whimpers and moans, and you were grinding against his face, chasing the pleasure, and you felt it building, that tight coil in your abdomen, and—

"I'm going—fuck, baby, I’m going to come on your face," you told him, and he doubled his efforts, tongue working your clit in fast, tight circles, and you came with a cry, thighs clamping around his head, body arching, and he kept going, kept licking you through it, kept moaning like your orgasm was his own, and when you finally pulled away, shaking, he was gasping for air and his chin was drenched and he was looking up at you with absolute, total devotion.

"Good boy," you murmured, and he shuddered. Actually shuddered, full-body, and you felt his cock jerk where it pressed against your thigh through his sweatpants. "You made me feel so good. You always do."

"Please," he whispered, and a tear rolled down his cheek. Just one, sliding from the corner of his eye, and he didn't seem to notice it. "Please, I need—I need to be inside you, I need—"

"Not yet." You climbed off his face and positioned yourself beside him, and you reached down and palmed his cock through his sweatpants, and he arched off the bed with a strangled cry. The fabric was soaked. Not just damp, soaked, a huge dark patch of precum, and you could feel how hard he was, how thick and hot and desperate, and you squeezed gently and his entire body seized.

"You're so wet," you said, rubbing your palm over the head through the fabric, spreading the moisture, and he was twitching uncontrollably, hips jerking up into your hand. "You've been leaking all day, haven't you? Just thinking about me coming home?"

"All week," he corrected, voice breaking. "All week, I've been—"

"Take this off."

He shoved his sweatpants down, kicked them off, and his cock sprang free, flushed dark, the head an angry red, slick with precum that was dripping down the shaft in a steady stream. He was so hard, veins prominent, twitching in the open air, and you wrapped your hand around the base and his whole body spasmed.

"Ah—fuck, fuck—"

You stroked him once, slow, from base to tip, spreading his precum, and his head fell back against the pillows and his mouth fell open and the sound that came out of him was barely human. You stroked him again, and he was already close, you could tell, his thighs trembling, stomach clenching, and you tightened your grip just slightly and twisted on the upstroke and he screamed.

Not a moan. A scream. Raw and desperate and overwhelmed, and his hips were bucking up into your fist, chasing the sensation, and you could feel him throbbing in your hand, getting close, getting—

You let go.

He sobbed. Actually sobbed, chest heaving, cock bobbing in the air, flushed and leaking and so close to the edge that a single touch would have sent him over, and tears were streaming down his face now, not just one but two wet tracks down his cheeks, and he was looking at you with the most destroyed expression you'd ever seen on another human being.

"Why—" his voice cracked, shattered, "why did you stop—"

"Because I want to do something else first." You shifted, repositioned, and you wrapped your hand around him again and leaned down and took the head of his cock into your mouth.

The sound he made was not a word. It was not a moan. It was something between a gasp and a wail, and his hands flew to your hair, not pushing, just holding, fingers tangling in the strands, and his whole body was trembling like a live wire. 

You swirled your tongue around the tip, tasting him, and then you sank down, taking him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, and he was falling apart above you.

"Oh god, oh god, oh—your mouth, your mouth feels so—I'm going to—I'm going to come, I can't—"

You pulled off with a slick pop and squeezed the base of his cock, hard, and he yelled, and the orgasm that had been building was throttled, stopped just short of the peak, and he was crying openly now, tears running freely, lower lip caught between his teeth, and the sounds coming out of him were sobs and whimpers and fragmented syllables that might have been your name.

"Please let me come," he begged, and his voice was so raw, so ruined, that you felt a rush of wetness between your own thighs. "Please, I can't—it hurts, I need to come so bad, please—"

"I know, baby," you murmured, and you stroked his hair back from his forehead, gentle now, tender, and he leaned into your touch like a touch-starved animal. "I know it hurts. You've been so good for me. So patient and all. Let me make you feel better."

You reached between your legs with your free hand, you were soaking, absolutely drenched, your fingers sliding through your folds with no resistance, and you touched yourself while you stroked him, and the dual sensation made you both groan. You rubbed your clit in slow circles while you jerked him off, and you were so turned on from watching him fall apart, from the power of having this beautiful, desperate boy at your mercy, that you were already close to another orgasm.

"You want to know a secret?" you asked, voice low and sultry, and he blinked up at you through tear-blurred eyes. "I touched myself thinking about you too. On the trip. In the hotel room. I'd look at the photos you sent—your voice notes, those sounds you made—and I'd fuck myself with my fingers and pretend it was you."

He twitched violently in your hand, and a fresh wave of precum spilled over your fingers.

"I'd come so hard, baby," you continued, squeezing him, stroking faster, your other hand working your own clit in matching rhythm. "But it wasn't enough. My fingers aren't your cock. My fingers aren't you. I needed you just as bad as you needed me."

"I needed you more," he gasped, and it was so pathetic, so utterly heartfelt, that you felt your orgasm crash into you without warning, your body seizing, cunt clenching around nothing, and you moaned loud and long, and the sound of your pleasure pushed him right to the edge again and this time you didn't stop.

You felt the moment he broke. 

His cock pulsed once, twice, and then he was coming, thick ropes of cum spurting over your hand, over his stomach, and he was crying out, sounds, raw and broken and overwhelmed, and his whole body was arching off the bed, and the tears were flowing freely now, mixing with the sweat on his face, and you kept stroking him through it, kept your hand moving, and he kept coming, more than you'd ever seen from him, spurt after spurt, and you realized he was still hard. Still hard and still coming and his body didn't know when to stop because it had been wound so tight for so long that the release was overflowing.

"Stop, stop, it's too much—" he sobbed, and you let go, and he lay there, wrecked, chest heaving, cum splattered across his stomach and your hand, tears on his face, and his cock was still hard, still flushed and twitching, and you knew one orgasm wasn't going to be enough. Not after a week. Not after all that buildup.

"That's one," you said, and you brought your cum-covered hand to your lips and licked a stripe up your palm, tasting him, and his eyes went impossibly wide and his spent cock actually jerked back to full attention. "You've got more in you, don't you?"

He nodded, wordless, still crying, and you thought he'd never looked more beautiful.

You stripped off your panties, the last remaining piece of clothing on your body, and you straddled his waist, and you felt his cum between your bodies, slick and warm against your stomach, and you didn't care. You wanted to be messy. You wanted this to be filthy. You wanted him to remember what it felt like when you finally, finally gave him what he'd been begging for.

"I'm going to ride you now," you told him, and you saw the hope bloom in his eyes, the desperate, grateful hope, and you leaned down and kissed him, properly kissed him, tongue in his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips from when he'd gone down on you, and he kissed back frantically, hands coming up to cup your face, and he was making small sounds into your mouth, little whimpers and sighs, and you could feel his cock pressing against your ass, hot and hard and still leaking.

You reached behind you and positioned him at your entrance, and you sank down, just the tip, just the head, and you both groaned. He was big, you'd forgotten, in a week, just how big, how the stretch of him made your walls flutter and clench, and he was so sensitive from his first orgasm that the mere sensation of your heat around the head of his cock had him whimpering, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.

"More," he gasped. "Please, more—"

You sank down, slow, torturous, and you watched his face as you did, the way his eyes rolled back, the way his jaw dropped, the way his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. When you bottomed out, when he was fully inside you, you paused, and you felt him throbbing, felt every twitch and pulse, and you clenched around him deliberately and he sobbed.

"Don't—please—if you do that, fuck—I'll—"

"You'll what? Come again?" You clenched harder, and he cried out, hands scrabbling at your hips. "That's the point, baby. I want you to come inside me. I want to feel it. I've been thinking about this all week—your cock inside me, filling me up, making me yours again."

More tears fell, and you realized he wasn't crying from sadness or from pain. He was crying from feeling. From the overwhelming intensity of finally, finally having you, finally being inside you, after a week of his own inadequate hand and your cruel, beautiful photos. He was crying because it felt too good to process. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"

You started to move. Slow at first, a grinding roll of your hips that pressed his cock against your front wall, against that spot that made your vision blur, and you braced your hands on his chest and rolled your hips and watched him fall apart beneath you. He was gone. Completely gone. His head was thrown back, throat exposed, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed convulsively, and his hands were on your hips, holding on. Holding on like you were the only solid thing in a world that was spinning too fast.

"Faster," he begged. "Please, faster, harder—"

You obeyed. You lifted your hips and slammed back down, and the sound that rang out was so obscene that he yelled, and you did it again, and again, setting a brutal pace, riding him hard, and the angle was perfect, the pressure on your clit from the base of his dick, the stretch of him inside you, and you were already close again, already feeling that coil tightening.

"Touch me," you commanded, and his hands flew to your breasts, squeezing, thumbs rolling over your nipples, and you moaned and threw your head back and bounced on his cock harder, and he was meeting your thrusts now, hips snapping up to meet you, and the wet slap of your bodies was the filthiest, most beautiful sound in the world.

"You feel so good," he gasped, voice raw and destroyed. "You feel so fucking good, I can't—I'm not going to last—"

"Then don't." You leaned down and bit his earlobe, then whispered against the shell of his ear: "Come inside me. Fill me up. I want to feel it dripping out of me for the rest of the night."

He shattered. His back arched off the bed, his fingers dug bruises into your hips, and he came with a sound that was closer to a scream than a moan, long, drawn-out, broken in the middle by a sob, and you felt it, felt the pulse of his cock inside you, felt the heat of his cum flooding you, and it pushed you over the edge too, your orgasm ripping through you, cunt clenching and fluttering around him, milking every last drop, and you collapsed against his chest and both of you were shaking, trembling, crying — the hell, when had you started crying?

You didn't know, but your bodies were tangled together and it was too much, everything was too much, in the best possible way.

You lay there for a long moment, catching your breath, his cock softening inside you, and you felt the trickle of his cum leaking out around the seal of your bodies, and he was still sniffling, still trembling, and you pressed kisses to his jaw, his cheek, his tear-streaked face, and he turned into your touch like a flower toward the sun.

But this was the thing about Heeseung, you shifted your hips slightly, and you felt it. Still half-hard. Twitching. Recovering. And you knew, with a rush of heat between your legs, that he wasn't done.

Neither were you.

"Baby," you murmured against his ear, and you felt him shiver. "You still want more?"

"I always want more," he whispered, and his voice was wrecked, hoarse from crying and moaning, and the honesty in it made your cunt clench around his half-hard cock and he hissed. "I always want you. It’ll never be enough."

"You’re too greedy, no? How can someone be that greedy," you teased, and you bit your lip and looked down at him through your lashes, and his eyes darkened.

"Only for you."

You lifted your hips and let him slip out. You saw the mess, his cum and yours, smeared across his stomach and yours, and you reached down and ran your fingers through it, and you brought them to his lips, and he opened his mouth without hesitation, sucking your fingers clean, tongue swirling around the digits, and his cock, which had been softening, jerked back to full hardness.

"Dirty boy," you murmured, and he flushed darker, and you saw the conflict on his face, shame and arousal warring behind his eyes, and arousal won, as it always did with him. "You like being dirty for me, don't you?"

"I like being anything for you," he said, and it was the most sincere thing anyone had ever said to you.

You turned around. You positioned yourself on your hands and knees, and you looked over your shoulder at him, and you stuck your tongue out, just a little, just a tease, the way you knew drove him insane, and you wiggled your hips and said: "Then come prove it."

He was behind you in a second. His hands gripped your ass, spreading you open, and you felt his gaze on you, on your pussy, still dripping with his cum, still puffy and flushed from your orgasms, and he groaned, low and hungry, and you felt his cock press against your entrance.

"Wait," you said, and he froze instantly, ever obedient, ever desperate to please. "I want you to eat me out first. Again. I want your tongue inside me again. Then you can fuck me."

He didn't hesitate. His face was between your legs again, tongue sliding through your folds, tasting both of you and he moaned against you like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. His tongue pushed inside you, fucking you with it, and you could feel his cum dripping onto his tongue, and he was swallowing it, swallowing everything, and the obscenity of it had you pushing back against his face, grinding, chasing more.

"Such a good boy," you gasped, and he whimpered into you, and you felt fresh tears, his tears this time, wetting the inside of your thighs as they fell, and the vulnerability of it, the raw submission, had you hurtling toward another orgasm. "My good boy. Only mine. Nobody else gets to see you like this, nobody else gets to have you—"

"Only you," he confirmed against your body, the words muffled by your pussy, vibrating against your clit. "Only you, only you, only—"

You came on his tongue, again, thighs shaking, and he held you up and licked you through it and when you finally pulled away you were boneless and trembling and he was looking at you with those red-rimmed, tear-stained, absolutely wrecked eyes, cock jutting out from his body, hard as steel, and you felt a rush of tenderness so fierce it almost hurt.

"Come here," you said softly, and you turned onto your back and opened your arms, and he crawled up your body and kissed you, and you tasted yourself and him on his tongue, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him into you in one fluid motion.

He sank to the hilt and you both gasped, and this time it was slower, not the frantic, desperate pace of before, but something deeper. He was moving in long, grinding strokes, hitting every sensitive spot inside you, and his forehead was pressed against yours, and you could see his eyes up close, overflowing with feeling, and you cupped his face and brushed the tears away with your thumbs and he turned his head to kiss your palm.

"I love you," he whispered, and his voice broke on love, broke open like he couldn't contain it, and you pulled his hair and he moaned and you bit your lip and he watched your mouth like it was the center of the universe.

"I love you more," you said, and then you tightened your legs around his waist and rolled your hips and he made a sound that was half sob, half moan, and you swallowed it with a kiss.

He fucked you slower but deeper, each thrust deliberate, purposeful, hitting that spot that made your breath catch, and you could feel another orgasm building, your fourth, his third, and this one felt different, bigger, like something immense was gathering at the base of your spine, and you broke the kiss and gasped against his mouth.

"I'm close," you warned, and he nodded, and his pace increased, hips snapping faster, and he was hitting so deep, so perfect, and you were clenching around him, and he was groaning with every thrust, and—

"I'm—I can't—" He was crying again, silent tears streaming, and his face was scrunched up in an expression that was almost pain, almost pleasure, something in between that was too intense to name. "I'm going to—again—"

"Do it," you commanded. "Come with me. Now."

You clenched around him and his mouth fell open in a silent scream, and you felt him pulse inside you, felt the heat of his cum, and that triggered your own orgasm, this one different, deeper, your whole body shaking, cunt clenching rhythmically around him, and you were both crying, both gasping, both clinging to each other like you were the only two people in the world, and he was still thrusting through it, shallow and twitching, and you could feel the overstimulation making him shake, making his breath come in hitches and hiccups, and he collapsed against you, full body weight pressing you into the mattress, and you held him and he sobbed against your neck.

"I'm sorry," he wept, and you could feel his tears hot against your skin. "I can't stop crying, I'm sorry—"

"Don't apologize," you said, and your own voice was thick, wavering. "Don't you dare apologize. That was—you were perfect. You're always perfect."

He lifted his head and looked at you, face blotchy and wet and so, so beautiful, and you kissed his eyelids, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and he smiled, and you felt your heart crack open in your chest.

"You're mine," you told him, and it wasn't a question.

"Yours," he agreed, and he buried his face in your neck and breathed you in, and you felt his cock twitch one last time inside you, and you both laughed, the sound of it echoing off the walls of your shared apartment, your home, the place where you belonged, together, tangled up in each other and the mess you'd made.

Later, much later, after showers and water bottles and the kind of gentle, exploratory touching that was less about arousal and more about reassurance, you lay tangled in bed together, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your shoulder.

"I have a confession," he said quietly.

"More confessions? After all that?"

"I screenshot every photo you sent. Even the ones from your public story. I have a whole album."

You laughed, bright and surprised. "I know. I can see your screenshots."

He groaned, covering his face with his free hand. "Fuck, that's so embarrassing."

"That's so hot," you corrected, and you bit his chest playfully, and he squirmed. "I love that you were that desperate for me. I love that I had you on a chokehold."

"You always have me on a chokehold," he muttered, and there was no heat in it, just fact. Just the simple, unvarnished truth. "You could wear a garbage bag and I'd still be hard for you in three seconds."

"Ew, that's so… disgusting and romantic and I'm going to think about it every time I miss you."

"Don't go anywhere for a while," he said, and his voice was small, and when you looked up at him his eyes were earnest and vulnerable and still slightly red from crying. "Please."

You reached up and stroked his hair, and he melted into the touch, and you pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

"I'm not going anywhere," you promised. "I just got back to you."

He pulled you closer, tighter, like he could fold you into himself and keep you there permanently, and you let him. You let him cling and you clung back, because the truth, the truth that neither of you said out loud but both of you knew, was that the desperation went both ways. You'd sent those photos on purpose, sure, but not just to tease. You'd sent them because you needed him to want you. You needed to feel wanted from five hundred miles away. You needed proof that the ache was mutual.

And it was. God, it was.

"I'm already hard again," he mumbled against your hair, and you felt the evidence pressing against your thigh, and you laughed again, incredulous, fond, so deeply in love it made your chest hurt.

"What a weirdo," you accused.

"Only for you," he said, and it was the second time he'd said it tonight, and you believed it completely.

You rolled on top of him and pinned his wrists to the pillow and leaned down and whispered against his lips: "Then let's go again."

And his eyes lit up, bright, eager, desperate, yours, and he said:

"Please."

⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

标签 : @simsimluver @maishee @grdientlips @yejisair777 @kristynaaah @heesroses @vmpiricou @seungiesdoll @malibluess @stwryun @hooniluhv @rikisn @hazeheart12 @exclipszz @melancholatte @bluepains @gojopolo @jasmineeeee1009 @ming1luvr @ni-k1ttie @enzsstuff01 @ixnotmee @emvss @simjaeyunslut @luvlyjaemin @kikizzz0 @ilovhoonie @starboyhee @prettygirlthings-world @jaesim @luv4dani @perristar @bkatarina @fialtorelle @slutforaz

💿 ࿐ . . i want you around by snoh aalegra

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !

you loved school.

not because you were some overly studious nerd who couldn't get enough of textbooks and homework, but because school felt freeing. it was the only place where your lungs didn’t burn with the suffocating scent of alcohol.

home was different.

you dreaded walking back every afternoon, fingers tightening around your bag as you stood outside the front door, already knowing what waited on the other side.

the smell hit first.

sharp. bitter. stale.

it clung to the walls, the furniture and your clothes like it had permanently seeped into every corner of your life.

you hated it. you hated what caused it even more.

your dad.

ever since your mom died from a brutal car accident, your life had never been the same.

what was once a warm, happy family slowly fell apart piece by piece. your dad changed after her death. at first it was only a drink or two after work, small enough for you to pretend it wasn’t becoming a problem.

but as the days turned into months, and the months into years, his grief only grew heavier.

and so did the drinking.

he drowned himself in alcohol so often that eventually, it felt like he stopped being your father altogether. the man who used to laugh with your mom in the kitchen and drive you to school every morning became nothing more than a stranger passing through the house.

now, you couldn’t even remember the last proper conversation the two of you had without it turning into some sort of argument.

it had probably been almost two years.

you kept your bag slung over one shoulder as you sat in class, staring at your notebook without really seeing it.

you blinked slowly, forcing yourself to write a few words down just so it looked like you were listening.

around you, everyone else seemed more awake than you felt.

moka was somewhere nearby, probably already done copying notes and now quietly kicking your chair just to get your attention.

“psst,” she whispered. “you’re literally spacing out again.”

you turned your head slightly, forcing a small hum of acknowledgment.

“i’m not,” you mumbled.

instead of turning back to her work, she leaned forward a little.

“hey,” she whispered again. “random question.”

“do you think minju likes anyone?” that got your attention.

you glanced at her. “what?”

moka tried (and failed) to look casual.

“nothing. i was just wondering.”

you stared at her for a second, “you like her.”

“shh!” moka immediately hissed, looking around even though nobody was paying attention. “keep your voice down.”

you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips, “wow.”

you let out a quiet laugh.

for the first time all lesson, moka looked more distracted than you did.

the bell eventually came like a relief you didn’t realize you were waiting for.

chairs pushed back, the room filled with noise again, and people started packing up faster than the teacher could even finish speaking.

you moved a little slower, slipping your notebook into your bag while everyone else rushed out.

moka waited for you by the door, rocking back on her heels.

the hallway was crowded, loud with students spilling out of classrooms, lockers slamming shut, voices overlapping everywhere.

you kept your gaze forward, letting moka talk beside you about something random—someone’s drama, a test she barely studied for, a teacher she didn’t like.

you responded here and there, but your answers were short, half there.

at one point, minju passed by with a few friends and moka's sentence immediately cut off.

you watched her eyes follow minju for a second before she quickly looked away.

“you are so obvious,” you said.

“i literally didn't do anything.”

“right.”

“i didn't!”

by the time you reached the school gates, the air outside felt slightly better.

you slowed down without realizing it as you began to focus on what moka had to say.

“come on, y/n!” moka whined, dramatically tugging on your arm as the two of you walked out of school. “it’s been forever, and we’re always hanging out at my place. i wanna go to yours for once too.”

you let out a quiet sigh, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

“maybe another time.”

“that’s what you said last time,” she pouted, narrowing her eyes at you suspiciously. “and the time before that. are you secretly hiding something in your house or something?”

if only she knew.

your grip tightened slightly around your bag. “it’s just messy.”

“messy?” moka scoffed. “y/n, my room literally looks like a tornado hit it every other day. i don’t care.”

you forced out a small laugh, but it sounded weak even to your own ears.

moka slowed her steps, her expression softening almost immediately. “hey,” she said quietly, nudging your shoulder. “you know you can tell me if something’s wrong, right?”

the words made something uncomfortable twist in your chest.

because something was wrong.

something had been wrong for years now.

but no matter how many times moka asked, you could never bring yourself to say it out loud. admitting it would make everything feel too real.

so instead, you smiled. "nothing’s wrong,” you lied.

moka stared at you for a moment longer before sighing dramatically again. “fineee. but one day i’m showing up at your house uninvited.”

your heart nearly stops. "don't do that," you give her a playful smile to cover up the anxiousness that filled your heart.

"there’s a convenience store near your house, right? we can just go there.” she suggests.

you paused for a second. “…okay,” you said quietly.

moka immediately lit up and the two of you started walking. her chatter filling the space as she talked about random things you barely registered. your steps slowed slightly the closer you got to your neighborhood, that familiar weight settling in your chest again.

same streets. same air. same feeling you always tried to escape after school.

moka, however, didn’t notice. she was too busy skipping ahead a few steps, pointing at random things like she always did.

inside the convenience store, everything felt almost normal again.

the soft buzz of the fridge, the quiet beeping at the register, the crinkle of snack bags as you and moka wandered the aisles like you had all the time in the world.

moka had already claimed half the store in her arms again. “this is for later,” she said, dropping a pack of chips into her basket. “and this is for now. and this is just… because i feel like it.”

you shook your head slightly, picking out a drink and tossing it into your own hand-held basket. for a moment, it almost felt easy.

then the door slammed open, the bell above it rang too loudly.

you both paused.

a man stumbled inside, slightly off balance, holding onto the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright. his breath was heavy, his eyes unfocused, and he walked straight to the alcohol section without even looking around.

he grabbed a few cans of beer then stopped at the counter.

the cashier greeted him politely, but the man didn’t respond properly. he just stared for a second too long, like he was trying to understand something that wasn’t making sense.

and then his voice suddenly snapped through the store.

“why are you charging me this much? are you trying to rob me or something?”

you stiffened a bit.

the cashier blinked, clearly startled. “sir, that’s the price—”

“don’t lie to me,” the man barked, slamming the cans down harder than necessary. “you think i don’t know what you people do?”

the entire store felt like it had gone quiet.

a few customers glanced over. someone near the entrance stepped back. moka slowly lowered her basket.

you weren’t looking at the cashier anymore.

you were looking at the man.

and something in your chest tightened, cold and familiar, before you could stop it. the moment you realized who it was, everything in your body went still.

the voice. the posture.

no.

no, no, no.

your basket slipped slightly in your hand.

“y/n?” moka whispered, noticing your sudden change. “hey… what’s wrong?”

you couldn’t answer, your throat felt tight like something had wrapped around it and pulled.

your dad’s voice cut through the store again, louder now, more unsteady.

“what are you staring at?”

he turned and his eyes landed on you.

for a split second, there was nothing there. no recognition, just confusion. then it hit him.

“oh,” he said, voice sharpening instantly. “so you’re here.”

moka frowned, looking between you and him. “wait… you know him?”

you still couldn’t speak.

your dad stepped away from the counter, unsteady but suddenly focused on you in a way that made your skin crawl.

“don’t look at me like that,” he snapped, pointing vaguely. “why are you even out? what, you think you can just—”

his voice rose, drawing attention again.

you took a small step back without realizing it.

your breathing was wrong now. too fast. too shallow. like your body didn’t know how to stay inside itself properly.

moka grabbed your arm, panicked. “y/n, hey—hey, look at me.”

his face twisted as he noticed your reaction.

“oh, don’t start with that,” he barked suddenly, louder. “don’t do that, you guilt tripping bitch.”

his words blurred together after that.

all you could feel was the noise. the store. the breathing. the weight of being seen like this. and moka, beside you, suddenly very, very unsure of what she was watching.

your dad’s eyes stayed on you, unfocused and unsteady, like he was seeing you through something warped.

“stop standing there like that,” he snapped suddenly. “you always do this. you always show up at the worst times and make everything—”

he cut himself off, jaw tightening as he dragged a hand down his face.

“you don’t get it,” he muttered, voice rough, fraying at the edges. “the way you look at me.. it's just like her.”

your chest tightened.

he pointed vaguely in your direction, not even fully steady on his feet.

“i wish i never had you.” he said sharply.

it wasn’t a big sentence but it landed like one.

something in you cracked open, too loud in your head. your vision blurred before you could stop it.

moka said your name again, more urgent this time, but it barely reached you. you took a step back before you ran out of the store. vision blurred which completely blind sighted you.

it didn’t matter, you kept moving anyway.

the park had gone quiet by the time midnight rolled in, leaving only the distant hum of cars and the soft rustle of trees moving in the cold air.

you had stayed there for hours without really meaning to, just sitting through the weight of your thoughts until everything blurred.

eventually, your legs carried you home on their own. the closer you got, the heavier everything felt, the familiar streets and dim streetlights doing nothing to ease the tight feeling in your chest.

when you finally reached your building, you paused in front of the door longer than you should have. for a moment, you just stood there, staring at it, as if waiting for something to change if you delayed it long enough.

but nothing did, so you went inside.

the smell hit you the second you stepped in.

stale alcohol, thick and sour, already filling the air like it had nowhere else to go. it clung to everything instantlu, slipping into your lungs before you even had time to brace yourself for it.

then, slowly, you stepped in and let the door close behind you.

you paused in the doorway for a moment, eyes instinctively moving to the living room, expecting to see your dad like usual—slumped on the couch, tv on, bottle in hand.

but the couch was empty, no tv, no movement, no sign of him at all.

your chest tightened slightly as you stepped inside, realizing pretty quickly what that meant. he wasn’t home. he had gone out again.

you did enjoy these moments when he was out, when the apartment didn’t feel as suffocating and you could move around freely without the fear of running into him.

you made your way to your room, closing the door behind you a little too softly, like even sound felt dangerous tonight.

once you were inside, you sat on the edge of your bed and finally reached for your phone. the screen lit up immediately, a few notifications already waiting for you.

there were multiple messages, all sent not long after you ran out of the store.

where are you?? please answer me im so sorry about him, i didnt know your dad was like that are you okay??

you stared at moka’s messages for a moment longer, your thumb hovering before you finally typed back.

im okay

you didn’t wait for a reply.

instead, you locked your phone and set it aside, like that alone could shut the world out for a while. then you got up and headed to the bathroom, moving on autopilot.

the shower helped a little, but not enough to really fix anything. just enough to blur your thoughts at the edges, to make the day feel slightly farther away than it was before.

when you were done, you changed into something comfortable—an oversized shirt that swallowed your frame, soft shorts, and a pair of socks that made your steps quieter against the floor.

you didn’t feel better.

but at least you felt a little less like you were holding everything together.

you eventually made your way downstairs, more out of habit than hunger, opening the fridge and staring at it for a moment before grabbing whatever was easiest to make.

a classic nutella sandwich.

the quiet of the apartment helped a little while you moved around the kitchen, focused on the small task in front of you.

suddenly, you hear from the front door a soft click, followed by it opening.

your hands froze mid-motion.

for a second you didn’t even breathe, just standing there as the sound of footsteps reached the entryway.

your mind immediately filled in the worst possibility.

him.

without thinking, you crouched down quickly and slid under the kitchen counter, pulling your legs in close and pressing yourself into the small space as quietly as you could.

your heart was already racing.

a heavier sound, like someone struggling slightly with weight, something being shifted carefully rather than dropped or thrown. the kind of sound that made your stomach tighten all over again because it didn’t fit the scenario your brain had already prepared for.

you hesitantly shifted just enough to peek out from your hiding spot.

what you saw made you freeze completely.

a man you didn’t recognize was inside your apartment, steadying your dad’s unconscious body with a firm grip as he guided him toward the couch. your dad looked completely out of it, barely supported, his weight slumped against the stranger’s shoulder.

the man set him down carefully, adjusting his position so he wouldn’t fall off, before straightening up and finally glancing around the room.

that was when you really saw him properly.

he was really good-looking. like genuinely breath taking. sharp jawline, straight nose that gave his face a clean, structured look.

holy shit.

you slowly rose from under the counter, the man hadn’t noticed you yet, his attention still on your dad as he adjusted him slightly on the couch, making sure he was stable.

carefully, you stepped out into the open, each movement slow and hesitant. only when your footsteps lightly brushed against the floor did he pause.

he turned.

his eyes landed on you, and for a brief second his expression shifted—subtle surprise flickering across his face, like he genuinely hadn’t expected anyone else to be there.

his gaze stayed on you for a moment longer before he spoke, voice calm but curious.

“oh? i didn't know he had a daughter.”

of course that fucker wouldn’t have told anyone about you.

you stepped a little closer, your eyes drifting past the stranger to where your father now lay on the couch, completely out of it. the sight made something in your stomach twist. slumped, unresponsive, the reality of it settling in all over again in a way you didn’t want to look at for too long.

you forced your gaze away.

the man noticed the shift in your expression almost immediately. without saying anything else, he turned and started walking toward the kitchen. a silent cue to go with him.

after a brief hesitation, you followed him.

the apartment felt quieter the farther you moved from the living room, like the tension there stayed behind with your father. the kitchen light was softer, warmer somehow, and he leaned slightly against the counter as he waited, glancing at you once you stepped in behind him.

“sorry, should’ve introduced myself,” he said, glancing at you properly. “i’m sunghoon.”

you noticed the way his eyes lingered on your face for a moment, like he was quietly trying to place you in the picture he already had in his head.

“i’m y/n,” you said softly, your voice coming out smaller than you intended.

there was a brief pause after that.

you found yourself looking back at him properly too, the thick brows that gave him a naturally composed look. the moles on his face, one sitting close to the bridge of his nose, another a little lower on his cheek.

he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers for a second before lighting it. the small spark briefly lit his face, then faded as he took a slow drag, his eyes still resting on you like he hadn’t missed a single thing you’d said or done.

the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy in a way you couldn’t quite name.

“sorry about your dad,” he said after a moment, exhaling faintly to the side so the smoke didn’t drift toward you. his tone stayed calm, almost matter-of-fact, but there was something softer underneath it. “i know he’s… not easy to deal with.”

you weren’t sure what to say to that.

“it’s okay… i’m used to it,” you said quietly, lowering your gaze to the floor instead of looking at him.

sunghoon watched you for a moment, his cigarette still between his fingers as he took another slow drag. there was a slight smirk at the corner of his mouth, not mocking, just faintly amused in a way that made him look even more unreadable.

“we were out having drinks and he passed out like usual,” he said casually, exhaling smoke to the side. his eyes never really left you. “normally i wouldn’t see anyone home. this is the first time i’ve seen you.”

his tone made it sound simple, like he was just stating a fact, but the way he looked at you suggested he was taking in more than just the situation. the way his eyes roamed from your face, down to your chest and legs.

was he checking you out?

he tilted his head slightly, cigarette still between his fingers as he held it out a little in your direction, like it was an offer that didn’t require much thought.

“want one?”

your eyes dropped to it for a second before flicking back up to him, “actually, are you even old enough to?” he asked, tone flat but with a hint of amusement under it.

you scoffed under your breath, the smallest bit of defiance slipping through. “i’m 18. of course i can.”

then your gaze dropped again, voice quieter this time.

“i’ve done it before...”

sunghoon didn’t say anything right away.

he studied you for a moment longer, like he was weighing your words instead of just hearing them. then, without much ceremony, he pulled another cigarette from the pack and offered it anyway.

“then take one, little girl,” he said simply.

your heart skips a beat at the nickname. cheeks flushing before you hesitantly grabbed it.

a lighter flicked between his fingers a second later, and soon enough the quiet of your kitchen was filled with that faint, drifting smoke curling into the air between you.

the kitchen stayed quiet, only the faint hum of the fridge and the slow burn of the cigarette filling the space between you.

sunghoon leaned against the counter like he had nowhere else to be, eyes drifting over you for a moment before settling again. not intense, but observant in a way that made it hard to ignore.

you shifted slightly under his gaze, unsure what to say or do with the silence.

a small exhale left him, almost like a quiet laugh.

“not much of a talker, are we?” he said, voice low and calm, like he was commenting on the weather rather than you.

your eyes flicked up to him briefly before dropping again. “i just don’t know what to say.”

that seemed to amuse him a little more. he took another slow drag, watching you through the smoke as if he was figuring you out.

sunghoon’s gaze drifted away from you, slowly scanning the room like he was taking it in properly for the first time instead of just standing in it.

that’s when he stopped and his eyes settled on the wall behind you.

there was an old framed photo hanging slightly off-center, like it had been put there a long time ago and never adjusted since.

you followed his gaze.

it was a picture from years ago, before everything changed. you were thirteen, caught in a moment you barely felt like belonged to you anymore. smiling too brightly, arms wrapped around your mom and dad in a way that looked so easy, so normal, it almost didn’t feel real now.

sunghoon didn’t say anything right away. his expression shifted slightly, something unreadable passing through his eyes as he looked at it longer than expected.

then he glanced back at you, like he was comparing the photo to the person standing in front of him now.

“you look so happy in that,” he said after a pause.

your throat tightened immediately.

“i was,” you said, then quickly added, softer, “i guess.”

the words hung in the air longer than you meant them to. sunghoon’s expression shifted slightly, something quieter settling in his eyes as he looked at you instead of the photo now.

“he's been like this since your mom died?” he asked. “that man always complains and goes on and on about his dead wife, especially moments before he passes out.”

you chuckled lightly, the words hitting a little too close. “yeah,” you managed.

sunghoon glanced back at the photo “he must've loved her a lot.”

the smile on your face faltered.

“i guess.”

a quiet silence settled between you. your fingers tightened slightly at your sides.

“sometimes i think he forgets he still has someone here.”

the words left his mouth so casually that he probably didn't realize what he'd just said. but you felt them.

all at once.

because he was right.

your father talked about your mother constantly. missed your mother constantly. drank because of your mother constantly.

and somewhere along the way, you'd stopped being his daughter and started becoming just another thing in the house.

you let out a shaky breath, looking down because you couldn’t really look at either him or the photo anymore.

you couldn't even give a response back and that alone was enough to make your chest feel worse.

then sunghoon moved closer. he put down the cigarette before his hand lifted slightly, hesitating for a second like he was deciding whether or not to cross that line, before gently resting on your shoulder and pulling you in.

safe in a way you weren’t used to.

you didn’t even realize you were crying until your face pressed into his shoulder, the tears coming out quieter at first before you couldn’t hold them back anymore.

sunghoon didn’t say anything at first. he just stayed there, one hand lightly at your back, the other at the back of your waist, rubbing a small circle with his thumb.

“i'm sorry baby,” he said eventually, low and close enough that only you could hear it.

his words suddenly crash all over you. reminding you of the times of when your father would comfort you like this in his arms.

he exhales once, small, like he’s pulling himself back.

“it must be hard,” he says. you nod faintly, but don’t move away.

you cried pathetically into his shoulder as he embraced you even tighter, before pulling his head back.

“how about we go to your room?” he said quietly. “we wouldn’t want your father waking up and seeing you like this.”

you blinked, still trying to steady your breathing, and gave a slow nod.

sunghoon knows he shouldn't.

especially not with one of his friends daughter.

he knows he shouldn't be doing this, yet he can't help but continue placing small hickeys across your neck, spreading them down till your collarbone.

youre resting on top of his lap, hands cramped up against his chest as you nervously grasp onto his shirt, feeling confused how you even ended up here.

"i- i don't know if we should be d-doing this..." your voice shakes as he licks over one of the many spots he marked on you.

he chuckles at your words, "shh.. baby, let daddy take care of you alright?"

his hands grip firmly at your waist before he goes back in for another kiss. it's gentle and slow, almost like as if he's savouring the taste of your lips.

you try matching back the rhythm and movement of his lips, but fail miserably as you accidentally bite too hard on your own tongue. you wince lightly from the pain as sunghoon pulls back and smirks at you.

"poor bunny doesn't know how to kiss?" he smirks, almost mocking you for not knowing how to.

you bite your lip, attempting to hide the embarrassment spreading across your face. sunghoon notices and brings his thumb to your lip.

"don't worry my little girl, daddy'll teach you everything."

fuck, his words. the way he comforted you. the way he held you. why was it enough build up the wetness between your legs now?

before you can react, his mouth is on yours again. it's soft, slow and warm, "don't overthink it, just follow my lips," he mumbles against your mouth.

you start to follow the movement of his lips, your hands roaming towards the nape of his neck as he deepens the kiss. his mouth opens slightly as he slowly brings his tongue inside your mouth, meeting yours.

you quiver slightly, unsure of what to do but when sunghoon slides his tongue against yours, your tongue is able to naturally follow his. the kiss had gotten so heated, so wet and sloppy.

as the kiss continued, you felt his growing erection form harder beneath you. in the desperate state you were in, your body instinctively grinded forward on its own, earning a groan from sunghoon.

sunghoon pulls back from the kiss and looks at you. your eyes were hazy, almost like as if you were hallucinated from the kiss.

"keep doing that f'me, you wanna feel good yeah?" you nod your head at his words.

at his orders you continue to grind your clothed core against the large bulge in his pants. your whimper at the friction as you hold onto his arms to balance yourself.

"fuck.. you're doing so well for me," he groans at the pleasure.

his hand suddenly comes to grip your jaw, forcing your mouth open. "stick out your tongue," you're confused but you do as he says, slowly sticking it out. he spits in your mouth, letting it slowly drip until it reaches your tongue.

sunghoon smirks at the sigh infront of him, you with your tongue out thats all covered in his spit, "swallow it all f'me, get a good taste."

without hesitation, you swallow. sunghoon nods his head in approval before his hips continue to move against yours again. his pace is faster now as youre both desperately grinding against each other for release.

"f-fuck.. feels so good.." you moan out as you grip his arms even tighter now.

suddenly, sunghoon grips your shoulders and pushes you back down onto the bed, hovering on top of you. "you look so pretty baby," he leaves a peck to your lips before slowly trailing down from your jaw to your neck, "have you ever done anything like this before?"

when you shake your head, sunghoon gives you a sly smile. "my bunny is still a virgin huh? how cute."

sunghoon doesn't waste time to lift your shirt up, exposing the cute pink bra you wore underneath. he brings his face closer to your clothed chest, placing a kiss right in the middle of your breasts.

he then lifts your bra up aswell, your breasts finally exposed as the cold air hits your skin. your nipples slightly harden at the sudden temperature drop.

sunghoon licks his lips before attaching his mouth to one your nipples, flicking his tongue over it. you gasp at the warmth of his mouth on your chest as you hold onto the bedsheets.

his hands trail from your shoulders down to your thighs, massaging them slowly before his hand makes its way over to your clothed core.

you're absolutely soaked through your shorts, sunghoon smirks at the feeling of your wetness before slowly rubbing your clit through the soaked fabric.

"fuck baby.. you're so wet, all this for me?" he coos at you as you nod your head while gasping at the pleasure his fingers are offering you.

sunghoon grabs onto the hem of your shorts, tugging them once before pulling them down along with your underwear, leaving you completely bare underneath him.

he curses under his breath at the sight of you. you're so undeniably innocent yet so sexy, he can't believe his friend was able to create someone like you.

your legs close together as you feel the embarrassment of being nude hit you. sunghoon notices and forces them apart again, "keep 'em open for me,"

sunghoon doesn't wait any longer before removing his clothing too. he first removes his shirt, revealing his slightly toned abs and biceps which he catches you staring at before smirking to himself.

his hands grip onto the sides of his pants before he pulls them down just below his boxers, his bulge being even more prominent now. his thumbs tug inside his boxers before he slides them down too just half way, revealing his thick cock which was already leaking precum.

your mouth dropped slightly. you were shocked or more should you say... scared? nervous? he was huge. even his tip seemed like it'd be painful enough for you.

sunghoon noticed the nervousness on your face and chuckled, "aw, is my little girl scared? 's okay, daddy's cock will make you feel reaaal good." he says before he leans down and places a kiss on your forehead.

your heart beats like crazy as the wetness continues to pool up underneath you. sunghoon's hands make way to your clit, rubbing it gently in circles.

you grind against his hand, desperate for more. sunghoon only continues to keep slowly rubbing your clit, not giving you the full attention your body craves.

“p-please…” you whispered, the word barely making it past the lump in your throat.

“please what?” he asked quietly.

"your f-fingers.. nghh.. please!" you cry out. sunghoon smirks at the way you beg for it.

"since my bunny's been so good, she deserves it." he whispers loud enough that you can hear it.

his fingers go down to your hole, which was already oozing out the slick and wetness that has been building up for the past 30 minutes since he's been in your room.

he slowly circles over your hole before pushing a finger in slowly. you let out a pleasured moan at the feeling, your body immediately feeling the heat of his fingers.

he starts thrusting his finger in and out slowly, the wetness coating his finger as you moan at the sensation. you continue to grind forward, still desperate for more.

"you know if you want more, you're gonna have to earn for it." he murmured before tapping his cock against your thigh, signaling for what you should do.

you look up at him nervously before looking down at his huge cock, the precum already leaking out. before your hand can fully reach out, sunghoon grabs your wrist with his free hand before spitting onto your palm.

with his spit all over your palm, you sit up slightly as your hand spreads the wetness of his saliva all over his cock before slowly rubbing his tip against the palm of your hand.

sunghoon hisses at the feeling, "fuck, keep doing that baby," he groans before adding a second finger into your cunt, earning a loud moan from you.

and before you both know it, you're both now like two animals in heat desperate to get each other off. you stroke sunghoon's cock at a medium pace, taking in whatever you can as sunghoon keeps fingering you at a faster speed.

"ngh.. shit if you keep doing that.. 'm gonna cum," sunghoon groans loudly.

you bite your lip as you continue to stroke his cock faster, a desperate attempt to match the speed in which he was fingering you at. he was relentless, abusing your little cunt like it didn't matter.

"feel's weird.. i think 'm gonna pee! s-sunghoon stop!" you whimper loudly, the heat in your stomach continuing to boil up. "then do it baby. do it all over me." he demands.

and with that, you cum. more like you squirt, all over him. your legs tremble as your orgasm hits you, your grip on sunghoons cock getting slightly loose but just enough for him to reach his climax and start shooting his cum all over your stomach.

"fuck.. was that your first time squirting bunny?" he questions, looking at the sight beneath him in awe before looking back up at you, seeing you nod your head in fluster.

gosh, you're really going to kill him.

he can't wait to ruin you.

without hesitation, sunghoon pushes you back down again, making you flat against your bed as he spreads open your legs again.

you look down and see that he's still hard. fuck, his sex drive is insane.

he grabs the base of his cock, positioning himself perfectly as he starts to slide his cock up and down your wet cunt, holding onto your thighs for support.

you let out a moan, your cunt still sensitive from your previous orgasm but the pleasure overtakes the sensitivity. he continues to grind against your cunt until he pulls back, slapping his cock against your clit.

"'s not gonna fit.. way too big.." you bite your lip in nervousness as sunghoon lets out a smug smile.

"shhh, daddy'll make it fit. just hold on f'me my little girl," he mumbles into your ear.

he slowly starts pushing the tip in, the pain immediately hitting you, "'s so painful.. daddy it hurts.." you whimper out in pain as your eyes begin to tear up, the nickname coming from your lips too naturally.

sunghoon could cum from your words just now, but it only encourages him to keep going as he continues to push himself in further, filling you up nice and slowly.

sunghoon leans down to kiss you as you whine against his lips, as he finally pushes himself all the way in, having you fully filled up with him now, "fuck, you're so tight. daddy's gonna fuck your little cunnie so good."

you squirm as he starts thrusting into your cunt, his cock ramming in and out you as the sound of your wet cunt and his sloppy thrusts echo throughout your room.

you're so sure that you're moaning loud enough that it could even wake up your dad, but you didn't even care anymore as the pain quickly turned into pleasure as sunghoon was balls deep in you.

"fuuuuck... so good, your pussy is clenching around me. you really love daddy's cock hm?" he almost mocks you but sees as you desperately nod your head.

"yes.. yes! fuck yes 'm loving daddy's cock so much! want m-more!" you whine loudly, drool spilling out of your lips as pleasure overtakes you.

sunghoon continues to quicken his pace, ramming his cock in and out you so deeply as he brings his hand to your stomach and presses down. you could've sworn you almost saw stars at that.

"d-daddy fuck..! nghh... 'm gonna cum.." you whimper.

sunghoon bites your earlobe, "mm, cum for daddy. let it all out," he whispers into your ear.

and with that, you come undone. you grip onto the bedsheets tightly and your legs shake violently as you cum all over his cock, your vision turning white for a few seconds as the orgasm hits you hard.

sunghoon chuckles at how hard you came, slowing down his thrusts to let you ride out your orgasm. your grip slowly loosens on your bedsheets as your breathing starts to slow down and become more calm.

suddenly, sunghoon starts to continue his relentless thrusting,"i still haven't came yet, gonna abuse and use up your lil cunnie." he groans as he quickens up his pace.

the dirty wet sounds of your intimate areas meeting each other fill up the room. one of his hands hold onto your hip as the other goes up to your breast, grabbing and squeezing it as he watches the way they bounce with each thrust.

sunghoon can finally feel the heat in his stomach brew up, "shit, 'm gonna cum inside this pussy," he groans before he quickly grabs his phone and starts to record.

his angles it just right to show how his cock thrusts into you just right while also showing how perfectly your breasts bounce with your mouth open from the pleasure.

sunghoon groans loudly as his orgasm hits him, his cum immediately filling you up. gosh you feel so thick and filled. sunghoon brings down the camera, showing a close up of his cock inside you before pulling out.

as he pulls out, he records how his cum mixed with your wetness oozes out of your hole. he smirks at the sight, bringing the camera up to show the cum over your stomach and then your dazed face as you breathe heavily.

he grabs your face making you look at the camera, "who does this little cunt belong to?" he demands an answer, placing a gentle slap to your clit as you let out a yelp before answering, "y-yours!"

he smirks before rubbing your thigh to soothe out the pain, "yeah? you belong to daddy now. i'll treat you so good, my little girl."

he ends the video before putting his phone back into his pocket. he falls onto the side next to you, wrapping his arms around you as he rubs your back gently.

your face stayed buried against his chest, his presence warm and grounding in a way you didn’t realize you needed until now.

“you did so well my bunny,” he murmured softly after a moment. “i’m so proud of you.”

his voice was quiet, almost like he didn’t want to break the moment. you held onto him a little tighter at his words, your breath uneven.

“don’t leave me… please,” you said, barely above a whisper.

he went still for a second, then shifted just enough to look down at you.

his hand came up to gently hold your cheek, thumb brushing lightly as he steadied you.

“i’m not going anywhere,” he said softly.

and after a pause, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, a silent reassurance.

you stayed there for a moment longer, holding onto him like you were afraid the feeling might disappear if you let go too soon.

jake: dude shes fucking gorgeous jay: holy shit, there's no way thats his daughter. im so jealous. heeseung: I wanna use her up too. Not fair Sunghoon.

sunghoon smirks at his friends messages. of course he had to send it to the groupchat (which obviously did not include your dad).

the video of which his cum dripped out of your pussy and where you said that you belonged to sunghoon was enough to drive him and all of his friends crazy (and get all of them hard).

sunghoon: she's totally innocent too, her pussy was so tight. jay: sounds like heaven. jake: this isnt fair howd you find this angel wtf?? heeseung: Lets pass her around, she'd probably enjoy that. jay: we can tell. jake: shes definitely secretly a slut who likes older men. jake: cmon hoon.

sunghoon chuckles at his phone.

sunghoon: maybe.

@evanificais do not steal or recreate.

authors note: hii :3 first ever fic, hope y'all enjoy. not proofread cus i physically cannot read my own work but i hope theres not too many mistakes. if i missed any warnings pls lmk!

his arm snakes around your waist from behind. you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, notes and textbooks scattered around the foldable table, but sunghoon—who’s leaning against the edge of the bed—has clearly run out of patience and things to do.

you let out a small surprised sound as he pulls you backwards, settling you between his legs, back meets his chest, and your head naturally tilts up toward him.

“don’t—” you start, trying to keep your focus on the open laptop in front of you. “i need to study.”

he doesn’t listen, nor care really. instead, sunghoon’s slender fingers slide along your jaw, turning your face toward him with that determination when he wants something from you. and this something is your lips. 

“just one,” he murmurs, mouth already hovering close. “please?”

you turn your head away at the very last second, lips pressing into a line. “no. i have a test tomorrow—”

sunghoon follows. his hand cups your cheek, guiding your face back to him. the moment your lips are within reach, he presses a soft, lingering kiss to them, slow and sweet like he’s just beginning to melt.

you pull back slightly, whining, “sunghoon, i’ve got a test—”

but he’s already tilting your head the other way, chasing your mouth with his own. another kiss, a little deeper this time, his lips moving against yours. when you try to pull and turn away again, het lets out a soft, pleading sound against your lips. 

“please, baby, just a little more,” he whispers, voice sweet and saccharine. his thumb strokes your cheek as he angles your face toward him once more. “your lips are so pretty when you’re focused…” 

his thumb then lightly presses and tugs on the plump centre of your lips. “it’s so pouty…”

you frown and squirm half–hearteedly in his hold, giggling despite yourself as he keeps stealing kiss after kiss—each one slowly and more consuming than the last. every time you mutter “nooo”, or try to look away from him, he simply nudges your chin back and captures your lips again.

more persistent. more greedy. more annoying. 

“babe—” you try one last time, but it just comes out breathy, whiny, and weak against his mouth. 

your boyfriend hums softly, super satisfied, and kisses you even deeper, one hand cradling your face while the other keeps you pressed against his chest. he takes your bottom lip between his, tugging it gently before soothing it with a slow swipe of his tongue. 

“mmhm,” sunghoom hums, sucking your top lip and just lost in the feeling overall. every kiss is so deliberate and unhurried and felt, but so persistent that you’re melting nonetheless whether you want to or not. 

he barely gives you room to breathe, and it’s not helping with the awkwardness of the position you’re in—twisted around with your back against his chest, neck craned. but he doesn’t seem to notice; and if he does, he doesn’t seem to care. your boyfriend just keeps turning your head with his hand so he can kiss you from every angle he wants, smiling against your lips every time they part a little more for him. 

“so soft,” he murmurs between kisses, voice hazy and low. 

his fingers squish your cheeks together, making your lips pout. he starts peppering tiny, greedy pecks all over them—soft, repeated little kisses on the plump centre, then the corners, then back to the middle again like he can’t decide which part tastes better.

you let out a muffled whine. 

sunghoon cuts you off by pressing a firmer, deeper kiss right in the centre of your squished lips, feeling them yield underneath. he doesn’t let go of your cheeks, keeping them pinched while he indulges—sucking, then the top one, savouring the plush. 

“you’re so perfect,” he whispers before tilting your head further to the side, capturing your mouth fully, slow and so deep, completely lost. 

he’s so irritating. 

——

a kiss is a sex. 

sunghoon doesn’t just love kissing during sex—he pretty much can’t get hard without it. or he gets hard every time you guys kiss? it’s not foreplay, nor is it an add on. he cannot fathom how some people don’t devour each others’ lips during sex.

making out is the main event most of the time. 

the nights where you both start with the intention of going further, clothes already scattered on the floor, his body hovering over yours, hard and ready… and you’re so fucking desperate your pussy keeps spasming over fucking nothing… 

but then his lips find yours and everything slows down except the hardness in his cock. he gets so lost, completely. 

like right now.

sunghoon’s got you underneath him, thighs spread around his hips, skin hot and flushed and sweaty. you can feel how hard he is, his cock pressed against you and it twitches every time you shift. 

“can’t—can’t take it anymore, hoonie… need you inside m—” 

your boyfriend cuts you off by slamming his lips against yours instead of pushing inside and fucking you feral. 

and there goes everything.

he tilts his head, slotting your mouths together perfectly, sucking on your bottom lip before sliding his tongue against yours in sensual strokes. every time you try to pull back for air, he just chases over—whining into your mouth. 

“where you going?” he whines, grinding his cock between your pussy lips. “just kiss me—c’mon.”

it’s so fucking annoying how his hips roll so nicely, his cock between the wetness of your cunt and sometimes the tip dips in—but he never actually thrusts in. sunghoon’s too busy indulging your mouth—licking and biting.

instead of the wet sex, thrusting, pounding sounds, the room is filled with messy and obscene wet kisses. 

you moan into his mouth when he angles his head and kisses you even deeper, tongue exploring every corner and crevices of your domain. his thumb strokes your cheeks while he keeps your face right where he wants it, completely taking control of the kiss as usual.

“shit, shit, shit,” he moans, grinding his cock faster against your soaked pussy—hot, heavy, throbbing—and kisses you just as much. 

not for a single second does he pull away. his mouth stays glued to yours, every grind makes you both whimper. sunghoon plays with your tongue like he’s making love to it—curling around yours, sucking on it, then licking it flat and messy. 

gosh, he’s even fucking licking your teeth like it’s toothbrush, or something.  

sunghoon pulls back just enough to let a thin string of spit corner your lips, then dives back in, pushing his tongue against yours. this time, sloppier on purpose. sunghoon mixes his spit with yours under it’s dripping down your chin before catching it with his tongue then feeds it back to you in an open–mouthed kiss. 

“so wet,” he pants like a dog in a heat. “your mouth, pussy—everything’s so fucking soft for me.”

you’re both a mess. spit on your chin and chest. his hips that just rolls in that desperate rhythm he’s not doing anything to fix, rubbing his cock against your clit, but still not slipping inside. he’s too addicted to your mouth, 

this is sex for him. 

sunghoon pulls back for half a second, eyes hazy and you swear his pupils dilate by many when he stares down at you. momentarily, you thought you’re finally getting pounded—but then he spits directly onto your tongue—a blob of warm saliva pooling on the flat of your tongue—before he kisses you again.

there have been nights when he spends hours just making out and being naked with you and sunghoon cums just from that. shoots up those precious semen that should’ve been inside you on your tummy. 

your boyfriend is so pathetic and annoying he cums from kissing alone. from the way you whimper into his mouth when he sucks on your tongue. from how swollen and shiny your lips get. 

this is one of those nights that don’t even go further than this. 

because to sunghoon, a kiss isn’t just a kiss.

it’s sex. 

——

“...what did you do?”

you’re staring at the mountain on the bed—all from that expensive brands you mentioned once in passing. sunghoon stands behind you with his arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder, looking way too pleased. 

“i bought you stuff baby,” he smiles, pressing a kiss on the slope of your shoulder. then, he presses his cheek against yours, lips not failing to brush your skin. “...try ons?” he says innocently, but the mischievous glint in his eyes says otherwise. 

sunghoon bought you more lip products than lingeries or toys. glosses in every shade and flavour—sheer pinks, shiny nudes, tinted reds, glittery ones, plumping ones. stacks of lip oils, balms, liners, liquid lipstick, satin, powdery—it’s endless. 

“hoonie,” you laugh, half–amused, half–shocked. “this is too much. you just bought me some few weeks back, and i don’t even wear lip gloss that often—”

“but you will now,” he murmurs, already pulling you forward with him. he picks up a shiny pink gloss and uncaps it, eyes locked on your mouth. 

“try this one first.” 

you barely have time to protest before he holds your chin and applies the gloss on for you. his gaze is so focused on every glide of the wand across your lips. when he’s done, he admires how glossy and pouty they look.

“gosh,” he murmurs, feeling the throb beneath his sweats. 

sunghoon presses his lips against your newly glossed ones, smearing the shin between you. it starts soft—but sunghoon being sunghoon—he quickly gets greedy. he kisses you deeper, tongue swiping across your bottom lip to taste the sweet goods.

“mmm… strawberry,” he murmurs, then goes back in for a confirmation and more. he sucks lightly on your bottom lip, licking the gloss, only to kiss so the shine transfers to his own lips. 

you pull back a little, giggling. “you bought all this just so you could kiss it off me, didn’t you?”

your boyfriend doesn’t deny it. instead, he picks up another tube—a cherry red one this time—and grins that pretty, naughty smile.

“obviously. be good and try the next one for me, baby.”

sunghoon plans on spending the entire night applying, admiring, and then thoroughly kissing every single shade off until your lips are swollen and shiny with his spit because sunghoon believes nothing—nothing looks better on you but him. 

buying you all these glosses aren’t just a gift for you—it’s an investment for him. 

The setup was the same as always. Blanket split unevenly between the two of you—his fault, it’s always his fault—your legs tucked underneath you, his stretched out across the coffee table like he owned the place. Which, at this point, was basically true. Sunghoon had a key. He knew where the good snacks were hidden. He’d argued with you about your IKEA furniture assembly and been right about it. If that didn’t make someone a co-owner, nothing did.

“This movie is not scary,” he said flatly, reaching into the popcorn bowl on your lap without looking away from the screen.

“I never said it was scary. I said it was disturbing. There’s a difference.”

“Well it’s neither.”

“A man is making a suit out of human skin, Sunghoon.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

You looked at him. “Where?”

He paused. “Nature documentaries.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and something shifted in his expression. Barely anything, just the faintest softening in the corner of his eyes. It was so quick you almost missed it. Almost.

That was the thing about Park Sunghoon. On the outside, he was the picture of composure. Unhurried. Unbothered. The kind of person who could be late to his own birthday party and somehow make everyone else feel like they’d arrived too early. He was like that in class, too. Front row, never frantic, taking notes in that annoyingly neat handwriting of his while everyone around him was three lectures behind and quietly spiraling.

You had met him in your first year, in a mandatory elective neither of you wanted to be in. He’d sat next to you because it was the only seat left, and when the professor had asked everyone to introduce themselves to the person beside them, he had looked at you and said—very seriously—"How fast do you think we could get through this syllabus if we actually tried?”

You had been best friends ever since.

It made sense, in the way that certain things just did. You moved at the same pace. You thought the same things were funny. You could sit in silence for hours and it never felt like anything needed to be filled. He was the person you called when something went wrong and also when something went right. Somewhere along the way those two categories had quietly expanded to include everything in between.

Which was fine. Completely fine. You were not in love with your best friend.

You were almost certain.

On screen, Clarice was walking into the dark. You shifted on the couch, tugging the blanket back toward your side, and Sunghoon let you without comment. This meant he wasn’t paying attention. You glanced over at him.

He was looking at the TV, jaw resting on his hand, expression perfectly neutral. His hair was a little messy—he had come straight from practice, changed into a hoodie in your bathroom, and left his back by the door like he always did. There was something easy about having him here. Something that had started feeling dangerously close to necessary.

You looked back at the screen.

That was when it happened.

No warning. No build-up. No cinematic crack of lightning or sudden ringing in your ears. One moment there was the sound of Clarice's heavy breathing, the low ambient noise of your apartment, the rustle of the blanket—

And then there was a voice.

She always laughs like that when she’s actually surprised. Like she tried to hold it in and lost.

You froze.

The voice was his. Not out loud. His mouth hadn’t moved, you looked right at him. But it was unmistakably Sunghoon’s voice, low and even, like he was narrating a novel.

You didn’t move.

She’s been using the same shampoo since second year. I don’t know why I know that.

Your heart stopped. You turned very slowly to look at him. He was still watching the movie. Completely still, completely unaware. The popcorn bowl was between you and he reached into it again without looking and his arm brushed yours and—

Don’t make it weird. Don’t make it weird. You’re fine. She’s just… A pause. She’s right there.

You stared at him, but he didn’t stare back. He watched Anthony Hopkins monologue as if absolutely nothing was happening, as if his internal voice had not just short-circuited your entire brain, and you sat there in the blue light of your TV thinking: what the fuck.

You didn’t sleep well that night. 

Not because of the movie. The movie was fine. Buffalo Bill was unsettling on a conceptual level but you’d watched it twice before and you had a high threshold for cinematic weirdness. No, you didn’t sleep because you laid in bed staring at the ceiling and replayed every single thing you’d heard for the remaining forty minutes of the film.

And there had been a lot.

Her apartment always smells like that candle. I should figure out what scent it is. For no reason.

She’s cold. She’s not going to say anything. She’ll just suffer. I should—and then he’d shifted and tugged part of the blanket over to your side without a word, like he’d just decided something.

Two more weeks until her birthday. I already know what I’m getting her. I’ve known for three months. That’s normal… that's a normal amount of time to know

She’s laughing again. Okay. Cool. I’m fine.

You rolled over and pressed your face into the pillow.

Park Sunghoon. Your best friend. The most unreadable person you had ever met in our life, who apparently had an entire internal monologue dedicated to noticing things about you. Your laugh, your shampoo, your candle, the way you got cold and didn’t say so. And he never let any of it reach his face.

For how long? How long had this been happening?

You thought about the soft look he’d tried to hide when you laughed. You thought about the blanket. You thought about I’ve known for three months, that’s normal—

You groaned into your pillow. This was a lot of information to receive on a Tuesday.

The next morning, you tested it.

Sunghoon had a habit of coming over early on Wednesdays because you both had the same 10 am lecture and he lived closer to your building than campus. It was an arrangement that had started practically and continued sentimentally, which was very on-brand for your entire friendship.

You knocked at 8:52. You opened the door in your oversized sweatshirt and immediately, before he’d even said hello—

She looks good in the mornings. She always looks good in the mornings. Fuck, thats extremly inconvenient.

You felt your face do something. You couldn’t control it.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing.” You stepped back. “I made coffee.”

He came in, dropped his bag, accepted the mug you handed him, and leaned against your kitchen counter with the air of someone who had never experienced a chaotic thought in his life. You watched him over the rim of your own mug and waited.

She’s staring.

It’s fine. She stares sometimes. It means nothing. Don’t read into it. 

… She’s still staring.

“I’m not staring,” you said, more like blurted.

He looked at you. “I didn’t say you were.”

Fuck. “You were thinking it.” You said, which was technically true in the most unhinged way possible.

Sunghoon looked at you for a moment longer than necessary. Then he took a sip of his coffee. “Okay,” he said, in a tone that meant he had filed this away and would return to it later.

You needed a plan.

Here’s what you knew:

Sunghoon was not going to say anything. That was simply not how he worked. He could think about your shampoo and memorize your candle scent and spend three months deciding on a birthday gift and still show up every Wednesday looking like a man without a single complicated feeling. He would do this indefinitely. He would probably take it to his grave.

And you—you, who had spent the better part of a year trying very hard not to notice the way he looked at you sometimes—were not going to wait for a grave.

So you made a decision.

You were going to give Park Sunghoon exactly what he wanted. Piece by piece. Situation by situation, all of it carefully constructed so that he thought it was happening naturally. And at the end of it, he was going to have no choice but to say it out loud.

All you had to do was listen.

It started small. 

Friday night, you invited him to the convenience store. Normal enough, you did this roughly once a week, usually for ramen and whatever snack had rotated its way onto the seasonal shelf. But this time, on the way back, you chose the path along the river instead of the shortcut through the carpark.

It was cold enough that your breath fogged the air. The streetlights caught in the water. You had your hands tucked into your sleeves, thinking that this had been a good idea when Sunghoon’s voice materialized quietly in your head.

I always want to walk this way. She never wants to walk this way.

You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Isn’t this nicer?”

A beat passed. “Yeah.” He said. He was looking ahead, but something in his shoulders had settled. “It is.”

She remembered.

He didn’t say it out loud, of course he didn’t. But you heard it, warm and quiet, and you had to look away before your face gave you away completely.

The next one was trickier.

You were in the library, 3rd floor, your usual table by the window. While you worked through problem sets, Sunghoon arrived twenty minutes later and folded himself into the seat next to you. He unpacked in silence, which was normal. Then he went quiet in that particular way he had where he was trying to figure something out and didn’t want to ask for help, which you also knew, because you knew all of his silences.

You waited.

I could just ask her. She’d explain it without making me feel stupid. She never makes me feel stupid.

But then she’ll know I didn’t understand the lecture and she’ll—

She won’t care. She genuinely will not give two shits.

Obviously I know that. That’s not the issue, the issue is that shes—

A pause.

She’s the only person I actually want help from. Is that a weird thing to feel this strongly about?

You looked up from your notes. “Do you want me to walk you through the regression model? I had to redo it like twice before it clicked.” Not technically a lie.

Sunghoon looked up at you.

“I’m serious,” you said, keeping your face carefully neutral. “It’s faster if we do it together.”

Something moved behind his eyes. Not readable: it never quite was. But it was there. He slid his notebook across the table toward you. “Okay.”

You worked through it side by side, your handwriting appearing in the margins of his notes, carefully avoiding his various doodles across the page. Your shoulders pressed close together so you could feel the warmth of him. And under everything, you could hear him thinking:

This is my favorite way to study. This is my favorite way to do a lot of things.

Then came the party.

Jungwon’s birthday parties had a reputation. What started as a small gathering with a reasonable headcount always turned into something completely different by 11 pm. More people, more noise, more empty bottles lined up along the windowsill like a timeline of bad decisions. You had been to enough of them to know to eat beforehand.

You arrived a little after 10. Sunghoon was already there—you found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a drink in his hand, talking to someone from his major with the energy of a person attending a very calm business lunch. Completely unbothered. Completely composed.

You felt him notice you before he looked up.

There she is.

Warm. Immediate. Like a reflex he’d long stopped trying to correct.

You made your way over and he handed you a drink without being asked, already knowing. Smirnoff Ice Raspberry. What a gentleman.

“How long have you been here?” You asked him.

“An hour.”

“An hour and you’re already relaxed?” You say, gesturing to what you can clearly tell is not his first drink of the night.

“I’m always relaxed.”

I am not relaxed. Her outfit is so small and I’ve been here an hour just wondering when she would show up and she shows up in that!

You took a sip of your drink to hide your expression.

By eleven, the party had done its inevitable thing. The hallway was full, the music was louder, and someone had started a game in the living room that you’d opted out of on principle. You weren’t really in the mood to kiss random men when you had one pining over you in his head. 

You were on your 3rd drink, warm at the edges, feeling the particular looseness that came from just enough and not too much.

Sunghoon was on something closer to his fifth.

You could tell only because you knew him. To anyone else, he looked exactly the same. Same posture, same unhurried delivery, same expression that gave away absolutely nothing. He was holding his cup with the same quiet authority he held everything. Responding to people in full, measured sentences.

But his thoughts.

She laughed at something. I didn’t hear what it was. Doesn’t matter, I’d listen to her laugh for an unreasonable amount of time and never get tired. I’ve accepted that.

You pressed your lips together and did your best to bite back the blush running towards your cheeks.

Her drink is almost empty. I should—a pause, like he was negotiating with himself—no. That’s too obvious. She can get her own. She doesn’t need me to—

You watched him glance at your cup from across the room, completely imperceptibly, and then look away.

Fuck this. I can’t let anyone here think she’s single. Even though she is. Fuck.

He appeared by your side sixty seconds later and held one out. You took it.

“Thank you!” You said.

“Mhm.” He looked at the room.

She smells like that candle again. She must’ve been home before this. God I’m pathetic.

You stared very hard at a window across the room and reminded yourself to breathe normally.

It got worse—better, actually—as the night went on.

You found a quieter corner of the apartment, as you usually did, and the party moved around you while you stayed still. This was your pattern. Your orbit. Sunghoon stood close enough that your shoulders almost touched and talked to you in that low, even voice of his about nothing important—a lecture, a teammate, something Sunoo had said earlier that had mildly irritated him.

I think about telling her all the time. Like, constantly. It’s become a problem. I’ll be in the middle of something completely unrelated and I’ll just—think about her. The way she argued about things she cares about. The way she falls asleep during movies and then insists she wasn’t sleeping.

She’s always sleeping. I never say anything. I let her have it. I’d let her have everything if that’s what she wanted

Later, the crowd thinned. Someone swapped the music for something slower and the kitchen light cast everything in a warm gold. You were feeling pretty drunk, loose and light and devious, if you were 100% honest.

Because here’s the thing. You had spent the past 2 hours listening to Sunghoon’s internal monologue short-circuit in real time, and the drinks had made you brave, and you decided you were going to have fun.

You turned to face him fully and leaned your shoulder against the wall so you were looking up at him. Close. Closer than you’d normally stand.

“You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“More than usual.”

He looked at you. Said nothing, of course. His face was perfectly, infuriatingly composed.

She’s standing really close. Okay, that’s fine. She does that sometimes. It doesn’t mean any—she’s looking at me like that again.

You smiled, slow and deliberate, and watched his jaw shift almost imperceptibly.

“What?” He asked.

“Nothing.” You reached over and fixed the collar of his shirt—it didn’t need fixing. You just did it. Fingers brushing the side of his neck for half a second before you pull your hand back. 

The thought that hit you was instantaneous.

Oh. A pause. Don’t. Do not.

His expression didn’t change. He simply looked at you with the same unhurried calm he looked at everything with and said “Thanks” in a voice that gave you nothing.

You were going to lose your mind. Give me something, asshole!

You shifted closer under the pretense of someone passing behind you and didn’t shift back. Your hand was on his arm now, you could feel the warmth of him through his sleeve.

She’s not moving. She’s not moving and I cant—I need to—Fuck she looks so good tonight. She always looks so good—I’m going to need a cold shower tonight.

“Cold?” He asked.

You tried not to laugh at how well it connected to his thoughts. “A little.” You lied.

He didn’t say anything, but he turned very slightly so his body was angled towards yours, the smallest possible adjustment, like he was trying to do so without admitting he was doing it.

Keep talking, his thoughts said, unprompted. Just keep talking to me. I don’t care what you say, I just wanna—

“Tell me something.” You say.

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

He considered this with great seriousness of someone preparing for war. You watching him think and heard the entire thing unravel. I want to tell her so many things. I want to tell her that I think about her all the time. I want to tell her she’s the first person I want to call when anything bad happens. I want to tell her to touch me and never stop.

“Jungwon’s playlist sucks.” Is what he chose instead.

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. The contrast of his thoughts to the words coming out of his mouth was just too hilarious for you to handle. He watched you laugh and his thought arrived soft and immediate:

There it is.

You looked back up at him, still smiling, and let the moment stretch. Then, slowly, you reached out and took the cup from his hand—just to take a sip, just as an excuse—your fingers overlapping his for a second before he let go.

His entire internal monologue went briefly nonverbal for a moment.

Fuck she has no idea what she’s doing to me. She genuinely cannot know. If she knew she would—she wouldn’t—she doesn’t—

A pause. A long one, actually.

Does she know?

You handed the cup back. Your fingers brushed him again on the pass. Deliberate. Completely deliberate.

I want you so bad.

The thought arrived and made you almost choke on air. It was so helplessly honest that it made your stomach flip. Not chaotic, necessarily, just true. Simple and overwhelming and incredibly sincere and raw.

I’ve wanted you for so long and you’re just standing here and I can’t tell you! Not like this. 

But please don’t move.

You don’t move. Sunghoon stood beside you looking unbothered.

This, you thought, was the most fun you had ever had in your entire life.

Your shared 10 am was held in a wide tiered lecture hall that fit about two hundred students and smell permanently of coffee and resignation. You sat in the same spot every week, middle left. Close enough to see the slides, far enough to feel like you had options. Sunghoon always sat next to you. 

You go there first on Tuesday. When he arrived, he dropped into the seat next to you and pulled out his notebook. You were ready.

You chose to wait until the lecture started, until he was settled. Pen in hand, paying attention the way he always did. 

Then you leaned over, close enough that your shoulder pressed into his and whispered “Can I borrow a pen?”

You had 3 in your bag. He didn’t know that.

He reached into his case without looking and held one out. Your fingers closed around it slowly, over his, just for a second longer than necessary.

Don’t fucking look at her. Look at the slide. There is a slide, dammit.

You settled back into your seat and uncapped the pen like nothing happened. Ten minutes later you leaned in again. “What did he say? I missed it.” Your lips were approximately four inches from his ear. You felt him go very still and you smiled.

She smells so good. Why does she always—focus! He’s talking about monetary policy. Monetary policy. That’s what's important right now.

“Quantitative easing.” he said, in a voice that was completely level. Not even a crack. 

“Thanks,” you murmured, and sat back.

I cannot believe I’m this affected by quantitative easing.

Sunghoon played like he did everything else, with total composure and quiet precision. Like the game was simply a problem being solved in real time. You had been to his matches before but usually with a group. This time you came alone and found a spot near the front and he saw you during warm ups.

You waved.

His expression softened the slightest bit. She’s wearing my hoodie.

You were, in fact, wearing his hoodie. The one he’d left at your place three weeks ago and you’d simply never given it back. You had put it on this morning with full awareness of what you were doing and zero remorse.

That’s my hoodie on her and she looks—I have a game. I have a game in four minutes. Get your fucking shit together.

He focused on the game. You watched him be extraordinary at it with the detached calm of someone who had done it a thousand times, and every few minutes a thought would surface.

Is she still here? She is. Good.

At halftime he jogged to the sideline and grabbed his water bottle and glanced at you once. It was brief, but you smiled as always and tucked your hands into the front pocket of his hoodie.

She’s so cute.

Then he went back to playing.

After the final whistle—they won, 2-1, Sunghoon had assisted in both goals with the energy of a man doing his grocery shopping—he found you at the edge of the field. Hair slightly damp, still catching his breath, looking at you with a gaze like you were the only girl in the world.

“You played great!”

“Thank you.” He said breathlessly.

You reached up and fixed a part of his hair that had fallen across his forehead, the same way you fixed his collar at the party. Easy and unbothered. 

I’m so in love with her it’s embarrassing. And she’s still touching my hair. I will stand here forever. I will stand on this field until the groundskeepers kick me off.

It was a Saturday when it stopped being a game.

Not because you decided it. Not because anything dramatic happened to signal a shift. It was a Saturday and you were making dinner and Sunghoon was in your kitchen, and somewhere between the two of you it just became too much.

It had started normally enough. He texted at five asking if you’d eaten. You hadn’t. He showed up twenty minutes later with groceries and no further explanation, which was so perfectly, infuriatingly him that you hadn’t even questioned it. This was just a thing he did. This was just how he was with you.

The kitchen was warm. You had music on low—something ambient and unhurried. Sunghoon had taken over the stove with the quiet authority he applied to everything while you sat at the counter and handled the easier tasks: chopping, stirring, handing things over when he asked.

It was comfortable, it was always comfortable with him.

But you had spent a week being deliberate about every point of contact and now you were tired and warm and a little undone by the Friday couch moment still sitting in your chest, and tonight you weren't being strategic. Tonight things just kept — happening.

Like the way you leaned over to check on the pan and your arm slid along his. The way he reached past you for the salt and didn't move back immediately. The way the kitchen was small and you were both in it and neither of you seemed to be trying very hard to maintain any kind of distance.

She's everywhere in this apartment, he thought, while stirring something and looking straight ahead. Everything here is her. I come here and it just — feels like her. I don't know what to do with that.

You handed him a spoon without being asked and your fingers touched and the thought that followed was short and unadorned:

I love her.

Not feral. Not desperate. Just true, the way facts were true, the way gravity was true, delivered in the same internal voice he used to note the weather or remember an appointment.

I love her and I don't know how much longer I can—

"You're quiet," you said.

"I'm always quiet."

"Different quiet."

He glanced at you. "You say that a lot."

"Because it keeps being true."

He looked at you for a moment, something unreadable moving behind his eyes, and then looked back at the stove.

You watched him. The line of his shoulders, the careful way he moved, the complete and total composure he maintained at all times like it cost him nothing when you knew — you knew now — exactly what it cost.

You slid off the counter and moved to stand beside him. Not for any reason. Just to be closer.

She's right next to me. She keeps doing this. She's been doing this all week and I—I don't know if she knows what she's doing. I think she might know. Does she know?

You reached past him to adjust the heat on the burner — he was standing right there, you had to reach across him to get to it, your arm brushing his chest for a half second — and when you pulled back you turned your head and found his face much closer than you'd anticipated.

Neither of you moved.

Okay, his brain said, with a kind of strained calm. Okay. This is—She's right there. She's looking at me. I have been in love with her for over a year and she is right there and I—

"Y/N."

His voice came out different. Lower. The composure was still there but something underneath it that wasn't, some thread pulled just tight enough that you could hear it.

"Yeah?" you said.

He looked at you. Really looked — the way he had on the couch on Friday, no pretense, no performance, just Sunghoon looking at you like you were something he'd stopped being able to look away from.

"What are you doing?" he said.

It wasn't accusatory. It was quiet. Genuine. Like he actually needed to know.

And here was the thing — here was the part you hadn't planned for — you opened your mouth to say something easy and deflecting and instead what came out was the truth.

"I don't know anymore," you said. "I think I stopped doing anything on purpose about three days ago."

Something in his face shifted. The last careful layer of it, the one he always kept in reserve, the one you'd never seen him let go of before.

"Three days ago," he repeated.

"The game," you said. "Friday. You were just — you were just being you and I—" you stopped. Laughed a little, helplessly. "I've been driving myself crazy, Sunghoon."

She—

His thought didn't finish. Like his brain had simply stopped processing and switched to something else entirely.

"You've been driving yourself crazy," he said, and something in his voice had shifted too, something dry and disbelieving and warm underneath it. "You've been driving me crazy for a week. You know that, right?"

You looked at him. "Have I?"

"In lecture," he said. "The couch. The game." A pause. "The collar." He said the last one quietly, like it had been living in him since the party and had just now been let out.

"The collar," you repeated innocently.

"You knew what you were doing."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Y/N."

"Sunghoon."

He looked at you for a long moment, this boy who never cracked, who never rushed, who kept everything behind his eyes until he decided otherwise — and then he decided otherwise.

"I'm in love with you," he said. Simple. Direct. Like he'd taken aim and let go. "I have been for a long time and this week has been the most unhinged experience of my life so if you have something to tell me I really think you should tell me now."

The most unhinged experience of my life. You almost laughed again. He had no idea. "I'm in love with you too," you said. "I have been. For a long time, I think."

He exhaled.

Not dramatically — this was Sunghoon, nothing was ever dramatic — just a slow breath out, like something he'd been holding had finally been set down. His hand came up and found your jaw, tilted your face up toward his, and he looked at you for one long, unhurried moment the way he did everything.

There she is, he thought, soft and certain and final. There she is.

Then he kissed you.

It was warm and quiet and careful and then — when you kissed him back, when your hand found the front of his shirt — not careful at all. His other hand found your waist and pulled you closer and you went, and the food on the stove went briefly unattended, and the music played on low in the background of your apartment that smelled like his candle and yours combined now, that had his bag by the door and his key on the hook, that had been halfway his for a long time already.

His last coherent thought, before everything else: Finally.

He kissed you like a man starved, and after everything you had heard the past couple of weeks, he was starved. His hands tightened on your waist the slightest bit, almost as if he was afraid you would leave.

You wouldn’t dream of it.

Your hands dragged up his shirt and towards the back of his neck, pushing him closer and playing with his hair. Sunghoon let out a shaky breath, which made you smile into the kiss.

“Shut.” Kiss. “Up.” Another kiss. His voice was so low that it shocked you, but you were too busy to even fully notice.

“I didn’t say anything.” You say in between his kisses. Eventually you force yourself to pull away. His face looks like you just slapped him, but you caress his face. “I’m just turning off the stove.”

Sunghoon pursed his lips together. “Right. I forgot. I was kinda distracted.”

You stare at him for a moment, taking him in. His flushed cheeks, his glossy eyes, his hands that refuse to leave your waist. “At the risk of sounding too forward—”

“Be forward. That’s all I’ve wanted this entire week.”

You nod. “Well.. we can go to my room…?”

You barely got the chance to hear his brain fry itself when he smashes his lips back down onto yours. He seems hungrier now, and the thought has you reeling. All you can hear are bits and pieces. Please, and I’m obsessed with you, cross his mind over and over again, but you’re too involved in him to care.

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a please.”

Sunghoon keeps kissing you as the two of you walk (awkwardly. It’s surprisingly hard to keep a straight line of direction when a man is kissing the shit out of you) to your bedroom. The door was already open, and your bed was already made. The two of you just flopped onto the mattress, not bothering to stop.

He laid above you, moving from your lips to everywhere else. “I’ve been in love with you,” a kiss on the cheek, “since that IKEA argument,” a kiss on your jaw, “when you were wearing that stupid,” kiss on the neck, “fucking,” kiss on your collarbone, “shirt.” He keeps kissing you, mumbling more. “It was the tiniest shirt in existence and you wore it around me.”

“It was the first shirt I saw that day.”

“Well it made me really hard.” He says, looking down at you. 

“Oh, did it now?” You say, a playful smirk on your face. 

He wipes that smirk off with a kiss, trailing back down to the collarbone, sucking on various spots. You choose not to think about how much of a pain it will be to whisk those out of your skin before your shift. Instead, you choose to live in the moment. 

His hands trail from your waist to your sides. “Can I?” He asks, hands incredibly still. You nod, but that’s not enough for him. “Please say it.”

“Yes, Sunghoon.”

He wastes no time in taking your shirt off, throwing it somewhere in your room for you to find later. “So beautiful.” He mumbles, almost incoherently. “Wanted this for so long. You for so long.”

Every word, every kiss, every touch sends sparks up and down your body. You don’t know how you’ve lived without this, but now that you have it you won’t ever give it up. You run your hands under his shirt and on his bare skin, feeling the warmth of the man on top of you. 

It’s barely even a touch, and yet he folds completely. Head in your neck, holding you tightly. You feel the outline of abs and a strong v line, hands going lower and lower. Instead of the obvious, you choose to grab the hem of his shirt and pull it. He instantly moves, allowing you to pull the shirt off him—with his help of course.

You had seen him shirtless before. Sophomore year pool party hosted by Jake. But this is completely different. 2 years of soccer and consistent working out has made this man built. And you were not complaining. 

You grab his jeans and pull him back in, but he stops himself.

“I wanna try something.”

You give him a nod, and he moves to pull down your sweatpants, leaving you in just a bra and underwear. Sunghoons eyes rake over your body in a way that screams adoration. If you had ever thought he didn’t like you, his actions now change your mind immediately.

“Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”

“Okay.” You say quietly, unsure of what's to come.

He starts kissing your neck once more, moving down to your collarbone, then shoulder, then sternum. He makes it his mission to kiss every part of you. Your tits, your stomach, your hips. You don’t even realize how far down he is until he plants a kiss right above your underwear.

He goes to one hip, then the other, planting kisses on both. But instead of going where you want him, he goes to your thighs. He starts at the left, gentle kisses up and down your inner thigh, making you squirm. At the right, his kisses are still gentle, but they're closer now. Closer to where you want him. To where he wants to be.

“So beautiful.” He murmurs, finally pressing a kiss to your clothed heat. A delicate kiss, yet it made you squirm. God, this man is the devil.

“Please…” You sigh, not even realizing that you said it.

“Whatever you want.” He hooks a finger around your underwear, dragging the lavender cloth down your legs slowly. He makes sure to actually take them off, and not let them pool around your ankles, and then spreads your legs just a bit. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “I’m sure.”

That's all he needed before he put his mouth on you. Soft kisses that drive you crazy, hands grasping the duvet and teeth biting your lip. The pace is brutally slow, testing the waters. But he speeds up a bit. One hand under your leg, pulling you closer, the other on your clit, making slow circles as he eats you out.

If you thought he kissed you like a man starved, then you would be surprised at how he is once he truly tastes you. Hands grip you tightly, moving faster and faster as his tongue makes you cry out. He laps at your folds, tongue going in and out of you on occasion. You close your legs around his head, and he groans like you just gave him dessert. 

You’re so close, you can feel it. And he can too. But he pulls away at the last moment, wiping at his mouth. 

Sunghoon takes a moment to admire you. Naked from the waist down, a simple bra covering you. You’re panting, desperate to reach the orgasm that was cruelly ripped away from you by the man who almost gave you it.

You give him a look, and he gives you one back. “I’ll eat you out as many times as you want later, but right now I just wanna fuck you.”

“I’m on the pill.” You say.

He closes his eyes for a moment. “Is that enough for you? Cause I’ll go get condoms—”

“It’s enough.” You interrupt him, hand on the buckle of his jeans, slowly unworking it. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted something more than you want him right now. Maybe that’s insane to say, but you don’t care. Not when the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen is about to fuck you.

The two of you waste no time in taking off his jeans, and then his boxers. He also makes sure to take your bra off too.

You aren’t new to sex. It’s a very straightforward process. But sex with Sunghoon seems different. There's nothing wrong with him, it's just the fact you’ve known him for so long and he’s your best friend, and what if this ruins things?

“Hey.” He says, snapping you out of the trainwreck that is your thoughts. “Are you 100% sure? If you say no then I’ll stop, I promise.”

“It’s not that,” You pause, avoiding eye contact with him and his naked lower half. “I just don’t want this to ruin things.”

His hand goes to your waist, gentle and comforting. “This won’t ruin anything. I’ll still be in love with you after this, probably even more than I am right now.”

You think for a second before nodding. “Okay.”

“You still want this?”

“Yes, Sunghoon.” You say with a faux-annoyed face.

He gives you the most genuine smile as he presses his tip against you. The feeling sends a shock straight to your core, and you’ve never wanted anything more than you do right now. He rubs his tip up and down your folds, letting the pre-cum mix with the wetness that was pooling out of you. 

“I’ll go slow, okay?” Sunghoon pushes in slowly, true to his word. You wince, but not in pain. In pleasure. You’re completely engulfing his tip, and he’s looking at it like it’s the Mona Lisa. “Jesus Christ." His voice is low, gravely, and possibly the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard. 

He continues to push, letting your pussy swallow him whole. When he’s finally in, he looks at you first to make sure you’re ready and that you’re still okay. It’s sweet, but you aren’t in the mood for sweet.

And somehow, he hears you loud and clear. He pulls back almost all the way, until it’s just the tip again, and slams into you. 

It has you gasping for air, grabbing the blanket, the pillow, him. He keeps up the pace. Brutal, yet slow. A harsh slam in, a slow drag out. It’s simultaneously too much and not enough.

“Sunghoon…” You whine.

“You want more?”

You nod, and he obliges immediately, snapping his hips into yours faster. You're moaning and writhing underneath him but he doesn’t stop. After all, this is what you wanted. 

It smells of sex, and the only sound you can hear is skin slapping, your whines, and his little groans. Back and forth and back and forth, it’s too much.

You can feel a pool in your core tightening, and in a moment of pure lust you wrap your legs around him and pull him closer.  “You’re fucking evil.” He almost growls, going faster if that was even possible.

Sunghoon’s as desperate as you are, slamming his hips into yours with strength and precision of a man who worked for this his entire life. You can barely form words, just moans as he goes in and out of you.

You tighten around him and he whines, and it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. But you don’t get a chance to focus on that. 

“I know honey, I know. Me too, sweet girl.”

His hips stutter, but he’s back on track, fucking you the way you deserve after weeks of psychological torture and cold showers on his part. He’s dreamed of this more times than you could imagine. But this is better than any dream of his. Because you’re under him, eyes shut in pleasure as he fucks the shit out of you the way he’s wanted for so long.

“I’m close.” You manage, hands grabbing on his biceps.

He speeds up. “You wanna cum?” You nod, a tear falling out of your eye from how good everything feels. As he drags himself in and out of you, a hand falls to your clit, rubbing fast circles. You let out a loud moan, only enticing him to keep going. “Come on honey, cum with me.”

He plays with your folds for a few more seconds before your hips buck without warning, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you come undone over his dick. Your legs shake around his abdomen, and you let out a silent cry. 

“Good girl. I’m so close okay? Where do you want me?” He asks, slowing down just a bit.

You’re still reeling from your orgasm and the fact he’s still fucking you. “Anywhere.”

He places both of his hands around you, caging you in as he pounds into you with no remorse, desperate for a release. He can feel you clenching around him, and that’s what sends him over the edge.

“Fuck!” His hips stutter for the final time, pressing into you fully. His head drops down, almost heavy from the week long torture. As he cums in you, his head drops down, almost heavy. You both don’t move for a bit, just staying still

It’s quiet. The only sound being breathing coming from the both of you.

“Did it ruin it?” He asks, breathlessly with a smirk.

“Fuck off!” You reply, lightly slapping his chest.

It was that very moment where you realized you couldn’t hear his thoughts anymore. You would miss the frantic array of thoughts that would show up when you did something miniscule to him, but you weren’t upset. This just meant he finally said all that he needed to say.

taglist: @wonubug @chccnne @endoll @boptak @seobmoji @u2jwon @seobmoji @jiumeow @kyoteas @heeunleash

YOU AND YANG JUNGWON WERE ENDGAME.

If there was anything that high school proved, if not the fact that most of your friends were two-faced snakes—it was that he and you were meant for forever.

You can guess that's part of the reason why he's knocking at your door again, flowers in his left hand and his phone in his right. He's drenched in depressing October rain, wearing that ridiculously adorable pout on his face.

Obviously. He knows you, and he knows how fast you drop to your knees when you see those lips curl downwards. It’s exactly why you’re holding onto the sides of your sweater, if only to stop yourself from turning that doorknob.

“I know you’re home, Y/N. Your lights are on.”

His voice is muffled through the thin wood. You take another peek through the tiny hole of your front door—his under-eyes airbrushed with a faint red, the tip of his nose all the same.

The hallway behind him stretches wide, empty, dim with decorated with wet footprints on it’s tiles. Jungwon stands in the middle of the corridor like he owns it, as if your next-door neighbours couldn’t take a step out and catch him here, sopping wet and holding flowers like this was a romantic comedy.

It looks like he’s not leaving anytime soon.

"You shouldn't have come." You respond. His ears perk up, head tilting towards the peephole. As if he can hear the hesitation behind your voice. The hurt on his face is impossible to miss. If only you weren't fresh out of the relationship, it'd make you laugh.

“Then why aren’t you telling me to leave?” He asks, teeth nibbling at his bottom lip at an attempt to soothe his anxiety.

A water droplet rolls down his temple, to his chin, and then drips onto his already soaked t-shirt.

“I just did,” you say. “Go away.”

Yang Jungwon was always terribly persistent when it came to you. Back in college, there were days where he’d lose all sense of responsibility and ditch his much needed study hours just to see his beloved girlfriend—it’s all sunshine and rainbows when he has you laid up in his sheets, no weight on his shoulders when he has your body pressed against his.

And perhaps this spoiled you. As ill-prepared as you were, you knew that Yang Jungwon taking up a job that required him to travel half across the world, multiple times a month, would do something to your relationship.

So, when employment rolls around and you’re finally split apart by your very different job scopes—the schedules, the time, the busyness of it all… it was only a matter of inevitability.

The silence used to be comfortable. It used to be the ones where your limbs could tangle together and kisses felt more lazy than anything else. Now, it’s just stretched thin over bad cell service, laggy FaceTimes and horribly mismatched timezones.

“Y/N,” he’s pleading now. The ceiling light of the sterile corridor outside is reflecting off his eyes, all glassy and persuasive. There’s also something uniquely dangerous about how he chose to wear a white tee under his leather jacket. “Please. I’m begging you, I just want to talk.”

He will not get you. You will not let him in, and you will stand firm on that.

“Please, baby. Let me see you.”

Fuck.

You take a step back from the door for a few seconds. This didn’t require a lot of thinking, apparently, because your mouth soon opened before you could even make your way back to the door.

“What do you want to talk about?”

You tiptoe to get a better, clearer view of Jungwon’s face in the glass. The arm that holds the flowers is now at his side—you can see the way his shirt clings onto his chest like this, peeking through the leather. A brief thought flashes in your mind, one that says ‘he must be freezing’, and to let him inside. You almost do.

Jungwon scrunches his nose, his free hand coming to wipe at it before he clears his throat and speaks up. “It’s been days, Y/N. You haven’t returned any of my calls, my texts. I’ve been worried.”

“Is that so? I’m fine, as you can hear from my voice. Now go home, it’s cold.”

“You don’t sound fine. Please, Y/N. I don’t want us to fight anymore.”

You let a scoff slip. “You don’t look fine, either. Even.”

Your response earns the faintest huff from him—it would’ve been a laugh in any other context, but now, his head just dips, shoulders slumping a fraction as rainwater continues to drip from his hair, sliding down in uneven trails.

“Can you just open the door?” Jungwon asks, eyebrows knitting together. “I’m not here to fight.”

He looks like a puppy that’s just been kicked to the curb. There’s a look in his eye that’s the equivalent of someone getting on their knees and practically begging, and you’re half convinced that Yang Jungwon might do just that.

He definitely would, wouldn’t he?

“Jungwon,” and for some reason—your left hand is on that doorknob. Despite already resolving that you wouldn’t let him inside your home. “I don’t want to fight, either. That’s why I want you to go away.”

“Do you still love me?”

Your voice barely reached him. “Jungwon—“

“Please.”

And perhaps that's why your friends describe you as the one to die first in a horror movie, or the last to have a spine, or simply the one who can't quite loosen her grip on a love she's carried for far too long.

The door pulls towards you, slowly, not without that signature creak and soft thud against your already-chipped wall.

Yang Jungwon stands before you, towering, drenched but significantly drier than thirty minutes ago when he was first begun loitering outside your door. His hair sticks in wet clumps to his forehead, temples, anywhere that’s too long.

The faint tremor in his body makes you want to pull him inside. Wrapping a towel around him to let him dry and sending him off would probably be a very good idea—there’s nothing between you now, no girlfriend-y duties to fulfil other than making sure he doesn’t freeze to death, though you’re sure that anyone (girlfriend or not) would do the same.

Jungwon’s eyes widen when he finally sees you. You’re leaning against the door like you’re expecting him to walk inside, and he does—though he keeps his head low and his shoulders squared as it happens.

“I’ll get a towel for you. Give me a minute.” You manage, back facing him. When you finally shut the door, your body turns back around, only to watch him standing in the middle of your living room like he has no clue where to go.

“Okay.”

His voice comes out quieter than you expect—like the gloomy cold has taken it’s place in his chest. Up close, it’s worse. Or better. You’re not very sure.

You can see everything now, without the distortion of glass or distance to soften it—the way the rain has dragged his hair down into uneven, damp strands against his soft skin. A few pieces curl slightly at the ends, darker than normal, dripping slow, accidental droplets that trace down the side of his face.

One of them slips along the sharp line of his jaw. Your eyes can’t help but to follow obediently.

It disappears beneath the collar of his shirt—if it can even be called that right now. It’s barely even visible with the white fabric being completely soaked through, plastered to him like a second skin.

It’s clinging to the planes of his chest—the faint definition beneath is dizzying, the steady rise and fall of his breathing being the only thing you can zero in on. It leaves very little to imagination, and you hate how quickly your gaze has to flick back up to his face like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

It’s most probably because it isn’t. Reminder that you should not be staring at your ex-boyfriend’s chest like he’s still yourboyfriend.

“You were going to get me a towel,” the corner of his lips twitches into a smile. “What happened to that?”

You swallow, pushing yourself off the door a little too quickly. Jungwon’s lips are pursed together, a faint blush painted across his cheeks, and he’s staring at you like he knows he’s got you.

“You’ll be fine,” you force a mocking smile and all Jungwon can do is let out a chuckle—you’re making your way towards the kitchen, his eyes following your figure as it moves further away from his.

You make your way into the kitchen with purpose that feels rehearsed now, with a mind that’s anything but steady. Yang Jungwon hasn’t been in your home in weeks, and you’ve begun to accept the fact that he might become a stranger to this place altogether. There’s still traces of him—in the bathroom, in your bed, on your study desk. The photos of your first trip together are still framed in the hallway, too.

The overhead light flicks on, too bright and exposing when Jungwon’s still staring into you. For a second, you busy yourself with nothing—hands hovering over the counter, opening a cabinet you didn’t need to open, closing it again just as fast.

Behind you, you can feel him. You don’t have to look to know his eyes never left you.

There’s a faint sound of movement—his shoes sliding against the floor, quieter now that they’re no longer dripping as much. He doesn’t follow immediately, though. He lingers, like he’s taking in the space, re-familiarising himself with something he still knows by heart.

By the time you reach for the glass, your fingers are already shaking.

It’s right where it always is—second shelf, slightly to the left—but you still fumble with it, knocking it lightly against the others before pulling it free. The sound is small, but in the quiet, it feels like the only thing you want to focus on.

You set it down on the counter, reaching for the water dispenser until—

“Still in the same place,” Jungwon says from behind you. “You kept it. My cat mug.”

The smell of rain is penetrates your nose almost instantaneously. “I kept most things.”

You can guess what he looks like this close, if you were to turn around right now. Dripping, cold, clothes still sticking to him like half an hour in the warmth did him no favours. His swollen eyes, flushed face, and lips that say ‘please’ like they know exactly what it does to you.

Your grip tightens around the mug. You click on the warm water option, and the dispenser starts heating almost instantly. A soft mechanical hum fills the silence before the first trickle hits ceramic.

Steam curls up from the mug in thin, wavering ribbons, dissolving into the air before it can settle anywhere. You don’t move to pick it up. Your hand stays there, resting against the counter, fingers still slightly curled from how tightly you were holding on a second ago.

“I didn’t think you would.”

You keep your eyes on the mug. “It’s a mug, Jungwon. Not that serious.”

The water stops abruptly. Steam curls above it, fading into the air. You leave it there.

“Y/N L/N.”

When you turn around, Jungwon’s leaning against the counter behind you. Close enough for you to see the outline of his abdomen through the fabric of his tee, but far enough not to her the chatter of his teeth and the shiver of his breathing. You still have to tilt your head to meet his eyes properly.

“What?” you ask, but it comes out flatter than you intend, like you’re trying to hold something back from your own voice.

It’s only after a painfully long minute of forcing yourself to look him in the eye, does he speak.

“I miss you.”

The arrangement of flowers are somewhere on the coffee table. His jacket must be hanging somewhere on the coat hanger, though, the wet fabric of his shirt refuses to let your attention stray anywhere else to confirm.

Right now, Yang Jungwon’s stood in front of you, hands flexing at his sides like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. You’re standing only one foot apart, your back pressed against the cold edge of your kitchen counter as his on the island—the cup of water stands stagnant behind you, waiting to be picked up.

The space between you feels thinner than it did seconds ago. Warmer, too. Charged in a way that makes your pulse pick up, where your body is suddenly too aware of every inch of distance left between the two of you, and also is desperately yearning to close it.

It would be nice to smell his cologne after weeks of trying to forget it. Every time you thought you did, it would waft around your apartment like a little ghost.

“Won—“

Up close, everything about him feels amplified. The damp fabric of his shirt has started to dry unevenly, clinging in some places, loosening in others, but still outlining him in a way that makes it hard not to notice. The subtle definition beneath, the steady expansion of his chest with each breath, the way his shoulders remain just slightly tense like he’s holding himself back from closing the rest of the distance all at once.

You know he wants to. There’s that half of you that wishes he just would.

“Please,” Jungwon murmurs. “Tell me you miss me too.”

His right arm reaches out—you don’t stop it. His thumb brushes the side of your hip, and you don’t stop it either. You don’t even think about pulling yourself away from the feeling of him on you again.

Jungwon knows what he’s doing.

His other arm follows suite, before they wrap around your waist completely—his large hands always had no issues doing this, pulling you in without any real effort—or perhaps you were always just drawn to him, like a magnet, unable to ever really stay away.

He exhales softly as he feels your warm body press against him. The sound brushes against your skin, and it reminds you of how wrong yet right this feels; your arms do what they’ve always known, wrapping around his torso like pushing him away was never an option.

He’s cold, and still, you melt anyway.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“You’ve already said that.”

His large hands are splayed across your back—his calloused fingertips from the dedication to the gym, his larger-than-before shoulders that stretch across your smaller frame—it’s just as overwhelming as the first day you met.

Your warmth hits him like a wave, and for a moment, his hands freeze. Your fingers come up to the blades of his shoulders, running against the tiny dips and rises of his muscles; tonight feels like anything but reality, and instead, it’s two months ago when things were still fine and Jungwon was still yours.

He swears he still is, and you try to forget it. Too much time apart does things to you that you’d rather shove down and erase completely—but when your ex-lover is cold, shivering, clinging to your body like it’s the only heat that could get his blood moving—it bubbles right back up. It simmers, boils over and spills.

“You’re freezing, Won,” you mumble, “I really think you should—“

And maybe you have familiarity to blame, or comfort or naivety, because you lean into Yang Jungwon’s touch just as easily as you pushed it away. His hands are coming up your waist, stopping right at your neck—and what else can you do in this moment other than stare into those big, pretty irises of his?

Jungwon’s hand settles firmly at the side of your neck, his palm warm despite the lingering chill in his skin. His fingers curve just enough for you to feel the faint pressure when you swallow, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his touch—and the moment he realises your breath is shaking, the glint in his eye makes you shiver.

His thumb drags slowly along the line of your jaw, then back again, slow, like he’s retracing something long committed to memory.

“Talk to me,” he whispers, breath ghosting against your lips as your foreheads touch. “Please, Y/N. Don’t shut me out again.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

For a moment, all you can focus on is how close he is—the warmth of his breath, the way his hand holds you just firmly enough to keep you there, the faint tension in his fingers like he’s bracing for you to pull away.

There’s nothing except for the low hum of the city, and your hearts echoing in tandem as his body presses closer against yours. The rain is merciless tonight, unrelenting, pounding against the glass doors of your balcony like it wanted to be let inside—for now, the warm yellow of your hallway lamp bathes you and Jungwon in that comfortable hue, a stark contrast to the blue cold outside.

His hands feel frozen against your skin.

“You’re always leaving, Jungwon,” you mutter, refusing to meet his eyes despite the distance. “Even when you’re in front of me, you’re gone. I never have all of you.”

He swallows thickly, eyes still locked on yours. Your irises peek through your lashes, blinking slowly up at his.

Your breath catches in your throat. This is the part where you fall to your knees for Yang Jungwon—the part which you tried endlessly to avoid up until today. It’s when the line between logic and everything else blurs, and all you can see is him.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” Jungwon mutters, thumb caressing the patch of skin under your jawline. You lean into it like it means something. “We’ll talk about this. I can’t lose you—“

“Jungwon,” you interrupt, your touch firm over his knuckles, offering little resistance to the way he holds your jaw like this was all normal. “What good would it do us?”

He doesn’t respond immediately.

His hand stills under yours, your fingers resting over his knuckles as if you could stop him, or maybe stop yourself. His gaze doesn’t leave your face, not even when you’re actively avoiding his.

There’s something in his expression now—more careful than before, fully aware of the fact that you’re no longer his. You could really kick his ass out if you wanted to.

He’s thinking carefully for once. Instead of just reaching for you, the way he always does.

“If it doesn’t…” he starts, voice lower, rougher than before, “if it doesn’t fix anything—”

He exhales softly, the sound brushing your lips again, closer; his thumb shifts under your jaw, tilting your face up just enough that running from him becomes impossible—it’s not like you’ve been putting in much effort to do that, anyway.

“Then let me have you like this,” he finishes. “One last time.”

His nose bumps against yours in that old, messy fashion that you’ve never nailed. Kissing Jungwon always involves not knowing how fast, how deep to go, because it always ends up in something more intimate than it starts out. For the first thirty seconds, your ex lover lets himself feel—feel what he’s lost for weeks, reminding, retracing.

Forty seconds, and he has his hands wandering all over your warm body like they have no idea where to stay.

Fifty, and they’re running down your back and slipping under that thin, too-tight baby tee that you always wear to bed—fifty-six, and his tongue is somewhere tangled with yours.

“S-shit—you taste so fucking sweet.” he mumbles against your lips before letting you press your body further against his—there’s multiple sirens going off in your head by this point, in which you deliberately ignore, as one does when they have someone like him against them.

Jungwon’s a mess by the time your legs hook around his waist. His hands do the work, looping around your thighs and lifting you up with no real effort: just a small huff from all your weight pressing against his chest, and a (very pathetic) moan that strangles itself out of his throat when you grind against his crotch.

“You missed me?” He smiles against your lips, and it’s an understatement when you say he’s just hungry for you. Doesn’t even give you an opportunity to answer, instead, going for the exposed patch of skin on your neck, laying so beautifully for him.

“W-Won,” you whimper when he sets you on top of your cold, sterile kitchen island—there were months prior to this where you made pasta together on this same surface. “Please—“

“It’s okay,” he says. “I got you.”

It’s not like you’ve never had sex before.

It’s just… you don’t really have sex with ex- boyfriends. Normally. Even so, given that fact, it doesn’t stop you from rutting against Yang Jungwon like your life depends on it, nor does it stop him from undoing the drawstring of your shorts and pulling it riiight down.

“See,” he kisses his teeth, a cocky smile growing on his face—it sends blood right up to your face, watching him watch you, feeling him feel his way into your panties. “All that talk about pushing me away. So pointless.”

His hand slips beneath the band, thick fingers running down your slit, between your folds before coming back up and applying that sickening pressure to your clit. “She miss me, too?”

You’re soaked through by the time Yang Jungwon gets his middle finger at your entrance—teasing, letting only the tip graze your insides. Your jaw’s locked, hung open from trying to draw even breaths into your lungs. “Wooonnn… please. Don’t fucking tease—“

“Aw,” he pouts, eyes flicking back down to where his large hand stretches the fabric of your panties thin. He’s refused to slip them off. Soaking the back of his hand in slick, he wonders—if only for a moment—how it would feel if it was his cock instead. “Don’t get needy on me now.”

You gasp when he pushes past that tight ring of muscle—his finger swallowed whole by your dripping cunt. It curls almost instinctively, intensively, because what kind of man would Yang Jungwon be if he didn’t memorise this?

“Right here,” he mumbles, head hanging low, observing the way the slippery slide of your walls let him pump his fingers so effortlessly. “Feels good, baby? Wanna tell me how much you missed it?”

“Shut.. s-shut up, fuck—“

You choke on a moan—your body’s going into a lock. From sitting upright on your elbows to back arching off the marble, your head’s thrown back when Jungwon adds another finger ‘just for fun’.

His middle and ring finger curl inside of you. The squelching sounds is too much to bear; heat is crawling up your neck like it wants you to drown in it, and as a response, your hands come up to hide the humiliation written all over your face.

“Getting shy on me?” Jungwon mutters, before his free hand darts to pry your wrists away from your cheeks. His fingertips are brushing against that spongy, tingly bundle of nerves inside your core—everything in the room seems reduced to the electrifying feeling that’s buzzing inside your veins, surging, making your head spin.

“Yeah,” his stupidly long fingers are starting to make you see a new universe now, “forgot how fast you cum on my fingers. So cute.”

“F-fuckfuckfuck,” you squeal—your body feels like it’s locking up. The only thing your mind lets you repeat over and over is Jungwon, Jungwon, Jungwon; Jungwon in that shirt that’s still wet, Jungwon that knows your body so well, Jungwon that’s making sure you cum on his fingers or face at least once before he does anything with himself.

You see it in the way his cock presses against the edge of the counter, and the pained expression on his face like he’s just about ready to come undone. It’s always like that with him, always ready to give you everything he can offer if it meant you felt good.

“Fuck, almost forgot how pretty you look like this,” Jungwon mutters under his breath, though you barely catch it with the angels singing in your ears. Your head thighs are spread shamelessly on the cold marble, juices dripping down your inner thigh and spilling over onto the shiny surface—in his eyes, it almost glistens. “Always so damn nasty for me. Look at you.”

The remark would’ve been embarrassing in any other context. It’s too bad that Yang Jungwon knows exactly how to push your buttons, knows precisely what words to spit out of that nasty mouth to get you salivating. It’s dehumanising, really. Animalistic, the way he has your mind reduced to just slush—and though he can get soooo mean, it just doesn’t matter when it gets you cumming all over his fingers by the end of the night.

Most of the night is spent in a haze. Your vision is blurry, but you most definitely remember some parts in passing. You remember sliding down to your knees and almost choking on how big Jungwon was, and how he made you sit on his face by the second hour—though, to be fair, that was a prerequisite.

You definitely remember how he peeled his shirt off, and how he picked you up again like you were nothing, and how he tossed you onto the bed like it didn’t physically hurt to be apart from him for that split second.

You remember how he laughed at you, only to lean in close and press a searing kiss to the exposed skin of your neck—trailing down, wet and hot, until his teeth could pinch the hem of your soaked panties.

You remember how he pulled them off, sliding them down your legs with nothing but a sinful smirk, pink lace caught between his pearly whites like it didn’t get your stomach churning all over again; pupils blown, face flushed red, heart beating in a frenzy when he uses his tongue to drop them onto the floor.

And you can’t, and will never forget the way he’s spreading your reddened thighs with his palms, fucking into you like this is truly the last time he’ll ever see your face.

Every thrust of his hips against yours knocks the wind out of your lungs. You feel him so impossibly deep that your throat feels clogged—the stretch makes your mind go numb, and God, how could you forget how big Yang Jungwon is when he’s bruising your poor cunt like this?

“Good fucking girl,” and his lips are pressed up against yours like it has nowhere else to go. “Made for me, I swear—so fucking perfect.”

His length pumps in and out of you with no real effort, all sloppy and squelching like there wasn’t anyone else in this neighbourhood to be considerate of. The backboard’s hitting the wall, chipping at the paint, and for a brief moment you let yourself roll your eyes at the thought of painting it over—just when you thought you’d never have to again.

“F-fuhhh…” you drawl, hands coming up around his neck at some attempt at stabilizing yourself. Every hit has your toes curling and your body rocking, nails digging into the flesh of his clean, well-sculpted back. “S-shit, Jungwon—feels so deep—“

“Yeah?” he laughs, low and short-lived before he feels you squeeezing on him. “Fuck, you’re so cute. Acting like you haven’t taken me everywhere in this apartment.”

You’re close to tears by this point. Your fingers tangle in his dark hair, now soaked in sweat instead of rain, and it should disgust you—it should be revolting, the way most people’s bodily fluids are, but you’re laid here anyway— glossy lips sucking on his neck, where you know he’s most sensitive, taking in his scent like it’s all you’ll ever know.

He smells so fucking good when he’s fucking you like it’s his life’s purpose.

You feel his pulse under your tongue. You also feel the way his cock is swelling up in your walls, taking up more and more and more of you, until you’re gasping for air and his pace is almost fucking frantic. Jungwon feels like he’s losing himself in you.

“See,” he moans, breath all hot and loud, leaning right into your ear like it isn’t the most filthy thing he’s done. “You’ll always belong to me.”

And as your friends would say*: you did this to yourself*. The desperate nods come as soon as the last word leaves his lips—your ears pick up on every grunt and huff from him, his big arms caging you in once again as you’re trying to recollect your thoughts. Everything’s too much, the room smells like sex and sin and everything you’ve resolved to stay away from, with the man you love right in the centre of it all.

“J-Jungwon, fuck, I can’t,” you gasp when you feel your throbbing clit dragging against his length, impossibly hard and aching for more of you. “We can’t do this—“

“Shhh,” and his hands are so, so gentle when they come up to caress your tear-stained cheeks. You’re sniffling like this isn’t the best high you’ve experienced in your life—you just lean into his touch, pathetic, staring into his pseudo-soft expression as if it had any real concern. “Yes, you can—and you will.”

Jungwon feels you clamp down on him just then, jaw going slack at just how heavenly your pussy feels. It’s criminal that he’s almost forgotten it, forgotten how well you take him, how good and pliant you get when he’s splitting you open—how you welcome him inside every time, despite all your little pleas and stubbornness.

He knows how to get to you. Yang Jungwon knows that nobody will ever fuck you like how he does, and that every man that comes after will have to remember that you belong to him before anyone else. They’ll have to remember that you get all shy when he whispers in your ear, or that you can cum just from his middle finger alone.

Everyone will know. They don’t have a choice.

“Fuuuck,” he rasps, nose bumping into your jaw as he breathes you in. You smell so much like him that he’s beginning to lose his very little composure remaining. “Gonna cum, Y/N—shit, I’m gonna cum—“

“Hngh, ‘m close too,” your arms find themselves tightening around him, desperately searching for something to hold onto. His muscles are flexing with every desperate rut, every frantic roll of his hips, and God, he’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t going dumb at the idea of filling you up. You’d be all warm inside, his cock plugging you closed as he empties himself into your battered cunt, and you’d take every single drop of it like it was what you’ve always meant to do.

“God, I love you so much,” he whispers, and though it makes your eyes shoot open, you find yourself muttering the same phrase back to him. There’s something sweet in the way he leans in close, just to give you a tender kiss, and then the room flips upside down when his tongue is sliding at your bottom lip again; soon enough, he gets messy, and you’re moaning into each other like you’re the only two people on this street.

“Always mine, mineminemine,” Jungwon huffs. “Don’t ever forget it, mm? You belong to me.”

It crashes into you. Blinding, deafening, like something in you just exploded after the pressure’s built up for months.

You’re soaking him shamelessly, hot and dizzying—Jungwon’s moans sound like they’ve been clipped straight from a porno, disgustingly loud, and still: it makes your orgasm shake. Electricity is buzzing through you, and just what does your ex know to do when you’re crumbling like this?

Go deeper.

“Fuckfuckfuck—w-wait, Jungwon!”

Your pleas mean nothing. He’s being selfish, and he knows it. He doesn’t care if it’s too much, he doesn’t care if you’re crying because he’s too big, he doesn’t care if you’re going to cum on his cock for the fifth time in an hour.

Oh, and he definitely doesn’t care that you’re not together anymore. That’s never stopped him, has it?

“Shit,” his hips snap into you, ruthless, unforgiving, bruising your cervix like it’s personally wronged him. “Wanna get back together, mm?”

“You’re… hngh—you’re crazy, Jungwon!”

“Worth a try.”

"You have nothing to worry about, the promotion is yours."

What should be assuring words from your boyfriend, do little in dismissing the ongoing doubt burrowed in your chest. 

Objectively speaking, he's right. You, a corporate slave, who for the most part shuts up and does their work, should be a shoe-in for the latest high-up position in your glassed office. You're friendly enough for colleague early morning smiles, firm enough to stick up for sheepish juniors, who thank you with pastries from your city's finest. You're dilligent and a force to be reckoned with, perfectly capable and deserving of the stepping stone in your endless ambition.

But the promotion isn't just offered to you. Instead it's proposed as 'healthy competition' between you and the worst human alive.

Some self-entitled, rich prick who if he couldn't have any more wrong with him, is a raging misogynist. With a knack for charading and flaunting generational wealth, Hajoon easily bypasses barriers the rest of your colleagues were sanctioned to through hardwork and ungodly overtime hours. Everyone is beneath him, especially you as every win he earns (buys) is directed at you, through piano key veeners and his 'improved' hairline. 

He also loves to ass-kiss, disgused as niceness as he invites your boss to the life he dreams of: exclusive golf tours, high-end dinner reservations ─ all for the sake of discussing 'business.' It's a flimsy excuse, seen when your boss at least has the decency to be embarrased about. Yet, it doesn't stop him for pitting you together in a race that's already set.

"Let's hope Hajoon doesn't take him to the masters," you scroll through your song library, swiping indiscriminately. "There's only so much prestige I can offer."

"Your work speaks for itself, pretty," Jake chances a glance at you, comfort moulded in his lips. "You mopped the floor with him in that last presentation. It's yours," 

"Besides," he starts, country road stretching past the dust-speckled windshield. "If your boss is so horribly mistaken to choose him, I'd personally bake them a shit pie for their troubles."

You smile despite yourself, a snicker from him triggering yours as their shared volume overrides the murmured engine roar. 

"You're right. About the shit-eating too but," you chuckle, phone dropped into your lap to peer through the window, watching the rustic landscape pass you by. "Things have been so hectic and I think I've placed a lot importance on this than what's good for me." 

"It's good to be driven, love. It's one of your many best traits," just briefly, your eyes catch, the tenderness in his enough to turn your head away. "But this is what this weekend is about. A step back to center yourself, because regardless of what happens, you deserve to put yourself first."

He changes gears, movement second-nature beforer his hand overlaps your thigh, broadly splayed over your jeans with rosy-knuckles and firm grip. Stable, like you've always known him to be. 

Your hand folds over his, a squeeze given to extend your gratitude where words fail. But he knows, knows you in all the pieces given through the six months you've known each other. 

He says this trip to the mountains is a celebration of the milestone, but you know better. You're well aware he's seen you at your most exhausted, still showing up for him and others because contrary to cynic's beliefs, your loved ones come first. He's seen the frustation sear the white of your knuckles, jaw clinched at Hajoon's insults, a loser you don't dignify with a response, letting your work speak for itself. And through it all, he shows up for you. Constantly, but especially now. 

The soft smile on your face doesn't waver as the car eats away at miles travelled, nearing halfway through your journey as Jake pulls into a rest-stop. Humble in size, the establishment offers a string of fast-food restaurants, petrol pumps and an old jungle gym with 'Unsafe. Do Not Enter' sign hanging off it. Before you're able to browse the convenience store to line your stomach, peaked neon lights capture your attention.

Tucked away on the outskirts of the property stands a store half the size of all others, a neon sign of the evil eye lending out a helping hand glowing in hues of violet and rouge. The windows line themselves in the same violet colour, drapes as the backdrop for meticulously placed crystals, tarot cards, singing bowls and the like. Your focus then falls to a poster plastered to the front door, adorned in gold stars over the graphic red curtain background.

Readings available. Learn your destiny here!

Something tugs at you, halts you in step to stare the store down, the lull of car passengers' dulling to nothing. You aren't a stranger to the occult, the centre of many readings your university friends' enticed you into, taking frequent trips with them to your town's crystal shop whilst running errands, only to leave with a set of your own. And when things got dark, you carried a blunt rose quartz in your bra in the hopes your dining hall crush would miraculously notice you. He did, but he wasn't your person for a whole host of reasons, reasons you never lowered your standards for ever again. 

In any case, you are receptive. Open to any messages you feel aligned to and with the ticking seconds hinging on suspense, you give in. 

"I'm gonna go check that store out," your thumb hikes over your shoulder, hand shielding the glare of afternoon sun. "I'll be back."

Jake's head lifts from the fuel filler neck, finding the store then your figure. He doesn't say anything, familar with your bedroom's shelf of collected crystals, incense and tarot cards, flashing you a small smile as he replies, "Take your time. I'll get us snacks."

You thank him in a wink, one sent. back to the affect of a spring in your step, wind blowing in your hair as you tug at the end of your sleeves, jitters alive and well.

The door chimes with your entrance, tranquill sounds of running water filling your ears as curiosity soaks up the shop's interior. Glass shelves lined with their bigger crystal collection: pendulums, palm stones and moldavite necklaces barricaded away. In the singular aisle waist-high is a long, dusted table with woven baskets, an assortment of smaller crystals grouped by purposes, labelled as such. Tiny string lights lace racks, an entanglement of feathered-dream catchers and veined greenery. The opposite wall, identical in decor, holds various tarot and oracle decks, all breath-taking alongside scrying tools taken straight from the Gothic age, marvelled at in quiet astonishment.

The high of getting away swindles your intentions of only getting a reading done, the mould of a rose-quartz cat, curled peacefully in sleep is craddled in your hand, never let go until you're at the till, clearing your throat for the clerk.

In their late teens, the midnight-haired clerk manages the entire interaction without a single look your way, sighing heavily when interrupted through her Kerrang! magazine flip-through. When everything's said and done, a similar feeing to pulling teeth gnaws as you ask for where the readings are done.

"Through the beads," she drawls, smacking her cherry bubblegum. She nodes behind her at the open doorway, behind the plexiglass countertop. 

Fortunately, the counterspace doesn't dominate the entire space, leaving leeway for you to amble past. Her figure remains unmoved, only triggered as her chipped nail polished-fingers drag across a picture of Kellin Quinn, a sigh full of dreams echoed.

Nostalgia shapes your expression, hands separating an opening through the assortment of crystals stringed from the doorway's top frame, cuts of aquamarine, angel aura quartz and rhondonite welcoming you into the space. Notes of lavender breeze past as you step further into the sacred four walls, incense wafting in the sunlight peeking through high windows. Lush rugs and blankets fold over a nearby couch and display shelves, occult trinkets sprinkled around in a personal touch immediately relaxing you. What looks like serves as a breakroom, positions itself for readings with a lone table in its middle, short candles lit with decks spread across the constellation tablecloth.

The reader, mid-shuffle, deserts her cards at your presence, piled onto the edge of her table as she stands, tugging her turquoise shawol over her shoulders.

"Good, another traveler ─ welcome, welcome," the lady in her early fourties gestures to the vacant seat opposite her, clearing her table of dust as her infinite rings clinck together. She wears wisdom on her face, the warmth of her smile luring you in as your legs settle despite inital nerves, "Make yourself at home."

Complying, you seat quietly in the space too cosy to be disturbed, briefly scanning the room before her bracelets sound again. 

"What kind of reading you looking for? I've lived long enough to give you options," she beams, rubbing her hands together. "Tarot spreads, astrology-based readings, face readings ─ whatever you're called to."

So, you pick. Called to the option you've never explored. "A face reading, please."

"You strike me more as the tarot type," she smirks, nifty hands shuffling her cat-themed deck like second nature. Which you suppose is embedded in her, her eyes never leaving yours as no card spills from the speedy movement, neatly packed away with a knock to the table. "Am I wrong?'

"Wait, let me guess ─" her eyes brim in elation, only cast aside inbrief ponder before a wrinkled index finger points your way. "Three of cups, that's your favourite card, right?"

The tattoo inked into your back heats at the chilling remark, an abrupt flush crawling up your neck as your figure seizes in fridigness. You're well aware to carry a healthy amount of suspicion going into this. Not giving away what the readers knows what you want to hear but with irrelevant your covered tattoo to the area of the reading, you can't help but blink. Wide-eyed and slowly, attempting a too-late cover-up when all the colour returns to your face.

"No need to be embarrassed. I've developed a talent for these things," she muses, pointed nails drumming into the table. "Certainly wouldn't make a living otherwise."

She chuckles, in a way that's reminscient of quiet Saturday afternoons on your aunty's back garden, swaying wherever the hammock took you as you sketched to the melodies of birds. She'd religiously keep her avain population feed through bulk-buys of the finest bird food, cracking piastachio nuts with her legs crossed as her eyes observed them, seeing the same freedom in their wings as she had, the only difference being when their bellies were full, they flocked away together while she remained alone. It's something you try not show on your face. 

"You have a lot of moles," she observes, her expression void of sentiment. "Very telling for the kind of life you live,"

"It seems a bit lonely, your familal life," she notes, a blink all you muster to her truth. "Things were almost never stable financially, which you took upon yourself to manage along with everything else you did alone,"

A vacant house, parents working to make ends meet with the throat-stifle to make better of your home amounts to this, your youth saving pennies not for Barbie dolls but contributions to a microwave that warmed food twice as long. Summer and part-time jobs spent wistfully looking out windows at people your age, tanned and smiling from their boat days while the only Sun you ever see is on your breaks. A social life forgone with your head buried in books, affording yourself scholarship-funded education that when it comes time to toss your cap, you give your gown and sash to your parents for photos, their teary-eyes coupled with your wobbled smile. 

"You're a smart and capable lady, destined to gain respect and nobility for those who see you for who you are. A lot of satisfaction awaits you," the reader's voice breaches your lazy mirage, watchful eyes grazing over your features. A knit sews her caramel eyebrows loosely, lines of her forehed speaking of the countless times she'd made the expression. "It's long overdue. A life spent living for others. You second guess your displays of affection because you think they don't suffice, but I see you. There's enough care given to loved ones that there's almost never the chance for them to think of paying the favour back,"

Aversion demands your eyes to direct elsewhere in the store ─ her Chinese lucky cat, arm waving to spread wealth and propserity, her snoozing black cat affectionately named Jiji on their back snoring to high heavens ─ anywhere to offload the impending feel of being seen. Plucked back through your onion-layers to the core where you lay.

"Some people depise that of you. Being so permanently in your lane and headstrong," you could roll your eyes, already pinpointing the association to Hajoon. "They may obstruct your path, but there's nothing that can come between destiny," 

Finally, a smile breaks out onto her face, chin in her palm. "There are others who adore you for those same traits and more. Have spent many moons counting their blessings your heart remains set on them."

A memory surfaces. A few, some flashes of late nights holding cherished friend's hands in yours as they recount their gratitude for your presence in their life, teary-eyed because you keep choosing them. Warmth blossoms in your chest, felt in the tips of your fingers interlocked in your lap. A memory lingers longer than the rest, three months exactly into seeing Jake where he tucks a stray hair behind your ear, slopes of his angular face bathed in moonlight while he looks at you like the stars above are in your eyes, saying:

"I want to continue choosing you," he speaks just above a whisper, not bothering with how bare he sounded. "If you'll let me."'

You gulp, hands running against the grain of your jeans. 

"It's not going anywhere soon, the high on your horizon," she relays, drumming gel nails against her clear quartz palm stone. "Blessings will come in, fast and plentiful ─ think Ace of Cups and Eight of Wands,"

"In all aspects of your life," you don't miss the emphasis in her voice. How could you with the wink she does? "This is very inspiring. And a rightful change. I'm happy for you."

And she genuinely means it, smile mirroring that of a long-time friend, melting the ice freezing your rigid shoulders. 

"Thank you. I really appreciate─" 

Your words evaporate with the chimes of crystals together, head turning to see Jake's polite, beaming face. Brightness gleams in his eyes, fondness curving the edge of his smile at you before it falls behind you, teeth bared in a hint of awkwardness.

"Hi, sorry for interrupting. The clerk said I could come in," his eyes track back to yours. "Should I come back later?"

"No, we actually just finished," softness blends in your limbs at his presence, an outstretched hand instantly in his as he squeezes yours before you get the chance. He has the gall to wink your way like you don't have an audience, playfulness rolling your eyes right to your audience. "Thanks again for the reading. It was really insightful."

For the first time since you'd come through those same crystals, the reader lacks words. Her expression washes over in a quiet stint of merriment, lips parting with a gaze very much directed over your shoulder. At Jake who's a good sport about being oogled, closed mouth grin present while his thumb ghosts over your knuckles. The rise of your eyebrow cues her back to reality, a flush engulfing the timid bunch of her cheeks, abruptly standing to gesture your way out despite it being the same one you walked through.

"Yes, yes, of course. Come again if you ever happen upon our town," the words rush out of her a mile a minute, courteous chuckles huffing out yours and Jake's mouths. "I'm sure you've got all you're looking for though."

The rushed comment isn't missed either, lip bitten to only spill in the confinements of the car. The same sentiment's shared by Jake who casts you a quick glance, catching his laughter in a fist.

"I'll just make my payment at the front, if that's okay."

"Oh, don't worry about it," Jake interjects, pushing the bend of his lips down. "I already paid." 

"Jake,"

"Give me an earful in the car," he jokes. "Better head out before it gets dark."

Well into the afternoon with the cabin still miles away, you lapse into agreement, brimming gratitude at the reader before you're following in Jake's footsteps out the doorway.

A call for your name turns your head, quiet enough for Jake's ears not to catch on as the crystal curtains close behind his figure, leaving you in the quiet hum of the reader's room, vibrational music nothing but a faint buzz. 

She scurries over to you with alert eyes, stealing a look through her crystal curtains before her gaze centers back.

"I don't usually feel compelled to say these things. Especially since I can acknowledge such matters have the chance of making patrons…uncomfortable,"

You're bracing yourself to whatever may come from her mouth, something to be taken or pushed aside, curiousity getting the better of you as you lean into her hushed words. 

"He was what I was talking about ─ satisfaction," she stresses, fingers pinched together. "He will make you very happy, as I'm sure you already know,"

"But," her eyes avert again, like you imagine yours did during the reading. She fiddles with the rings on her weathered fingers, metal circled around loose skin in an attempt to self-soothe. "There are other areas he will satisfy you," 

"He─his appetite," she says like she can't believe the words on her tongue. "Knows no end. His greed will take you places your mind cannot begin to conceptualize."

Your stance goes rigid, a silent part of suprise in your lips. 

"I'm sorry, what?" you squint your eyes as if it'll help you hear better. "Are you…are you talking about─"

"Yes," she admits, colour rushing to her cheeks. "There are many things a face can encapsulate; we are mere pages in the book of our past, present and future. Values, destiny and personality ─ we wear our life's story on our face."

Your hands come up to drag against your cheeks, trying a grasp at comprehension.

"And his is a high sex drive…?" you utter the words slowly, unsure where the heartfelt sentiment's gone.

"He is insatible. Plays his part as doting, sweet boyfriend because those are qualities he truly posses," her throat bobs, eyes cut to the front door in a wild flare. "But he brings other qualities when called to, when the timing is right. Things that will bring forth the kind of chemistry equal to a house on fire." 

Her hands brace against your tensed shoulders, bracelets jangling with the seriousness she laser-beams into your eyes. "Please darling, load up on electrolytes," her blinks come hard and fast, replicated in the rhythm of her breath. "Stretch and just pray you'll make it out alive." 

Ill-manners aren't part of your social palette, real expressions hidden by the jaded niceness society peers at you through. But in the feverish and apparently delirious rant the reader has forced onto your shoulders, they tremble with the building laughter buzzing through your chest, muffled by pressed lips not really doing their part. Evident in the surprise unfolding her scrunched expression, hand coming over your mouth to wish the laughter away as you get out a quick, "Noted. Thank you again." 

It doesn't come from a bad place, but when you're back outside, trekking back to the car some guilt exists with the tremble in your chest, putting a plug in it by drumming a palm to your torso. 

"Everything good?" Jake asks once you're back in the car, strapping himself in. "Reading went okay?"

Where do you even begin? It did go great until he showed up and apparently rocked the reader's world, who then expressed how much he would rock your world. Agreed, Jake does a good job in the bedroom but the concept of him being an insatible beast when called upon? While plausible, the circumstances surrounding its revelation push snickers out your nose.

"Yeah, a lot of fortune's on its way. Finally," you strap yourself in too, cracking your knuckles to mask your giggles. "Lots of uhm, satisfaction too."

It's a loaded end to your answer, one you communicate in a bitten back smile Jake goes on to replicate, letting out the bit of amusement he tucked away back in the store. 

"Happy to hear that, baby," he laughs, fist over his lips, licking them over when his hands extend to the steering wheel. "You deserve good fortune coming your way," 

He kisses your cheek over the console, the press sweet and delictae. A reality where it's bruising and lust-driven flashes briefly. 

Hovering close to you, his voice dips in volume, eyes peered up at yours with a teasing glint. "Could've told you that for free though."

"I thought it was gonna be insighful!" you shove his shoulders, mellow laughter filling the vehicle. "It was but─" 

"Just joking, pretty. I'm sure you got what you needed from the reading," sincerity shines in his eyes, accented by the peppered kisses he does against your cheek, the last one on your temple. "Let's get going, yeah?"

Your agreement blends in with you turning on the car radio, reconnecting to the aux where Geese's '3D Country' thumps through its bass intro, engine roaring to life as you get back on the road, leaving the minute rest-stop and tarot shop in the dust. You're meant to carry what resonates through her reading and that you do, the miserable grey anxiety cloud in your chest clearing knowing your hardwork at work will be rewarded. Knowing that the love you put into the universe will find itself back to you. Not because in the end, you wished to serve yourself, but because you always hoped the goodness you met others with could pour into others' lives too. 

But something else lingers. The grip she had on your shoulders, the astonishment on her face when Jake joined you two, her remark about electrolytes. Priding yourself on being an open person, you welcome her perception of Jake through an impartial lens ─ there's only so much sex to have since you two started dating, a precaution exercised courtesy of your therapist. Exhausted by empty hookups and abrupt endings lacking promise, she challenged you to find human connection elsewhere. Be as vulnerable you could because dating was somehow more horrifying than being naked in front of a stranger. At least then, you spoon-fed them bits of yourself ─ all in self-interest ─ and when they ultimately left, because they got what they wanted, they didn't take your heart with them. You'd never given it to them in the first place. Dating, however, if you were after what your heart desired, entailed an honesty you had to sit with. A partner you could really be yourself with ─ all the neat and messy bits you've been perfected packing in a pretty bow ─ and through trials and tribulations, tug of wars due to your attachment style, you found your Jake. Someone who you could be yourself with, and someone who you know reflected that back to you. No charades, no secrets, just sincerity that's maybe charmed you into rose-tinted lenses. 

Then again, she did say it was a matter of calling it 'upon him.' 

Time would tell, eventually.

That time comes sooner than expected. 

Tucked away in the mountains breathing crisp air, is the luxury cabin Jake so kindly splurged on for your weekend getaway. Upon seeing your scandalised face, the cedar and oak structure built with love and wealth in the addition of a hot tub, he ducks his head, sheepish in his grin as he says, "Guess I caught that deal on a good day." 

Like the gentleman he is, he deals with all your luggage as you climb the steep-rocked driveway, head on a swivel as the mountains stretch on for miles. With spring creeping in, the moutain peaks have lost their snow blanket, sprinkled in scarce flakes that still have your breath visible before you. You inhale, letting the clear air fill your lungs then exhale, the city left behind a distant memory as Jake opens the cabin's front doors.

It's every bit of lush as its' exterior, hanging warm lights and wooden halls seemingly going on forever. It earns Jake a sidelong glance, a guilt-free shrug his answer before he catches you in his arm, pulling you close in a kiss on top of your head. 

"It's ours for the weekend," he whispers, hazelnut and oak notes wafting in his presence. "Let's play house."

So, you do. Once all luggage's been put in the bedroom, suitcase left open for easy access, you tread through the halls with heated floors, into the kitchen where Jake makes a start on the store-bought tortellini. Side by side, you make the sauce, joking bumps of the hip dished between each other as your blended playlist hums in the background, serenading the sweet plate Jake's face lights up at once he's tasted the food. He commends your skills even when you have none, yet you smile. Because there's always a genuineness about him, a happiness built on something stable you allow yourself to fall back into, only proven by your suggestion to crack open a bottle of wine in the hot tub. 

"Is that a new swimsuit?"

Lowering into the buzzing water, you chance a glance at Jake, a blank canvas if not for the evident bob his Adam's apple does, his spread fingers threading through the current.

"A new bikini, yes," you settle opposite him, reaching for and sipping on white wine without a break in eye-contact. "Like it?"

He's the first to break, giving you his sharp side-profile with a smile that's all knowing. The chestnut waves of his hair frame his face perfectly, falling like curtains around his eyes as they gravitate back to yours.

"Yeah, I do. A lot." 

Your time is spent like this, toeing the line of flirtation and dare, enough physical space spared if not for the stifling conversation, nothingness spoken of to the build-up of whatever festers underneath the surface.

The thought had crossed your mind over dinner ─ when Jake's none the wiser, happily humming with pasta sauce dipped into his lip corner ─ the reader's words and her conviction. However cagey you may have been, Jake's always been respectful of your boundaries, never pushing when he knows the walls will fall when ready, a pattern of forthcomingness observed in the little time you've had. Yet, with a work schedule meant to kick your ass and social obligations shifting him to second priority, not much time is spared. Not enough to talk, not enough to explore…whatever things Jake supposedly brings to the table.

With the nagging prickle in mind, the night's event unfold into destiny. When your fingers have pruned, three glasses of wine polished off, you dry off to slip into one of his shirts and a pair of underwear plenty purposeful. An agenda noticed in Jake's expression as he enters back into the bedroom, patting down his face.

He doesn't make any comment, only laughs to himself before he resumes his bedtime ritual, coming back to you eventually as a starfish on the bed, your Kindle long forgotten.

His chin perches onto the arms folded onto your stomach, peering through his brows. "Feel relaxed?" 

Automatically, your fingers find their way into his hair, teasing the soft strands with your fingertips. "Yeah. The wine helped."

He smiles, a brief hide of his face to conceal his mirth. "I don't know how you drink that stuff."

"You had just as much as I did!" 

"I only started to enjoy it like, halfway through the second glass," he concedes, feigned exasperation coming out you in a sigh. "Definitely needed that energy drink as palette cleanser." 

Ah, yes. The one with electrolytes, one he'd bought for you too. The irony is not lost on you. 

"We'll get more in town tomorrow," your eyes drift to the alarm clock on the bedside table, time incorrect but the late hour evident. "What you got planned?"

He tosses his head to simulate careful pondering, bottom lip jutted under his finger. "Lots of pampering and shopping ─ only the best for my girl,"

The bunch of your cheeks turns your head sideways, body restless beneath his to a point of his body moving off yours. It doesn't take a second of contemplation, positions switching to your thighs straddling his hips, his hand fanned across your lower back as you stare down at him, watching him become more pupils than eyes. 

"Anything else?"

The invitation hangs in the air, gulped down by Jake who scoffs softly, putting a hand behind his head with veins lining his arm. The loss of your gaze when circled back to him makes his lip corner lift, horribly smug. 

"I've got a few ideas," he husks, his hips shifting beneath you, something other than bone brushed against your ass. 

"Budge up," he coaxes, you immediately complying. "More,"

You laugh, hands braced at your sides. "Jake, I'm halfway up your chest. Not sure that's an optimal for kissing."

"Who said anything about kissing?" 

He says it easily, like it doesn't make every fragment of your spine click into place. Besides the brief stiffen of your muscles, your brain starts working again to brace hands against his chest, wandering. 

"You're trouble."

"Yeah? That what you think I am?" his hands, veined and cold relief against your thigh, graze in what's meant to be absent nature. You can't help but suspect purpsefulness on his own end when he kneads the flesh the closer they inch to your ass. "Did she tell you that?"

A missed heartbeat marks the blaring silence permeating his statement, splayed hands hinged on his shoulders wrestling with the material of his shirt as you rack your brain. Thinking if you should mention it. 

"You could be her disciple," the joke doesn't really land like you want it, tasting more bitter on your tongue. "Yes, she did."

His hand cease agaisnt your thighs, kickstarting contemplation of whether you've spoken too much. 

"So that's what that was about," he smirks, hand over his eyes like he's been caught. The stretch of his lips does little to dissipate your 'healthy skepticism.' "It's like the energy shifted when I came in."

"It kind of did," laughter puffs out, a bit breathless on your end. His hands fall back to your hips, feeling yours shift for comfort. "She got a good look at you and I walked out with a 2-for-1 deal,"

His head cocks to the side, curious. "What'd she say?"

Amusement breaks out onto your face, bitten back. 

"She made some hints at you holding yourself ─ poor choices of words," you backpedal, sorting through your vocab of empathy. "She said something along the lines of, if maybe I breached the topic with you, things could be different…"

"In terms of?" he prompts, asking for clarity.

But there's a curve to his lip, a shit-eating grin held back. You're starting to have more faith in all the reader's words.

"Sex," you couldn't say the word any softer, comfortable being sexually open amongst friends but in the quiet of the mountains, with nothing but Jake beneath you, you cower into your skin. "She said you could be different."

"Hungry?"

"Insatible is the word she used, but I'm pretty sure she said hungry too," a form of reluctance pushes air out your chest, hand raised to scratch the flush building on your neck. "I, of course with every reading I get, took that with a pinch of salt because I mean, it all happened so fast and sometimes readings can be influenced by other factors like─"

"She's not wrong."

A pin could drop. It could hit the heated-hardwood floors and sound like a crashing boulder, an avalanche descending from the mountain's peak with no end in sight. 

Perhaps you shouldn't be so taken aback. It's not like Jake knows everything about you six months into knowing you ─ he may know about how you like your eggs cooked and how you failed your driver's test three times before getting your license. He didn't know about the complications weaving your parental relationship and he certainly didn't know you had a spit kink. Could've guessed it, but it was never an admission on your part. Not everyone in your life - even those close to you - needed to know every part of your soul and in a relationship, things would reveal themselves in time. He didn't need to know everything to love bomb or use against you. He would never, but the cynism of your heart is hard to beat. 

You don't speak. Your mouth refuses to croak out, "What do you mean?" 

So, you simply watch him with a smile that's more anticipatory-curiousity with ears waiting on his next words.

"I mean, it's normal to not show all your cards at once, no?" What's meant to be a remark laced with slivered awkwardness, apparent in the gnaw he embeds into his bottom lip, also comes with the permanent fixture of a smirk. He can't hold his enjoyment back, that much is apparent to you.

"I'm sure you haven't told me everything you're into," his fingertip traces against your thigh, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "What makes you shake."

His eyes flutter up to yours, the mirth-advantage of the situation gone with the wind whistling past the bedroom french doors. He only has you in his sights, the heat rising from him edging you into dizziness. 

"It never was a matter of secrecy," he makes known, possessive with his grip on your hip. You buck into his touch. "Gauging what you're comfortable with and knowing what you can take has always been a priority to me."

Tingles run like critters all over you, a twitch of the hand given before your grip solidifies against his shoulder, finger slid beneath the collar of his shirt. Your skin sizzles pressed against his. 

"But if you wanna push and try something new, who am I to get in the way?"

There's something undeniably sexy about how he commands the situation, gentle with the patience of a saint, tenderness in his guidance towards what you realise you've been too scared to voice. 

"Do you want to?" he asks, head ducked to meet your hung head. "See how far you can go?"

Apprenhension will always be there, bubbling in the pits of your stomach with the accompanying voice at the back of head posing more questions than answers. But you know, you've known for a long time there wasn't anything scary if Jake was beside you. The sail to your boat, the roots to your tree, your branches free to grow how ever sky high you desired.

You only had one answer, smiles to your faces as your fingers thread together, a squeeze against yours for good measure. 

"Now budge up," his cheeks take on a rosy tint, satisfaction in his grin. "It's time to put my mouth to better use." 

Your body runs like a motorboat's engine, feather-light brushes tickling your chest as your legs operate on auto-pilot, wild eyes peering down on Jake's. Cinnamon brown are their hue, decked in a sweetness sharp enough to gulp down the cotton ball lodged your throat, breath wethered as his hands hover hollowly on your hips, making sure you're in place. 

It's only then, when your clammy hands grapple onto the elegant carve of the wooden headboard, that you remember. 

"My underwear," 

You go to take them off, only for your hand to be eclipsed by Jake's, a hot brand against your skin.

"Don't," he gruffs out, eyes lingering on your core for longer than what's polite, a slow drawl to your eyes, his pupils fully blown. "Keep them on." 

The lacy lilac crotchless thong, 'not' purposely packed for this trip, remains on, pushed further apart with his finger and the bite of your lip, eyes fluttering closed as you wish for yourself not to buckle. Despite his wishes, the idea of perching all your weight on him remains a legalty you'd rather not take chances with, knees embedded into the mattress all the support you give yourself for a polite hover.

His lips press against your inner thigh, possessive and hefty, contact slowly unwinding the tension-hike your shoulders have done to your earlobes, muffled moans in your mouth as he takes his sweet time with niceities. Small and measured kisses against skin you wished he'd gloss over, the press of his lips along your pelvis bone shuddering a broken breath out of you, desperate hands anchoring for the stability you're quickly losing. Cognition starts to haze over the lazy clouds populating your brain, thoughts only sharp enough to register the anticipation racing through you, the high-strung bundle of knots in your stomach dangling above a bottomless pit. 

"Baby," he calls, voice thick and strained. "You're so fucking wet, I don't know what to do with myself."

Your personality is hard-wired enough for a retort. "Then get to it." 

He huffs, singular and devastating to the strength you've been summoning in the warmth of your bedroom, warm air puffing against your core to make you groan. His own one follows right after as his arms abruptly bring your hips forward, a yelp short-lived as his lips brush against your glistening folds, a whimper verberating through your own lips clamped together for the sake of your dignity. 

"That's the last I hear out of you besides my name." he promises, stern before he dives in. 

He steals your breath with you, air pushed out your weak lungs as he tastes every crevice of you, from your slicked entrance begging for an inch of him to the top of your clit, suckling on the bundle of nerves. Nails are introduced to the headboards' craftmanship, scratched at in long draw marks that should spell out alarm, if not for the sheer bliss conjured between your legs. Jake is purposeful with every thing he does, groaning into you like it pains him for you to taste so sweet, licking up all the facet-run slick pouring from you, further echoed by your thighs until it's all you hear. Your moans and his mouth, working with gradual abandonment, hands pressing into your skin to make you melt.

"Always taste so good for me, pretty," he murmurs against you, a moment not on you a moment wasted. "Can't get enough of how you shake,"

His moan vibrates against your folds, your knee slipping beneath you to lower further onto him, ass grazing the stubble you've been actively avoiding with the cross of your legs, a high keen out your throat as he sucks on your clit. 

"Jake," you whine, your head swarming with enough lust to weighh heavy on your shoulders. "Fuck, don't stop."

"Baby, I'll be here for hours," he resplies back, prying your mouth open with a soundless gasp. "Nothing's getting between me and this pretty pussy right here."

Your body curls in on itself, willing the building pleasure in your stomach to cease, senses running wild to a point where all your mind can pinpoint is the man between your thighs, eating you out like it's his last meal. Esctacy is no stranger to the time spent on your back, Jake plucking all the right chords to have you seeing stars but this feels different. He has his mouth on you like a man long deprived, securing his arms around your thighs with non-existent space, holding you down as if his last tether to Earth. It shatters you from the inside-out, blowing any far-gone perception of pleasure out the window, attaching yourself to here and now as he moans around your clit, sloppy with his tongue drags as you drip down his chin. 

"You dripping all over me, baby," he has the gull to chuckle into you, tracing his tongue around your entrance in the aftermath of the warmth breath blown against you, your sanity dwindling in alarming amounts. "Tell me how good you feel. Tell me who gets you wetter than this."

"So good," you can't help but mewl, one hand slithering down to him, fingers carding through his hair for a tug. "It's only you, only you." 

"Sound so good when you're desperate for me," he sucks hard on your clit just to hear you break, walls squeezed impossibly tight. "Go on, grind on me. Take what you can get." 

It should make you feel small, stringed to his words like a puppet but if they align with your buried wants, who are you to say no? So, you comply, staple both hands against the headboard and grind, tentatively at first when he's allowed your thighs more space. Then, he sets the tone, pushing you a force that has your clit knocking into his nose, lace fabric dragged along to make you putty in his hands.

"There you go," Jake grins against you, a hopleess moan escaping you as he gives you a few more helpful nudges, your voice crying out at more pleasure. "Didn't you say you loved my nose? Put it to good use then."

You could cry, you're willing yourself not to, teeth so far into your bottom lip the marks may never leave. You're melting like ice-cream on the hot plain of Jake's skin, your hips sheepish but gaining momentum, humping yourself against his face as he smothers himself between your thighs. 

Breaths cycle through you, deep and slow then short and fast, voice edged to the end of the Earth where you feel yourself inching dangerously close to, the sole mission of getting yourself off diminshing any decorum you so stupidly clung to. Hips moving back and forth, the structure of estasy so expansive in you, your body feels like it'll collapse with it. 

In the haze of your motions, you chance a look down at Jake, finding his eyes rolling back with the look of eroticism mapped all over his flushed face, eyebrows knitting together as he laps up all the slick you can't seem to stop. The image, forever imprinted in your mind, brings you impossibly close, croaking a tortored whine high up to the sky, hips moving with enough force to make the bed creak while you chase your release. 

"You're close," he pants, sparing himself a breath before tasting you on his tongue. "That's it, baby. Let go for me. Let go for Jake."

A scream unknown to you unleashes, ripped right out your chest and vibrating off the walls soaked in your moans, your body collasping in a series of long, stationary shivers. All your weight is now on Jake as your mouth dries, forehead banged against the headboard. You're too lightheaded to feel its impact, body overtaken by the sensations raving your body from the depths of its core, shaken with no way out but through.

An unknown amount of time passes, the furtherest thing from what's meant to be your mind, rattled beyond rational thought. The only thing grounding you is the the eventual slow of your breath, decelerating to normalcy as you start to feel human again. Jake is…still persistent, gradual this time but making sure he has every drop of you, your taste embedded to his tongue before you summon enough energy to lift your leg over him, body falling limp into a fetal position before you tip over onto your back. 

"Was it good, sweet girl?" Despite your muffled hearing, you can hear the smugness drenched in his tone, a secondary observation of the bed shifting under his moving weight. "Got what you hoping for?"

To completely rewrite the concept of a good orgasm was not what you were hoping for, but Jake knows that win belongs to him, chuckling to himself in a dark hum licking want up your spine. You think your body is yet to recover, but signs point out an otherwise. 

Breathing is what you dedicate your attentin to, body horribly feverish as your brain attempt to grapple with the overcast of your thoughts, fog dense from that. Somewhere in your daze, your body moves free of your own doing, handled with great care as Jake displays you for his viewing pleasure, an abrupt hold in your plea for oxygen as something hot slides against your cunt.

A feathered hiss shoots through bared teeth, haze blinked back through thick lashes as your view centers back to Jake. His briefs are pulled down enough for him to free his cock, tip large and flushed as it beads precome against your underwear. Yours and his clothing isn't even all the way off, the crop of his t-shirt revealing the definition of his v-line, pelvis marked by veins and a trimmed trail to what he grinds against you, underwear slick-stuck to you as he lets out a starved grunt. 

"Fuck," he falls forward, arms bracketing your body as his eyes flicker down to where you meet, filthy and desperate. "This what you wanted? Me so gone for you, I'll take you anyway I can?" 

"Jake," you moan, shiver wracked up your spine as his tip nudges against your clit, brief friction scrambling words in your brain. "Off. Take them off."

"What's the point when I can get you needy like this?" his chuckle comes out breathy, eyes finding yours. "You're so wrecked. I haven't even put it in yet."

"Put it in then," you strain, frustation bucking your body, a notch to the clit bowing your body off the mattress. "Please,"

"Feels good, hm baby?" His smirk is full of triumph, not an ounce of sympathy for the poor body beneath him, clawing at any inch of him. "You could come from this, I could too. Paint your pretty thong before I fill you up,"

Your walls cave in, clenching around nothing but slick as it pushes back onto Jake's cock that has a better glide, a keen at the height of your throat while arms overlap your eyes, condemned to darkness. 

"Did you just get wetter?" incredulous are how his words come, a harder grind into you coming with the echo of your entrance, undeniably lined in slick. "Pretty, if you wanted me to come in you, all you had to do is ask."

Timidty flames your cheeks, claws of desires scraping at your chest to be released. "I─fuck, I want─"

"Say the word and they're off." are his last words, the decision yours to make. 

One that doesn't take much contemplation. 

"Please," the request comes, sounding just as desperate as your ears hate to hear. "Take them off. Come in me…please."

"I'll do right by you, pretty," he reminds you, fingers already hooked underneath their band. "Won't have to worry your head about anything. Just lay back and look pretty like you always do," 

"And when I'm done with you, you'll have everything you ever wanted." 

He pushes in. Anticipated to a point where your entrance closes in on his tip immediately, a whine let out to push back against the rush at bay before you open up for him again, the glide smooth and uninterrupted as he buries himself to the hilt. Full doesn't begin to scratch the surface of how you feel, lungs pushed up to your struggling throat as your nails sink into the duvet, scratching into fabric as his tip rests against the spongy spot that has you squirming, body shying away from the sensery overload only for a smack to bounce off the cabin walls. 

Your body jolts with it, a dull tingle searing through your clit marked by the palm of his hand, a croak coming out your throat, dying with a whine that shows you for what you are. 

"You liked it," he has to say, more surprised than smug. "You clenched around me─fuck, you're so tight."

His teeth bury into his bottom lip, in no way deterred as his hand stables itself on your knee, spreading your legs wider. 

"Look at how much I'm learning about you," his voice carries air backed by a condescending nature, his ego only affirmed as you moan to his building thrusts. "At the end of this, I might know your body better than you do," 

You keen again, sinking deeper into the molasses of pleasure he engulfs you, practiced precision of what you like most as he dedicates every thrust to that one spot, eyebrows scrunched to the building pit of your stomach. 

"Just tell me what you like, pretty," he sings like a siren in your ear, hand cupped over your cheek to graze a thumb over a stray tear, licking his thumbpad clean before his hand falls back to your knee. "And I'll make it worth your while." 

"Fuck me," comes out rough in your pressed voice, hand directing his to your clit. "Harder."

Seemingly impressed, he only grins with a dipped head, his last words being, "Yes, Ma'am."

It's all moans and wet squelches from then onwards, gratitude set aside for no nearby neighbours as Jake puts you through the mattress, hitting the deepest parts of you that have you singing his praisies, the only competiting sounds being the ongoing flood of slick where you meet and the creaks of the bed. The auditory input spins your head around, whines endless out of your mouth as harsh smacks of skin drum against your ears, the bundle of pleasure in your belly constantly hit with the wrath of Jake's pistons. He's taken it upon himself to comb over everything you've loved in bed, sparing every heightened sob and moan special attention as he deals you his hand, rubbing lazy circles on your clit before the smacks come. They build in intensity, low-level hip-buckles extending to full-body convulsions, letting the tears flow as the pain marries so sweet with the low-pain.

"Seems like my pillow princess likes a bit of pain," he observes, devastatingly handsome when he's cocky. He pushes hair out his face as his fingers run over the dulled simmer of your clit, your lips in a pout. "Does its' job considering how much you're clenching around me," 

"What? Can't speak?" he questions, purposely leaning in to get himself deeper, a shift amounting to the wobbly sobs you hum. "Fucked too good? Want me deeper, sweetheart?"

You're mindllessly nodding, moisture grouping your lashes together as you can only accept the fate of going after your orgasm, using all means to bring it into reality. 

"You're cute when you can't speak," he muses, hiking your legs onto his shoulder one after the other. "Gotta keep your mouth filled, know how much you love that."

His degradation does something to your brain chemistry, his cock inching into places you have no words for, slick splashing back onto his cock as he pistons further, lodging himself further into you as he leans forward with his weight. Now reaching parts of you untouched, you're at a loss for your mind and what to do, arms enveloping the muscles of his back as your nails drag against the expanse. 

"Might have a thing for pain too," he chuckles, biting down on his lip, a wild look in his red-rimmed eyes as his world boils to only you. "Love when you mark my back, love. Lets me know how good I've got you,"

Thighs braced against you, he hits deeper than you can keep up with, mouth ajar as it serves as a vessel for missed breaths. Your tongue runs dry, lips smacked in a half-hearted attempt but it doesn't land right. You need more. You know you need more but the mere thought scrunches your face, esctasy blooming behind closed eyes.

"What you need, bunny?" Jake's voice is jaw-droppingly sweet, a kiss pressed above the corner of your lip. "My mouth?"

"Spit," it comes out with a whimper, eyes squinting as you will your wish into existence. "In my mouth. Now."

His thrusts only misses a beat, a shaky breath echoing after your words before plunges deeper, taking your voice with you. 

"You're dirty, you know that?" he muses, brows knitted like it kills him to experience such gratification. "My come isn't enough for you? Want every bit of me, huh?"

Your brain is elsewhere, a distant theory for whatever's melted between your ears, a nod coming from within you. "Want it, want it bad, Jake." 

"Where's your manners, sweetheart?" he coos, laughing when you're flailing against him, thrashing around like the spoiled princess you are. "You're usually so polite for me. What happened?"

"Jake," your hand finds his jaw, finding the strength to wire him to you. "Spit. Now,"

"No." he laughs. "I'm not doing it until you beg."

An attempt is made to pry his jaw open, but to no avail, his playful headshakes meant to haunt you long after this is over.

Whenever that is.

"Jake, I need it─I," shame floods your being, not stopping the request. "Please. Just once, I only need it once, pretty please?"

His hips topple over their rhythm, stuttered against the flesh of your thighs as restraint crumples his face, a pleading breath sent to the ceiling before he locks eyes with you again. 

"Do you know how pretty you sound begging for me? Shit," he curses, swatting your hand away to mirror the same gesture on yours, jaw dropped with your tongue laid out. "Here you go, since your filth comes with manners," 

The spit lands square on your tongue, a mewl so dirty from you there's no coming back, your walls closing around Jake's cock like a vice as you taste him ─ spearmint with a hint of that energy drink ─ and swallow, humming all the way down. 

"Holy shit," his voice tremours with wonder, swiping the hair out your face so you have a good look at him when he says, "Get on your knees. Right now."

The euphoric mist clouding over from his spit still remains, crumpling your expression with confusion, quickly switching to surprise as Jake hauls himself off you. He pulls you along for the ride as he manhandles you into position, your body now facing the french doors of your bedroom, the wilderness all your hazy eyes see. Horror creeps up on you, your bodies in plain view in the bedroom lowlights, watching your mouth fall ajar as Jake pushes in from behind, your toes curling as he fills you.

He thrusts like he never stopped, the fast tempo making skin slaps ring in your ears, your arms moving in a slow buckle as you struggle to hold yourself upright.

It takes a miracle to movenur your arm behind you, tapping Jake's arm. "Jake,"

Your head motions to the french doors, which leave nothing to the imagination ─ your lewd actions on full display for anyone's viewing pleasure. 

"The curtains," aren't drawn, you want to say, but can't choking on a moan when Jake hits deepest in you. "P-people will see," 

"They've been open this whole time. Let them," he gruffs, firming his grip on your hips. "Don't want them to know how dirty you are? How good you are at taking at cock?"

In the reflection, you lay witness to him lower down to your back, thrusting into you with no end in sight as he whispers in your ear. "It's too late, baby. We both know your dirty secret. Just be good and take it." 

Your arms give in, hopeless against constructs you're trying to hold yourself to when Jake's given nothing but freedom to be you. In all the ways you've shyed away from, collasping under the brute force of everything coming at you ─ the shame, the pleasure, the hopeleness, the satisfaction ─ it all hits you at once, releasing the cry deeply buried of his name as you come. 

All the cells in your body simultaneously shatter and become whole again, drifting into another realm you don't bother acknowledging, centered on the full-blown euphoria blown past your eyes, raving you whole. You cry into your arms, voice having no limits with your nonsensical babble while you try coming down from your orgasm, Jake having enough sympathy to fuck you slow until you're back together again, hunched over in a near hysterical state. 

Since when were things like this? Since when did the man who brought you bliss bring you this close to deconstruction?

It'd have to be an afterthoight as Jake's palm soothes down your bent spine, heel pressing in to exaggerate your arch before he kneads the flesh of your ass, getting off on the constant whines at the mere hover of his fingers.

"You with me, baby?" tongue in cheek, he questions, still sliding in and out of it, slick dribbling down to the duvet cover. "You did so good coming for me. Ready for another?"

Your head snaps to his, mildly offended. "Another one?"

He giggles, sporting a boyish grin. "Insatible, right?" your eyes roll on on their own, head burying into your arms. "I'm just owning up to it now," 

"Besides," he starts, his hips jumpstarting to as he makes deliberate knocks into you, deep and forceful, moving you up on the bed. "Weren't you the one begging to be filled?" 

"Let me grant your wish, baby," he coos, addiction laced in his voice, his hand smoothing over the curve of your ass and hip. "Let me fill you."

You agree, because there's no end to your need too.

He gets back to it. Thrusting without abandonment, fingertips indenting into your hips as he fucks the cries out of you, expression so bliss-blown in the reflection, the building pressure in your stomach starting again.

You've got enough energy in you to prop yourself up again, helped by Jake who moments before, held your hands behind your back to pound into you. The stretch pulls your searing cheeks as your teeth bare, plucked apart by your low-hanging jaw. He coos, with all the condescending nature he's masked, making his way into your ear. 

"Pity I can't fill your mouth like this," he muses, his hand over the column of your throat, applying pressure that translates to the squeeze of your walls. "I'm only one man ─ I can't keep all your holes occupied," 

You groan against his hand, high keens your trademark as he plows into you without interruption. Then, you witness brillance spark across his face, the hand he had on your hip vacating to pull you closer, his tip blunting against your sweet spot to the release of your sobs. In the time you arch for a loud-mouthed cry, it's abruptly cut-off by lace material filling your mouth.

Disbelief floods you, your reflection evident as what projects to you is something you couldn't bring yourself to wrap your head around. 

Your excuse of a thong stuffed square in your mouth, all the while Jake pounds into you, the picture of amusement.

"There you go," he smiles like he's struck gold, giving the courtesy of departing from your throat to have two hands on your hips. "All full now." 

Disgrace tries to involve itself in the humid air starting to fog against the doors, no room to go when you're moaning into the material, the taste of him and you on your tongue, twisting your insides in the shape of a tangled web. How you don't buckle escapes you, so fixated on watching Jake behind you, enamoured by the deep bow of your spine that your eyes simply cannot pry. 

Incessant attention eventually pulls him away from his view, making eye-contact with a commitment for not breaking it. His hands anchor down your hips as he drills further into you, pounding with a force engulfing all your sobs and moans into your thong, expression permnanently creased.

"Have no idea how beautiful you look, baby," he groans, met with a whimper. "God, I'm gonna fucking come if you keep─"

You clench around, feeling that familar pressure tick to single digits, holding onto the duvet cover for dear life while you can do is brace for impact.

"I'm close too, pretty," Jake sympathisizes, face expression pulled, eyes never leaving yours. "You gonna come like a good girl? Gonna watch us come?" 

The response is caught in your cotton-mouth, eyes forced shut as your body takes over, deliriously nodding along as you fall back onto folded arms, willing your orgasm to swallow you whole.

"Come on, princess. Eyes on us."

Motivated by nothing but his voice, your head manages the lift to a vision permanely burned into your corneas. Jake pistioning into you, curls messy and untamaed, glowing in soft bedroom light bouncing off the deep arch of your back, senses pushed into overload as the image sends you off the edge.

White streaks across your vision, a lapse in everything known to you as you cry out, loud and long, claws sunk into the duvet for salvation. The dam breaks, the yell for mercy wreched out your throat ending with pressed gasps, mouth run dry as you coat Jake's cock, force splashing back against his abdomen and your thighs, shivering as his voice breaks through the echo chamber. 

"Oh baby, you're made for me," he drawls, on his last legs as his thrusts turn erratic, high on you and your release. "So perfect, I'm gonna give you what you want. I'm gonna─hmph!"

In one last meet, you hinge desperately onto the edge of the bed, hoarse voice on its last legs as you twine into your limbs, feeling the rush of Jake fill you with an inch of your life. Your walls flutter to keep him there as his hips glue to you, figure toppling overs yours as his arms bracket your quivering torso, vision black with eyes closed to focus back on your breath, ragged and spent.

Sweat and sex lingers in the air, a sense you only access when you've gathered a small percentage of working brain cells, blinking back to reality. Your whimper bleeds into the thong as Jake gradually starts to pull out, cunt closing behind him as he leaves, a slow dribble trailed out your entrance, down to the duvet and along your cunt.

After a few moments, your body manages to lift its head, your stuffed mouth and stray hair all you see. Salvaging the last of your dignity, you pull the thong out, drenched in saliva tossed aside to smooth your hair back, slumping back in a dramatic flop.

Chuckles sound behind you, casting your eyes sideways. 

"Come sit, baby," he purrs, a tender smack bruised against your ass. You buck, groaning as your body starts to prop itself up, come trailing steadfast to your entrance. "On my lap."

Your hand hovers it, a illogical attempt to keep him there.

"It's gonna leak." you croak. 

"Better keep you plugged then," you turn your head, your boyfriend leaned back with his palms against the bed, expression offering you some sympathy. "Come here." 

An exhale prompts your steady pace as you inch your way to Jake, shaking your head with an open smile as his half-hard cock glares in between his crossed legs. His lax posture gravitates to you, hands secured around your waist as assistance while you throw your thigh over his, one hand on his shoulder while the other splays over his length, molten stirring in you at his groan. Hovering over his tip beading precome, the come between your legs starts to halo around him, eyes locked where you feed his cock into yourself. 

"Nice and easy, that's it baby," he praises, watching with dark eyes. "There you go."

A wistful sigh breezes past your lips as he fills you again, legs circling his back when he's all in, the stretch knocking on overstimulation's door. It's dampened by your endless need to consume him, obssessed with the fullness of him as you dissolve into a sack of hungry bones, chin hooked over his shoulder, holding him close.

"You're crazy." you murmur.

His chesty chuckle vibrates into you, airy. "Only about you," 

Hands on your back, one moves to soothe across the expanse of your spine, a chaste kiss pressed into your shoulder. "You good? Comfy?"

You try find the words, your nails scraping into his skin. "Feels─hmph,"

"Good?" he supplies, an edge of teasing to his tone. "Feel full?"

"Yeah," you agree anyways, accepting your fate with the burial of your mouth into your arms, ease blown through your nose.

"It's okay, sweetheart. You can grind on me," the comment draws your attention, perking at the slow grind your hips have unknowingly started. "Just want you close. C'mere."

He captures you in a slow, passionate kiss, savoured by the slow motions of your lips gliding without hurry, simply enjoying the press of each other. Skin to skin, your arms looped around his shoulders with his hands braced against your ribcage as you grind. The friction to your clit pours moans into his mouth, his grip going tighter as he kneads into your skin, drunk off every inch of you as you lose yourself in his embrace, rocking to the sounds of you together. 

You stay like this for what bleeds into forever, intimacy and friction simmering from a spark to a raging fire, the pit in your stomach accompained by the helpless pry of your lips, his teeth pulling your bottom lip to make you shudder. 

Your hips build in a volatile nature, grinding with a hitch amplifying the mess between your legs of legs. The fill and presence of Jake radiates esctacy right down to your fingertips, harsh tugs of his hair rewarded with drawn out moans, his lips glossed as his lips follow yours with endless need. 

The burn in your thighs starts to dial back your pace, wounded whimper bypassing your lips. It's solved by an assured circle around your back, Jake's other hand wedging between your plastered bodies to find your clit, circling it in motions bringing you closer. 

"M' gonna come," he whimpers, lips brushing against yours. "Gonna come, baby?"

You yelp against him, the feeling too much. 

"Squeeze good around me and I'll give you another load," he coaxes, ruining you to microscopic pieces. "Come on, sweet girl. Make me proud."

Instead of an earth-shattering crash, comes a flood of relief. Bacing your hands woven into Jake's locks, you expel a pitched keen in your throat, blending into a deep exhale, body slumping with your come down. Still, your body demands to be closer. Closer to him until space ceases to exist, pressing yourself so firmly into Jake's that when your embrace threatens to tip you over, you're secured. Anchored in Jake's arms as he kisses you one last time, tasting the moan of your name on his tongue as he comes, spilling over with excess dipping down onto the soaked duvet, the material tomorrow's damage. 

"You're a bit of an airhead when you're like this," Jake comments later when you blink back the lazy film coating your eyes, your face pulled back to his view. He's enamored with a dazzling smile, thumb running over the moles around your lips. "Have I fucked all the sense out your pretty head?"

"Want a break?" he muses, cooing when you nod into his palm cupping your cheek. "Okay, princess. I'll help you." 

And he does, carrying your singing body back to the plush cloud of the mattress, muscles unwinding into its comfort. Your arm casts over your line of sight, a brief break from stimulation before you're restless enough to peek above the flesh, your boyfriend's sihoulette moving slowly, a lone pillow propped up beneath your feet.

Affection starts in your chest, flourishes in those silent moments where you co-exist in something so simple, your mind spared from all the games and noise coming with life. It prompts the outreach of your hand, the gentle call of his name bringing him to you at lightning speed, lips and bodies together again. 

You don't know how long time ticks on, but you know you spend it with him, every inch of your skin kissed by his lips, filled by him over and over again. Your brain doesn't bother keeping up with how many times you pour over the edge, your only source of attention the man before you, giving himself to you, choosing you each and every time. In the mix, tears spill from your eyes and he kisses them away, easing the heft in your chest before that telltale feeling washes over you, drowning you in endless bliss. 

Birds start to chirp when the dust settles, you starfished on the bed with a rising chest you force cycled-breaths through, exhaustion seeping deep into your bones, synched with the euphorica grin you only manage to pull with the last of your strength.

"Beautiful," you hear him say, distant on the edge of the bed. "You're so beautiful, love."

Then he comes into eyeline, crawling his way to you.

"You looked so fucking good coming all over my cock," he says, hair a mess ─ stuck to his forehead with a chest laboured enough to warrant rest. Yet, he continues, inching himself to straddle your chest with his half-hard cock nestling between your breasts, nudged to shake his body in a tremour. "Want you covered in my come. In you isn't enough."

He's a madman. You're a dating a madman because in what world is the end for him? Time is a mere concept to you, but you're sure you've been at this for hours. He's stretched you every way but loose, pumping an amount of come into you you're not sure birth control can intervene with, moaning his name over and over again. 

And he's hard. Again?

That reader was so fucking right about him. So right it hurts.

"You don't have to do anything," he assures you, cock coated with yours and his come sticking to the valley of your breasts, the snug fit providing him the relief he needs. "Just let me use you."

You're exhausted. Had your fill and then some, so there should be no reason why you're like this, feeling the familar flames of arousal warm you. Nothing but greed is writing the code to your actions as you push your breasts together with your hands, fingers running over your nipples with a pained moan. 

Some sick person you must be, so drunk on lust you're ruled by it, letting gluttony get the best of you as Jake collapses in praises of your name and yesyesyes', cock gliding back and forth, unhurried in a slow tempo where he can savour the feel of your flesh. Eyes weigh heavy but your selfishness keeps them open, watching Jake above you. Like this, the man who pulled everything out of you is drastically different, ruined beyond measure that he can't keep himself together. He's a mess in the best possible way, quivering body bathed in soft orange, wearing sweat on his skin with his brows scrunched. His jaw hangs, gasping for air as the sweetest whines pour out of him, so sensitive but still chasing release, a version of himself you wrestle yourself over.

It doesn't take him long to come, spent in a way he can't make his hips to buck any faster, hands gripping the duvet covers eitherside of you with the last of his strength, moved to tears as his glossy eyes find yours. So wrecked. 

"Let me hear it one more time," he pleads, every bit of desperate you've been. "Pleasepleaseplease, bunny. Fuck, just need to hear you one more time."

"Jake," your voice, the last curtain call. "Come for me."

And he does. Hitting a wall hard and fast, body beautifully wound before he falls apart, head falling back with a cry to the moon as drips of come scatter against your skin, all over your chest and under your chin too. His body falls forward, so fast you're scared he'll forget you're even beneath him, only for his strength to be supported by the headboard, muscles flexing with dark shadows as he whines himself back to equilibrium. Sympathy blankets over you, your hand reassuring against his shaking thigh as your thumb caressses him to tranquility, Jake finding his breath and sense of self again in the early hours of what's been a long night.

With his head hung, he unlatches them to a view of you, exhaustion in your smile but still looking at him with every bit of love your heart's been harbouring for him. The same fondness reflects back in him, a foolish giggle half coming out of him before he moves. 

Clean-up in mind, you anticipate him making his way over to the bathroom as he always does, a warm rag used to clean debris but his methods stray. Only move him inches up your torso until he's afforded enough space, lowering himself so his tongue can trace around your come-covered nipples. You whine, watching silently as he makes slow work of clean up his mess, using the excuse of giving your boobs attention with slow swirls and teasing tugs, your chest eventually covered in his saliva instead.

The last of it smears against his two fingers, fingertips on your lips parted open to taste him, tongue gliding over every crevice to lick him clean.

Only then does he collapse onto you, a huff pushing out of you with the loopy chuckles you exchange.

"I need to tip that reader on our way back," you croak, voice hoarse. 

Jake's head moves with your laughter, lifting to get you in his sights. "Hey, I put in all the work here!"

"I know, I know," you respond, smitten regardless as your fingers weave into his loose curls, calm hums vibrating into your skin. "You signed up for it when you met me though."

"I'm getting the sloppiest road-head on our way back," he mumbles, yawning. "Compensation for a job well done."

"Is that what you wanted? For me to pet you and tell you did good?" It's entirely rhetorical, your question, but the light blooming into Jake's features unearths an amused snicker, enthusiastic nods sent your way. "Okay, okay. You did good, you did well, Jake. My good boy,"

Again, the last part is said as a joke. But it's received as anything but when you feel something twitch amidst the joking scratches you do under his chin, his smile too blissful to be innocent. 

"Jake!" you yell, not believing this man. This myth of a man you've somehow shacked up with. "I don't know if you need a time-out or an exorcism. That's enough! Use your fucking hand."

"Doesn't feel good as you though," he pouts, trying to shuffle his way up to, denied by your outstretched hands. "You know being called that gets an reaction out of me."

You shuffle up for comfort against the pillows, Jake's body following soon after. "I did not know that, actually."

Surprise raises his brows, lip corners downturned before he shrugs, beaming a closed mouth beam at you that's hard to not fawn over. "Well, now you know,"

"More information for next round," he winks, then promptly receives a pillow to the face.

Laughter bleeds into the early hours of morning, your break in the mountains providing every bit of satisfaction, a destiny incapable of change.

thank you for reading! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

comments, reblogs and likes are much appreciated.ᐟ ᰔ

to join my taglist, please fill out this form! ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-

GENERAL/ALL WORKS TAGLIST  ⨾ @ahnoote ノ@angelhyuka ノ @hwrtoni ノ @kookiesnkim ノ@kssniki ノ@user-0703 

Well...he’s still soft-spoken—his voice never rises, never loses that calm, steady tone but gentle? Not quite.

Behind closed doors, there’s a different edge to him. His sweetness doesn’t disappear, but it’s laced with dominance, control, and an intensity that contradicts his daytime demeanor. If there’s one rough thing about him, it’s the way he takes control when you’re underneath him.

Sex with Jungwon is good, no doubt about that. But the thing is… he doesn’t know how to stop.

Once he starts, it’s like he falls into a rhythm only he can hear, and you’re just along for the ride, trembling and breathless and completely at his mercy.

Your wrists are cuffed to both sides of the bed, the metal cool against your heated skin. Your legs are spread and tied down, leaving you completely exposed—open for him. At first, it’s fine. You can handle it. The slow build, the teasing. The way he slips the toy inside your pulsing cunt, then drags it up to circle your clitoris with frustrating precision.

Each slow movement of the toy has you dripping onto the sheets, your body reacting before your mind can even catch up. You don’t miss the way Jungwon’s eyes light up with excitement, a sparkle in them. A small, satisfied smile curves on his lips as he watches your pussy clench around absolutely nothing, the vibrator pulsing against you while he teases, never quite giving you what you’re begging for.

That’s the thing about Jungwon—he knows exactly how to ruin you without even touching you properly. He hasn’t taken off a single piece of clothing, hasn’t even laid a finger on your most sensitive spots. And yet, you’re falling apart.

He makes you crave everything. His touch. A simple brush of his fingers. Even just a glance at what’s hidden behind his pants—his huge fucking cock, so painfully hard. You’ve barely seen it tonight, and that alone makes you dizzy with need.

Your head is spinning. Your throat burns from all the begging, the moaning, the hoarse screams you’ve let out over the past hour. Your legs shake, your wrists ache against the cuffs, and your eyes—God, your eyes can barely stay open. Every time he pulls another orgasm out of you, they roll back with a mix of pleasure and exhaustion. You’re so, so tired, and so wrecked.

“Please, please… just fuck me. Just fuck me already!” you cry out, voice cracking from exhaustion.

Jungwon is still sitting at the edge of the room, completely composed, watching you with fascination. Your legs tremble uncontrollably, still spread wide, still bound, as another orgasm rips through you. The loud hum of the vibrator fills the room, blending with your high-pitched moans and hitched breaths.

You try to shut your legs, to push the toy away from your aching core, but you can’t. You’re strapped open, so damn helpless. Your clit feels raw, burning from the endless attention. It’s been nearly two hours of this, and your entire body feels like it’s on fire. You’re drenched in sweat, heart racing, muscles twitching from the constant tension. And still… Jungwon doesn’t look finished. He watches you like you’re the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

“L-Let’s just finish this and sleep, okay?” you gasp, trying to meet his eyes. There’s desperation in your voice, but you still try to sound sweet—still trying to bargain with the man who holds all the control.

Finally, he stands. His gaze travels slowly down your body, from your tearful eyes to your heaving chest. And then, he leans in and kisses you softly, almost tender. You melt into it, sighing against his lips, your body automatically responding despite the ache. You try to kiss him deeper, tongue desperate against his, hands twitching against the restraints as you try to pull him closer.

“Love you, my sweet little angel,” Jungwon whispers against your lips, smiling so gently it almost feels cruel.

You smile weakly back, eyes watery but soft. “Love you too… now please—please untie me?” you beg.

For a moment, your heart lifts in relief as you see him walk toward the cabinet beside the bed. You think he’s going for the keys because finally. But then your eyes widen in horror when he pulls out a small collection of toys instead and places them gently on the nightstand.

Your stomach drops.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“No!” you cry out, yanking at your cuffs even though you know it’s useless. Panic surges as he picks up a pair of nipple stimulators and places them over your already sensitive chest.

"Shit— no! Don't! Stop!"

The moment they turn on, you jolt. The soft suction and flickering pulses send electric shocks through your breasts, focusing on your nipples and making your back arch off the bed.

“Ahh—n-no! No more!” you shout, writhing, body bucking against the restraints.

Jungwon doesn’t say a word. His fingers trail down slowly, tracing the mess between your legs, spreading you gently. Then, without warning, he pushes two fingers inside you, curling and sliding them.

“Hahh… J-Jung… ahh—” Your head falls back, and your eyes roll. The pleasure blurs everything—your thoughts, your words. “I c-can’t… anymore…” you whisper, voice trembling, barely holding together.

Your thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm, lost to the overwhelming flood of sensation. Every nerve in your body is lit up, every inch of you trembling, wrung out, and oversensitive.

Jungwon, on the other hand, looks like he’s in bliss. His chest rises and falls with labored breaths, eyes locked on your body. When he feels your walls tightening around his fingers, his lips part with a quiet moan. The way you grip him—so hot, so wet, so helpless—nearly drives him insane.

Your head lolls to the side, arms stretched and chained above you. Your mouth hangs open, tongue slipping out slightly, drool tracing a path from your lips to your chin. You’re panting, muttering broken, incoherent phrases that even you don’t understand.

Underneath his pants, Jungwon’s cock throbs with the weight of restraint. Finally, he pulls his fingers out of you and quickly undresses, his hands shaking in urgency. He barely blinks, barely breathes, as he climbs back onto the bed.

Before you can even register his presence fully, you hear another vibration. A sob tears from your throat as a small egg vibrator slips inside you, humming to life with a relentless buzz. Another one is pressed directly to your clit, making your hips jerk violently. The stimulation is too much, all-consuming and now you’re crying, tears running freely down your cheeks.

Your mind is barely there when Jungwon settles over you. You feel his body hovering close, the warmth of him mixing with yours. He cups your cheek with one hand, gently brushing away your tears, while the other supports the back of your head.

“Shhh…” he soothes. “It’s okay, baby. You can take it, can’t you? Be my good girl, hmm?”

You can’t even answer. Your lips tremble, a sob stuck in your throat, your body wracked with pleasure that borders on pain. The buzzing on your clit, the pulsing deep inside you, the suction on your nipples—it’s too much!

“You’re my good girl, right? Answer me, angel,” Jungwon repeats.

“I-I… I’m y-your… nghh… g-good girl,” you manage to choke out, eyes squeezed shut. The moment you say it, Jungwon smiles—and not just any smile, but the one he gives when he’s deeply, thoroughly satisfied. It’s the kind of smile that says he’s proud of you.

He shifts on the bed, straddling your hips, his knees on either side of you. His cock is flushed, rock hard, and leaking precum. From this angle, you can see it clearly—aching and ready. Your breath catches.

“Say you can take it,” he says again, eyes burning into yours.

“I-I c-can t-take it… F-FUCK!” you scream as the vibrator inside you kicks up to a stronger setting. Your nails dig into your palms, your back arches off the bed, and your legs jerk against the restraints. Another wave crashes over you, and you’re gone again, mouth open in a silent scream before the moans pour out helplessly.

Jungwon groans at the sight of you. He tosses the remote aside and his hand wraps around his length, the slick glide of his palm a poor substitute for what he really wants, but right now, it’s enough because what he’s seeing? It’s everything.

You’re trembling, legs shaking uncontrollably, arms pulled taut by the cuffs. Your entire body is soaked in sweat, flushed, and still, you’re clenching and twitching, hips jumping with every surge of overstimulation. You’re crying, sobbing softly through parted lips, but your body won’t stop responding. And to Jungwon, there’s no more beautiful sight in the world.

Ecstacy.

He never understood the word fully before you. People always talked about it like a fleeting rush, a peak that fades as quickly as it comes. But with you? It lasts. It blooms slowly.

"Hahhh.... 'Wonnie, c-close again!"

Jungwon whines, an unfiltered, almost desperate sound as his hand speeds up. He braces himself on the mattress, panting through clenched teeth as the fire in his gut coils tighter and tighter.

You’re nearly delirious, legs quaking, sweat dripping off your skin in soft trails. The small toy is still pulsing relentlessly between your thighs, buzzing away mercilessly, and you—his perfect, precious girl—can do nothing to escape it.

Your body jolts, then locks up. Another wave crashes over you, and Jungwon can see it in real time—your stomach tensing, mouth falling open, eyes fluttering back as you climax again. It’s like your soul momentarily leaves your body and crashes back into it, all in one breathless scream.

He groans loudly, the sound raw and shameless, as his orgasm builds at the sight. His cock throbs painfully in his grip, aching for release.

“Stop! Please… stop! Make it stop!”

You’re sobbing, shaking your head side to side, tears streaking your cheeks as your voice breaks entirely.

A strangled gasp escapes Jungwon’s lips as his climax slams into him. His body jerks forward as he spills across your stomach and chest. The orgasm tears through him, spine curling, muscles locking, vision flashing white at the edges. His hips twitch helplessly as each pulse escapes him, breath ragged, mind floating somewhere far away.

Between his high and the aftershocks rolling through his body, he still hears you screaming his name, begging him to stop.

Jungwon blinks, disoriented. For a moment, his mind is blank, floating somewhere between euphoria and guilt. But then his eyes land on you.

With shaky hands, he reaches for the remote and flicks off the power. The hum of the toys dies, replaced by silence—save for your ragged breathing, the hiccuping sobs that break his heart, and the faint creak of the bed as your body finally begins to fall limp in exhaustion.

He moves fast but gentle, slipping the nipple clamps off first. His breath hitches at the sight—your nipples flushed deep red, firm and oversensitive. He swallows hard, fighting the urge to touch, to kiss, to soothe with his mouth.

Then there’s the vibrator still buried inside you. It’s soaked, your slick dripping down your thighs, clinging to the toy as it slips out with a wet, lewd sound. The air is thick with the scent of sex, of release, of everything you gave him tonight. His stomach tightens again at the sight, but he forces himself to stay focused.

“D-done?” your voice comes, barely a whisper.

Jungwon doesn’t answer right away. He’s still staring. His body might’ve just finished, but his mind is caught somewhere in the afterglow.

His fingers fumble briefly with the small key before unlocking the cuffs, one by one. You don’t even lift your arms—just lie there, shivering, twitching occasionally when a breeze brushes across your skin.

You let out a shaky breath as your wrists fall free. A sob leaves your chest, but this time it’s soft—relieved. Grateful. Your arms weakly pull inward, cradling your own chest as you collapse into the sheets.

But your body… it’s still trembling. You’re still soaked. That last orgasm hadn’t even faded, and the aftershocks have your thighs twitching with every shift of your hips.

Jungwon swallows hard as he kneels behind you, watching your body try to recover, the way you curl slightly into yourself like you’re trying to keep your insides from spilling over.

"J-Jungwon?"

You feel his hands gently reposition you, guiding you slowly onto your stomach. You let him, barely resisting, only sobbing quietly, the kind of sound that makes his chest ache and his cock twitch.

“One more,” he whispers near your ear, brushing his lips over your cheek. “Just one more, baby. Then I’ll stop. I promise, okay?”

You cry out, he gently pushes your legs apart and lifts your hips just enough, guiding you into position.

“Fuck,” he hisses, as he presses forward slowly but your body reacts instantly.

"Ahhh!" You gasp, then squeal as your walls clamp down, and without warning, a gush of liquid pours from you. You’re fucking squirting.

Jungwon groans, forehead dropping to your back, overwhelmed by the sheer sensitivity of your response. Your hips try to jerk forward, trying to escape, but he holds you in place with one arm curled around your waist.

You’re still spasming when he finally sinks inside, forcing his huge cock inside you. Your soaked walls resist him in a trembling way, trying to push him out while also drawing him deeper.

You scream again as he fills you, your voice breaking around the sobs. He hushes you gently, lips brushing your neck.

“Shhh… it’s okay, baby. Almost there. You can do it—just a little more,” he whispers, his own voice shaking.

He stays still for a moment, buried inside your pulsing heat, feeling your body flutter and tighten around him. His chest presses to your back, arms wrapping around you, holding you close as you sob into the pillow.

“My good girl,” he breathes, kissing the space behind your ear. “You’re doing so well. So perfect for me.”

You whimper brokenly, clenching again as he slowly draws his hips back—just an inch—and thrusts forward again.

Your body goes pliant beneath him, letting him take the lead, letting him guide every motion as his hips begin to roll with slow, fluid strokes. The drag of his cock through your drenched heat makes his head fall forward, jaw clenched, breath shuddering against your neck.

“Little more,” he pants. His eyes flutter shut as he sinks back into you, the tight grip of your body drawing another moan from deep in his throat. “Just… like that.”

You sob again, your hands claw at the sheets.

Jungwon groans softly and leans over you more. His hand slides gently around your neck, His thumb brushes your jaw, tilting your head up so he can see your face.

Your lips tremble. Your eyes flutter, barely open, hazy and wet from tears, but locked onto him.

He exhales sharply at the sight. He leans in and kisses you upside down, the angle is awkward, but lips finding yours between moans and movement. The kiss is messy, wet, desperate. His hips never stop, and the rhythm begins to build again, more urgent now. Each thrust hits deeper, heavier, guided by the way your body clings to him, keeps him buried.

He moans into your mouth as you whimper against his. Then his tongue drags over your bottom lip, over your cheek, catching the taste of your tears and sweat. His teeth scrape lightly against your skin before he licks up the salty trail along your face.

“Mine,” he breathes against your cheek. “All mine.”

Your only response is a faint cry as your body clenches again, another sharp squeeze that makes him falter, hips stuttering from the overwhelming sensation.

His hand leaves your throat and presses between your shoulder blades, pinning you gently into the bed as he pulls your hips higher, changing the angle.

“Ahh, f-fuck!” you squeal. Your thighs quiver violently, and Jungwon nearly loses it right there at the sound.

His pace falters for a beat, then picks up again, faster, more erratic. “So good—so fucking good,” he stammers out, neck slick with sweat.

Your walls clench again, fluttering around him, and he lets out a wrecked sound, almost pained in how much he needs this.

His hips slam forward as he grits out, “Pretty… you’re so pretty. So good for me.”

His hand moves from your back to your waist, holding you tight as he keeps grinding in. “I love you,” he gasps, not even meaning to say it again, but it falls out of him in a choked whisper. “I love you so fucking much…”

His voice cracks at the end, moaning into your skin.

His lips find your shoulder—he kisses it once, then again, moaning into your skin as he thrusts harder. He’s unraveling. His rhythm turns desperate, your name falling from his lips.

"J-just a little more, hmm? I'm gonna creampie this little pussy t-then— fuck, we're done." Jungwon pants, voice cracking with emotion, every word shaking as it leaves his mouth. His eyes are blown wide, focused on where he’s buried deep inside you. “I love you—ahh, I love you so much…”

Jungwon grabs both of your arms, pulling them back gently, lifting your upper body just enough to tilt your chest off the bed. Your back arches, his hips slapping against you, skin to skin, the sound filthy and wet.

Your breasts bounce with every motion, your body jolting under his force. You barely register your own scream before your entire frame begins to convulse.

"Holy shit." Jungwon gasps at the sight, eyes wide with stunned, reverent awe as he breathes out.

You let go completely—again—and it’s overwhelming. A fresh, hot stream releases from you uncontrollably, drenching everything. His thighs. The sheets. The space between you. The air fills with the scent of arousal and sweat, with the stuttering breaths of both your bodies falling apart at the same time.

His thighs shake violently as he spills his cum into you, a strangled, low moan escaping from the pit of his chest. He doesn’t stop moving—keeps thrusting, dragging his length in and out as he pours every last drop inside of you, desperate to make it last.

The warmth floods between your legs, and the way your body pulses around him only draws more out of him. And it’s almost an afterthought to you now, dulled by the overwhelming waves of pleasure and exhaustion. You’re beyond feeling it fully, your body too far gone from the overstimulation he dragged you through.

He whines high as he buries himself to the hilt again, staying there, pushing in as far as you’ll let him. Your body quivers under the weight of his release, and he presses his chest to your back, wrapping both arms around you.

"Thank you, thank you, my angel."

The room falls into a heavy silence.

When Jungwon finally, carefully pulls out of you, he pauses—eyes drawn to the mess he left behind. His release slowly trickles from you, glistening down your inner thighs, and he can’t help but stare.

Then his gaze drifts up.

Your body is limp against the sheets, your chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Your face is flushed and dewy with sweat, eyes barely open, lips parted like you’re still floating in that lingering euphoric high.

And yet—something about the sight of you like that makes heat stir in his gut all over again.

It’s finally Valentine’s Day. The long anticipated day circled on your calendar, the pinnacle of your plan, the expedited fall of your fake relationship. You can’t wait. You spend all day running around your house, double checking details and making sure everything goes according to plan. Your mom assumes your frenetic state is just regular date nerves, and she’s not wrong. She’s not entirely right, either. Even though you know it’s not a real date, that you really have nothing to be nervous about, you can’t help the jitters running through you. 

You think about what Jake said last night before leaving his thought unfinished. That was irrational, right? There wouldn’t be anything to miss, you and Jake are the same as you’ve always been. Aren’t you? Sure, maybe you hug more than you used to and talk on the phone longer than ever before, but that doesn’t mean anything. Does it? The more you think, the more confused and muddy everything becomes. You decide to distract yourself by getting ready for dinner, getting a head start so you don’t run out of time. 

After you finish your hair and makeup, you change into your dress. It’s beautiful. When you bought it months before, you didn’t have a specific occasion in mind to wear it. There were no fancy Valentine’s dates on your calendar then, but you just couldn’t resist it. It’s a maroon mini dress with a cinched waist, tulle bodice, and sheer sleeves that hug your arms perfectly. Perfect for the dinner occasion and location. You pair it with a pair of black heels that raise your height by an inch or two, guaranteeing Jake will still have a considerable amount of inches on you. 

Jake and his mom arrive early, because of course they do. You hear his car door shut outside and muffled greetings from downstairs, signaling that the last stage of the plan is finally being initiated. 

The fourth and final phase: falling apart. 

You take one last look in the mirror on your vanity, inhaling deeply. This is it. The whole point of this little scheme, the intended end goal. It all happens tonight. Just get through this dinner, make sure it goes wrong, and you’re free from a lifetime of romantic pronouncements about you and your best friend.  

You make your way downstairs to find Jake standing with the moms in your living room, his back to you. He’s holding yet another bouquet of roses, unsurprisingly. 

“Oh, Y/N!” his mom exclaims when she sees you. Her hands come up to cover her gasp. “Bug, you look beautiful.”  

Jake turns around, his eyes meeting yours. His lips part and you can hear him catch his breath. “Wow,” he breathes out. “You look…” He looks you up and down then flushes slightly. “Wow.” 

You feel your own face heat up, your flushed tone matching his. “Thank you,” you smile. “You look wow, too.” And you mean it. 

Jake looks good all the time, but gosh, you just love how he looks in red. He’s wearing a dark red sweater, the shade close in color to your dress, with a button up white collar peaking through the neckline. His hair is styled out of his face, a diverge from his usual messy look. He looks older. Sophisticated. Grown. It hits you unexpectedly, the realization that this boy is the same boy who used to camp with you in the backyard, the same boy who chased you with worms and wrestled you to the ground in the dirt. Somewhere between then and now, that boy grew into the sweet, respectful, hilarious, understanding, handsome young man standing before you now. His rough edges, though not completely rounded, softened through maturity and growth and countless lectures from both his mother and you alike. You got to see him through every stage of life, just like he saw you. And in that moment, you’ve never been more grateful that Jake Sim was your best friend.   

“Thanks,” he says back, stepping toward you and not taking his eyes off of yours for a second. He seems to remember he’s holding a bouquet in his hands and gives it to you. “Here,” he offers with an easy laugh. “Last one, I promise. For this week, at least.” 

You take the roses from his graciously, giving them a good, long sniff. “They’re lovely, Jake.” You reach up and loop an arm around his neck, giving him a quick hug. “Thank you.” 

He grins down at you. “Only the best for my girl,” he says with a wink only you can see, facing away from your moms. 

Your stomach does an Olympic level gymnastics routine hearing him call you that. It sounds so sincere, so natural from his lips that you almost forget that it’s not true. Still, you smile wide, holding the flowers blithely in your arms and looking at both of your moms. 

“Are we ready to head out?” you ask. “Our table should be ready at 6:30. I don’t wanna be late for the reservation.”

“Let’s get going then,” your mom agrees, grabbing her purse off the side table by the door. “Who’s driving?”

“Actually, do you mind if we drive separately?” Jake broaches. “If that’s okay with you guys.” 

“Of course,” his mom smiles. “We’re already crashing your dinner, we’ll give you lovebirds at least some alone time.” She wags a finger between the two of you. “Even though you’re alone, though-” 

“Mom!” Jake cries out, making a whiny noise. “Yes, there’s nothing to worry about.” 

His mom and yours cackle amongst themselves, snatching a pair of keys off the hook and heading out the door. You follow the pair as Jake fishes his own keys from his pocket, holding them up in front of you. 

“One last ride as my wonderful girlfriend?” he asks, opening the passenger side door for you.

“One last time.” You nod, taking a seat with the bouquet in your lap. You watch as he carefully shuts the door and goes around the car to the driver’s side. 

He plops down behind the wheel, turning the car on and reversing out of your driveway as your journey to The Claw begins. As always, you hold the responsibility of music for the car ride. You go ahead and play your ultimate playlist of love songs. It’s Valentine’s Day, after all, what else were you to do? 

The sound of I Was Made for Loving You by Tori Kelly and Ed Sheeran fills the space of Jake’s car. You put the phone down and get lost to the song, gazing out the window at the trees and buildings flying by. 

‘I’ll take this chance, so call me blind

I’ve been waiting all my life,’ plays, the lyrics echoing in your mind.

You look at Jake, just admiring the view of him driving, something so simple yet so comforting. His eyes are on the road, focused on the lanes, but you just watch him. His effortlessly perfect side profile, the way one of his hands rests lightly on the wheel, the other raking through his hair. The setting sun provides a luminous glow, the golden light half shining on his face through the windshield. He squints a little to shield his eyes from the glare before flipping down the sun visor. He then suddenly turns to you, catching you off guard. You jump back a little, feeling like the kid who got caught with her hand in the cookie jar. 

“You good?” Jake asks at your reaction, a slight smirk on his face. He immediately knows you were looking at him probably longer than you should’ve been. 

“Couldn’t be better,” you reply with fake nonchalance, averting his gaze. A couple more songs play before you feel like the moment has faded enough to speak. “Hey,” you shift in your seat so that you’re facing him. “Don’t miss the turn, it’s right up here.” 

“I knew that,” Jake says with fake snark. “I’m an excellent navigator.”

“Right,” you say flatly, dragging out the vowel. “The journey to Riki’s house shall remain unmentioned.” 

He scoffs loudly. “Whoa, first of all,” he clicks his blinker on to signal the upcoming turn, “it’s not my fault he lives in the middle of freaking nowhere.” Defending his point further, “And the pin he dropped me was inaccurate by two miles. Two miles!” He sighs. “I just wish I could apologize to that family of squirrels.” 

“Well,” you say reassuringly, “I’m sure they’ll never forget a car pummeling into their home. You gave them a core memory, if you think about it.” 

Jake laughs, “Way to look on the bright side of things.” He then frowns, looking over the parking lot. “Looks pretty packed.” 

Sure enough, there isn’t a single open space despite the vast square footage of the lot. You knew The Claw was a popular destination for Valentine’s dates, but you severely underestimated how many of those dates would be driving their own cars. Geez. Did nobody carpool anymore? 

“I blame this on lack of chivalry,” you state upon seeing the parking situation. “If more guys picked up the girls for their dates, half this lot would be empty.” You click your tongue. “Romance is truly dead.” 

“Talk about love in the air,” Jake murmurs. “Should I get a valet?” 

An idea comes to you. “No. Let’s park across the street.” You point to a clearing perfect for parallel parking. There’s much more space, a couple cars already setting the outline for your car to follow. “I’ll parallel.” 

He looks at you like you just announced plans to board NASA’s next rocket. “Seriously? You hate parallel parking.” His expression worsens. “Like genuinely, would-rather-die than parallel park.” 

You grin. “Exactly. How rude of my boyfriend, who knows how much I hate it, to make me parallel park the car for our date.”

Jake’s eyes light up and he chuckles lowly, “How horribly inconsiderate of me.” He turns the car around and drives over to the spot, lining the car up to park. “I’m still doing the actual parking,” he asserts. “I’m not actually gonna make you do that.” He checks over his shoulder before reversing into the spot and straightening out. 

“Aww,” you say, touched by the gesture. “Because you know how much I hate it?”

“Well, that,” he admits, putting the car in park and turning his head to you, “and that I don’t trust you with my car.”

Your shoulders sag. “I’m offended by that.”

He laughs at how quickly you deflated. “It’s just a safety precaution.” He turns off the car and looks past you out the window. “There they are.” He points out the window.

The moms have just arrived in your mom’s car. They luckily found an empty space in the main lot, quickly getting out and heading inside the restaurant. 

“I’ll go in first. You should walk a bit behind me. Act all overstimulated and I’ll tell them it’s cause you were parallel parking.” He winces. “They’ll want to bite my head off immediately.” 

You honestly feel yourself get emotional at how easily he formulates the plan on the spot. What a perfect co-conspirator. Jake exits the car and walks around the front to your side again to open your door, grabbing your hand to help you out of the car.

“You ready?” he breathes out, voice riddled with anticipation and just a hint of nerves. 

You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Ready. Let’s ruin this relationship.”

He breaks into a full faced grin, playfully yanking you up so you’re standing level with him. The cool night air is blowing around you, the breeze stronger than it’s been lately. It’s blowing your hair around, some stray pieces falling into your face and threatening to cling to your lip gloss. Jake reaches up and fixes the out of place strands, gently pushing them out of the way with the tips of his fingers. He’s so focused, genuine concentration showing on his face. It’s so endearing you want to smack him upside the head (lovingly, of course). When he’s pleased with the end result, he sighs contentedly, his eyes tracing over your face before meeting your gaze. 

“Wait,” he announces, “can I see your phone?” 

You hand it to him without question, trusting him fully. “For what?” 

“Your dress matches the rose bushes,” he points out, signaling to the greenery behind you. Sure enough, the dark red flowers perfectly complement your dress. 

“Let’s take a picture.” He opens your front camera and holds the phone up to take a selfie of the two of you. 

You oblige easily, smiling at the camera. Jake follows, grinning wide. After snapping a couple more shots than necessary, he hands the phone back to you. 

“That should do.” He maintains his smile, only now looking at you instead of a camera. 

Right as you feel your pulse be at risk of picking up, you clear your throat. “They’re probably waiting for us inside.” 

“Right,” Jake agrees, taking a step back from you. He turns to go, but stops and turns back around. He holds his hand out to you in a silent question. You answer, taking his hand in yours. “This feels right,” he says as you walk down the sidewalk hand in hand. “For the date, I mean.” 

“No, yeah, totally,” you concur, “it’s a nice touch. For the date.” 

It’s all just for the date. Obviously. 

As you reach the fancy doors of the restaurant, you and Jake exchange a look that confirms that it’s go time. From this moment on until the end of the night, you were the most incompatible couple on the planet. Both of your moms are waiting outside the entrance, smiling as you approach them. 

“Sorry to keep you guys waiting,” Jake apologizes. “This one was taking forever to park.” He gestures to you with his thumb. 

You exhale shakily, looking stressed. “You know I hate parallel parking, Jake.”

He shrugs dismissively. “Exposure therapy. Learn to do hard things, Y/N. Life is all about doing things you hate.”

Your moms side eye each other, confusion and slight panic in their eyes. Perfection.

You do nothing but close your eyes, taking a deep breath to compose yourself and letting it out slowly. “Whatever. Let’s go inside.”

Jake goes and opens the door for your moms, politely letting them walk through in front of him. After them, however, he walks in himself, letting the door shut behind him. You fight the urge to smile. Here it comes, the anti-boyfriend. You open the door for yourself, shuffling to catch up with the rest of them. 

“Jake,” his mom says, “how come you didn’t get the door for Y/N?” Her brows are furrowed, genuine bewilderment on her face. 

“Forgot,” is all he replies. Without another word, he walks up to the hostess at the counter. “Table for four under Sim, please.” You made the reservation under his last name, just for an added touch.

“Yes, right this way.” She smiles politely as she leads your party to a nicely dressed table near the center of the room. 

You can see why the restaurant is such a popular date spot for couples. The whole floor is dimly lit, warm ambience lighting bathing the walls. In the back of the room is an actual life cellist playing classical renditions of the most popular love songs of the last century; right now, he’s performing a beautiful string version of Islands in the Stream. The chatter is minimized, mostly quiet conversation accompanied by loving glances. If there was one word to sum it up, it would be romantic. 

Your moms take a seat… and Jake does, too. You pull out your own chair and sit down as well. The hostess hands you each a menu and announces she’ll be back soon with glasses of water for the table before walking away, but your mom and Jake’s seem to be too mentally preoccupied to peruse the appetizers. They’re both flitting their eyes back and forth between the two of you, then looking sideways at each other, communicating through looks alone. Even at casual dinners between your families, Jake always pulls your seat out for you. He has since he was thirteen. To not do it now, on Valentine’s, at The Claw? Not a good look. 

“What are you thinking of getting?” you ask in general to everyone sitting at the table.

Jake pretends not to notice the suspicious looks of the mothers, opening his menu with an air of obliviousness. “I heard the salmon here is really good,” he comments thoughtfully.

“Ah, that’s my favorite,” your mom says, feigning normalcy. “The sauce it comes with is so delicious.”

“I love it,” Jake’s mom agrees, “but I’m feeling more like a steak tonight. It’s been a long week.” She lets out an exhausted laugh. 

“Oh, tell me about it,” he commiserates. “This relationship stuff is not for the weak. Nobody told me that the week leading up to Valentine’s Day was going to feel like preparing a bomb for war.”

“Comparing our relationship to nuclear warfare,” you remark sarcastically, eyes on your menu. “Well, isn’t that sweet?”  

“Have you ever met yourself?” Jake asks, a cutting tone lying underneath his words. “Because if you did, you’d understand that’s a perfectly appropriate analogy.”

You don’t retort, instead scoffing briefly and poking your tongue to the inside of your cheek. “I think I’ll get the chicken alfredo.” 

“Ew,” Jake says as if he’s five years old and being offered broccoli.

You turn your head at him. “What do you mean ‘ew’? How do you ‘ew’ chicken alfredo?” 

“Shrimp is better,” he argues. “Objective opinion.” 

“That’s an oxymoron.” You squint your eyes at him like he’s stupid, cause he’s acting as such. “There’s no such thing as an objective opinion, opinions are inherently subjective-“ 

“Yada, yada, yada,” he cuts you off, moving his hand in a talking motion. “It’s not that deep.” 

Across the table, your moms are watching back and forth like it’s a high stakes tennis match. Their faces are equal parts shock and intrigue. 

You sit up a little straighter, retracting your head in annoyance. “You literally started this argument,” you point out to him. “I just said I wanted to order chicken alfredo-“

“Yeah,” he interrupts again, “which is dumb, because shrimp is better.” He looks back down at the menu, totally ignoring the nasty stink eye you’re giving him. 

“Then why don’t you order the shrimp alfredo?” you spit out the question, your voice laced with irritation. 

“Hmm,” he hums to himself, considering your suggestion. “Nah,” he says a second later. “I don’t want that.” 

You quietly groan, your hand coming up to pinch the top of your nose bridge between your eyebrows. “Then order something else.”  

He rakes his eyes over the menu, carelessly surveying before announcing, “This all looks weird. Where’s the normal food?”

“Of course you would say that,” you murmur under your breath. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks back, daring you. 

You let out a short laugh. “I just mean because you have the palate of a toddler.” You fake pout at him. “Is poor Jakey sad because there’s no chicken nuggets and fries on the fancy restaurant menu?” 

Jake dramatically places his hand on his chest like you’ve personally insulted his entire bloodline, past, present, and future. “I do not.” 

Before you can smack him over the head with your menu, the waitress comes back, bearing four glasses of water. She places one in front of each of you then asks, “Can I get you guys any appetizers? Or do we need some more time?” 

You open your mouth to say you probably need a couple more minutes, but Jake beats you to speak first. 

“I think we’re ready to order main courses, actually.” He directs his attention toward your moms. “You have your orders, right?”

Jake’s mom looks slightly confused due to the previous conversation, shooting your mom a questioning look, but says, “Yes, we do.” 

“Perfect.” He smiles politely at the waiter. “I’ll have the chicken alfredo.”

You gape at him. “Seriously?” 

“Yes,” he responds simply, folding up his menu in front of him. “What about you?” 

You turn back to the waiter and tell her courteously, “I’ll also have the chicken alfredo.” 

“Aww, matching meals for the couple?” she asks, smiling at your parallel orders. 

“Yup,” Jake responds, pulling your chair closer to him so he can throw an arm over your shoulder. “That’s me and my girl.” 

Despite your bickering just minutes ago, his sweet words—albeit performative—make your stomach do that flippy thing again. You give the waiter a smile as well, your hand coming up to give Jake’s arm a quick squeeze. Your moms then order the salmon and steak entrees, respectively.

“So, two chicken alfredo pastas, one salmon entree, and one steak entree, medium rare,” the waitress repeats, reading off of her notepad. “Can I get you anything else for now?” 

“Could I order a glass of red wine?” Jake’s mom asks. Upon receiving a questioning look from her son, she justifies, “I’m not driving! Let a woman have a little fun.” She and your mom laugh amongst themselves. 

“Of course, ma’am,” the waitress says cordially, “If that’s all, do you mind if I take these extra menus?” At your unanimous nod, she collects three of the menus on the table, leaving yours in front of you. You all exchange thanks before she leaves the table to take your order to the kitchen. 

“Wow,” Jake says, leaning back in his chair and patting his hand on his stomach, “I can’t wait for that pasta to come out. I’m starving.”

You kick him under the table. 

“Ow!” he exclaims, kicking you right back. “What the hell?” 

You stomp on his foot, digging your heel in. “You’re so annoying.” 

He yelps, pushing your chair away from him as a distance of safety. “You’re so mean to me.” He gets up in your face, ready to start another argument, and you’re right there with him.

“Uh,” your mom butts in, trying to diffuse the situation, “you know what I was wondering?” 

You and Jake both hold fire, turning your heads to look at her. 

“I’ve been wondering,” she continues, “what made you guys decide to start dating? I mean, after so many years of being best friends, what changed?” 

“Ooh, I’ve been wanting to know, too!” Jake’s mom seconds. 

“Oh.” Jake relaxes slightly, his body language loosening. 

You feel at ease, too. You’re not worried about what’s about to come out of his mouth; the two of you rehearsed alibis for questions just like this.

He casts you a glance. “Well,” he pauses, thinking through his answer. “I guess I realized that… she’s always been there, you know? My whole life, it’s always been ‘Jake and Y/N.’ And I wanted it to stay like that. I can’t really pinpoint the exact moment I started seeing her in a different way,” he says, “there wasn’t some big realization or anything like that.” His eyes become slightly distant. “It just hit me one day.” He looks down at the tablecloth, recalling the memory with a soft smile on his face. “She was over at my house one Saturday, just sitting on the couch. Layla was laying on her lap and I went over and joined them. She put her head on my shoulder and everything just… clicked. I can’t explain it.” 

Both your moms coo at his story, pouting emotionally. You chuckle as well, remembering the day he was talking about and finding it cute how he was able to spin it in a romantic light. The two of you had previously agreed to create backstories for your feelings; his was that day at his house, yours was a couple weeks ago when he just held you while you cried over some random movie you’d just finished. These were real moments that occurred, just seen through a retrospective, rose-colored lens. You didn’t expound on the details, though. You kept the stories short and sweet, just enough to make the moms go ‘aww’ but not too much to where they’d think you’re madly in love. You weren’t truly evil, after all. Tearing apart a teenage infatuation is better than doing so to something deeper, something real. 

That’s why you’re taken by surprise when Jake keeps going. 

“I know, I know. It sounds so cheesy,” he cringes. “But it wasn’t a new feeling I felt. I think it was just me realizing what that feeling really was. What it meant. Why I’d been feeling it for so, so long.” He’s full on grinning now, getting carried away by his storytelling. “It was like this warmth in my chest whenever she was around. This feeling of safety, genuine contentment. Like everything would be okay as long as she was by my side.” 

You feel a heat start to creep up your neck until it reaches your face, but it’s not from flattery or embarrassment. It’s fear. You have no idea what he’ll say next. This wasn’t apart of the plan. In an attempt to calm your nerves, you take a long sip of water with shaky hands. Why do you suddenly feel like a meteor is about to drop on you? The feeling Jake is currently going into great detail about perfectly describes the monstrous sentiment that’s been burdening your subconscious for weeks now. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” he laughs lightly, “there are definitely still times when she drives me up the wall, but even then, that feeling is still there lingering under everything.” He breathes out, half an exhale, half an unbelieving chuckle. “I guess that’s when I realized that I was in lo-” 

You abruptly start choking on your water, sitting up straighter and coughing. You grab a napkin to wipe away the stray droplets and pat your face dry. 

“Oh, my- Y/N, are you okay?” Jake asks worriedly, hand coming up to gently pat your back. 

You wave your hand, trying to dismiss the concern among your table. “I’m fine,” you rasp, although your eyes are watering, “just went down the wrong pipe.”

Right as you’re terrified that Jake’s going to continue on with his segment, the blessed waitress returns with Mrs. Sim’s bottle of red wine. You could fall to the floor and kiss her feet. 

Jake’s mom thanks the waitress then pours herself a glass, swishing it around before taking a sip. “What about you, Bug?” She thankfully switches the conversation over to your version of that moment, meaning Jake can spew on no longer. 

“Oh,” you laugh a little, looking over to him and placing your hand on top of his. He takes hold of it immediately. “It was kind of the same as what Jake was saying. A realization of like, ‘whoa, this guy is sort of everything I’ve ever wanted.’” 

The moms sigh dreamily. Jake flushes. 

“He crashed into my room after school on the day I was absent. I’d woken up with a fever and stayed home sick, so he was coming over to give me the work I missed for the day.” You think back on the memory yourself. You were holed up in your room all day long binge-watching movies, surrounded by a mountain of tissues, because that’s all you had the energy for.

“He really has impeccable timing, coming in right as I finished the saddest movie I’d seen in a while. Just completely bawling my eyes out when he walks in.” You chuckle out of embarrassment for your past self. “He asked if I was okay. I said, ‘oh, totally,’ and then let out another sob.” 

Next to you, Jake snickers slightly under his breath, recalling the memory just as vividly as you are. “It was really cute,” he adds, trying to make you give yourself some grace. 

You roll your eyes affectionately. “Anyway, I told him I just finished a sad movie and it was a stupid reason to be crying so hard. He didn’t laugh at me, didn’t agree or call me dramatic. He asked if I needed a hug.”

“Oh, Jake,” his mom croons, her eyes visibly starting to water. “That is so sweet.” 

“Isn’t it? And it made me want to cry even more, so all I could do was nod yes at him. Then he just crawled into bed next to me and held me without another word.” You look at him with a lopsided smile. “It was when I was laying there, his arms wrapped around me, that was when it all… clicked,” you echo Jake’s words from earlier. “It just felt right. Like that’s where I belonged.” You playfully shove your shoulder against him. “Plus, he grew up pretty cute, I guess.” 

Jake chuckles and loops an arm back around your shoulder, pulling you in so you’re flush against his side. Before you have time to process what’s happening, you feel his warm breath on the side of your head. You freeze while he plants a quick, soft kiss on your temple. You blink once, twice and then recompose yourself, laughing along with everyone else at the table.  

“That is adorable, you guys,” your mom tells you. “We always knew this would happen!” 

“Sorry it took us this long to catch on,” Jake jokes, directed at the moms but his eyes stay on you. He’s looking at you in a way that has you thinking, Wow, that one-week acting camp he did the summer before 5th grade really paid off. 

Conversation drifts from subject to subject, comfortably carrying on while you wait for your food. When the topic reaches your moms’ book club activities for the week, you take the opportunity to excuse yourself from the table to go to the restroom. Not that you actually need it, but to recalibrate your plan. Once you’re safely in the powder room, surrounded by fellow ladies touching up their lip combos, you take out your phone to text Jake. 

you:

read this casually

say ur texting heeseung abt sport stuff

jakey <3:

weird thing to roleplay but sure 

what’s up?

you:

we need to fight again or something 

it’s all very…

sweet rn 

jakey <3:

well duhhhh 

fake relationship has to be believable

you:

i think we’re all good on that part 

im pretty sure they’re one question away from asking what our first born will be named 

jakey <3:

bridget 🥹 

you:

HELLO 

jakey <3: 

ik ik i get what you’re saying 

come back to the table 

i think they think ur having stomach problems 

you:

OH OK LEMME JS DIE 

jakey <3:

noooo don’t kys ur so sexy haha 

you:

oh my gosh this is why we’re breaking up 

jakey <3:

:( 

side note omg they probably think im secretly in love w hee cuz 

i’m grinning at my phone but i said i was texting hee

😭😭 

you:

I KNEW THERE WAS ALWAYS SMTH BETWEEN U GUYS 

jakey <3:

NOOOOO 

You laugh to yourself as you turn your phone off, putting it back in your purse. You take a good, long look in the mirror, staring yourself down. Okay. Time for the real drama to begin.

You return to your seat at the table just in time to hear Jake defending Heeseung against something. 

“Really,” he convinces, “he’s one of the funniest guys I know. Top tier humor.” 

“Then share his joke!” his mom pleads. “I’m nosy. I wanna know what he said that was so funny it had you giggling like a schoolboy.” 

You bite your tongue to keep from laughing out loud. Was that really his reaction to your little text thread?

Jake shrugs, desperate to get out of the hole he keeps digging deeper for himself. “It was an inside joke, you wouldn’t get it.” 

His mom groans. “Oh, you’re no fun.” 

“We can have inside jokes too, you know.” Your mom nudges Jake’s mom and then says, “Bermuda shorts.” They both immediately start cackling, laughing so hard they soon become out of breath. 

You and Jake eye each other with amused but tired expressions. This type of behavior from your moms is nothing new, you’re both used to them acting like children who giggle at the smallest things. 

“You guys are impossible,” you remark, though you’re still smiling at their laughter. “Unable to be serious even for a second.”

Jake snorts. “I can see where you get it from.” 

Viewing this offhand comment as the perfect opening to pick a fight, you slowly turn your head to him, your eyes narrowed just a fraction. “What does that mean?”

“You do know that you also can’t be serious if your life depended on it, don’t you?” He scoffs lightly. “Sometimes it feels like you can’t read the room.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Oh, really? You know that you’re not any better, right? Walking around everywhere grinning like the world is sunshine and rainbows.” Your body leans away from him, a newfound tension making you straighten your spine. “It’s not, Jake.”

“Of course,” he mutters under his breath, eyes looking away from yours. “You always have to spin stuff back on me. Can’t take a joke if it’s about you,” he adds spitefully before taking a sip of water.

You will your eyes to burn, to slowly start welling with tears. If you focus, you can act like his words truly sting you (they don’t; you know Jake would never say anything like that to you and mean it). “That’s a super nice thing for my boyfriend to say to me on Valentine’s Day,” you choke out, trying to accentuate your voice cracks. “True love, isn’t it?” 

“My gosh,” Jake chuckles with a heavy air of exasperation, “you’ve been acting like this ever since we started dating.” He looks at you, gaze loaded, but you can tell there’s a glint of amusement deep in his eyes. “Is this how it’s going to be now? Just because we’re a couple, I can’t joke around with you anymore?” 

“Obviously that’s not the problem here, you buffoon,” you scold back, exhausted tears close to spilling. “Even before we were dating, I always hated when you acted like this.”

“Like what?” he challenges, eyes daring. 

“Like a dick,” you spit out, crossing your arms and fully turning away from him. 

The whole time you have this exchange, your moms’ laughter from across the table steadily dies down. They’re both frozen watching the two of you argue back and forth. Unlike the petty argument over the menu earlier, this one doesn’t feel like it can be so easily resolved. They eye each other warily, clearly discerning whether or not they should step in to break things up. 

“Geez,” Jake says lowly, “didn’t know I’d be out with queen of all emotions tonight.”

If looks could kill, he would certainly be dead by now. You fix him with one of your most deadly stares. “What exactly are you trying to say?” 

He huffs out a laugh. “You’re so sensitive tonight. Is it that time of the month?” 

The silence that falls across the table is the funniest unfunny thing you’ve ever seen. That line was your idea. You knew it would send this relationship past the point of no return, because in full honesty, Jake was always a champ whenever it came to dealing with you during that time of the month. He always perceived it as more like you getting possessed for a couple days a month than a biological occurrence, but he understood it nonetheless. He knew that whatever venomous, sad, vitriolic words came out of your mouth were probably just hormones. As he became more accustomed to this version of you, he learned how to play his cards right. When to bring you snacks and run his fingers through your hair, or when to leave you completely alone until he was given the OK to come over again. 

“Jaeyun!” his mom warns, having heard enough from him. The look she gives him is dangerous, conveying a message clear and concise: cut it out. 

Jake’s head snaps up at the use of his Korean name. You can see genuine fear in his eyes. His mom typically only called him by his other name under two circumstances: one, when she was extremely proud of him, and two, when she was extremely pissed at him. Now, based on context clues, Jake can infer that she’s probably not calling him that because of the first reason. 

“Sorry,” he says to her immediately, conviction clear on his face. “I didn’t mean it like that.” 

His mom is still just staring at him coldly, waiting for him to do what she’s silently instructing. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” He turns to you. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that and I shouldn’t have just assumed you were hormonal because you were upset with me.” 

You soften. Even though you weren’t actually mad at him and you know Jake would rarely ever ask you such a question, seeing him so sincerely contrite makes you warm. “I forgive you, Jake.” You still don’t smile. If anything, it’s worse now. Instead of angry, you’ve grown quiet. “But honestly… is that how you think of me now? Just an overdramatic, sensitive mess you have to walk around like some emotional landmine?” You finally allow the tears to spill over, salt streaming down your cheeks. 

The look he gives you causes a pang in your chest. Ever since you were kids, Jake has always hated seeing you cry. Call it a soul tie or emotional codependency, but whenever he saw you sad enough to shed tears, it felt like a hole was being carved in his own heart. Even though it’s orchestrated and you reassured him he wouldn’t actually make you cry, he still does not enjoy seeing you like this. 

He swallows hard. “Baby, no, of course not…” He hesitates whether or not he should raise his hand to wipe away your tears. He makes a move to, then freezes, deciding against it. “All I’m saying is you’ve been a little,” he carefully chooses his words, knowing this needs to be enraging enough to keep the fire burning. “Emotionally delicate,” is what he lands on. 

The slap to his face ends up landing right across his cheekbone. 

Full disclaimer, you really have to hand it to Jake. First off, the slap was his initial idea and insistence. You never would’ve actually hit him, no matter how many times the urge crosses you. He had to reassure you about a dozen times that it wouldn’t actually hurt him before you agreed to do it. Despite the countless times you rehearsed this (timing the slap, testing how hard you should hit him, making it look realistic), his reaction is really what sells it. 

He turns his head at the perfect moment, timed so that contact was still made, but not nearly as bad as it seemed. His hand flies up to his cheek, holding where he’d just been struck. He winces and looks at you incredulously. 

Your moms gasp sharply, eyes blown wide at what just happened. “Y/N-” your mom starts, voice heavy with shock. 

“How’s that for emotionally delicate?” you ask Jake bitterly.

“Why in the world would you do that-“ he questions, not moving from his position, just glaring at you. 

“That’s enough from the both of you,” your mom scolds. “You’re both eighteen now. This is ridiculous.” 

“We shouldn’t have to be breaking up arguments between you two like you’re five years old,” Jake’s mom joins in. “What has gotten into you tonight?” 

“You can’t just slap Jake across the face because he’s being annoying,” your mom reprimands you. “And you,” she turns her target on Jake, “you know better than to say things like that to anybody, let alone Y/N.” 

Jake slumps in his seat, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I know,” he murmurs quietly. 

You huff, still appearing upset but willing to defuse the situation to satisfy your mothers. “Sorry,” you mumble. “I guess it’s just finally getting to me after all these years.” 

“I agree,” he says, looking more mildly irritated than truly mad anymore. “Maybe there is such a thing as too much time spent together.” 

“Well, in that case,” your mom offers, “maybe college will be a good breather for you guys. You’ll finally have some space between you for the first time in your lives. Though we’re mostly to blame for that.” She smiles guiltily. 

A heavy silence settles at the mention of that dreaded word. College. Neither you nor Jake have fully committed to schools yet, but you’ve both applied and gotten accepted to a handful, a few overlapping. The option of attending the same school was extremely enticing, but you’ve heard the horror stories of best friends who do so. Someone always ends up getting hurt, the relationship strained by newfound adult struggles, busy schedules, and new social circles. You and Jake were strong in your relationship, you knew, but you were still unsure if you wanted to take that risk. 

“Have you guys been thinking more about that?” Mrs. Sim asks gently, casually. She knows the weight the topic has been carrying lately. 

“Yes,” you and Jake answer at the same time. The tension diffuses a bit, your bodies naturally gravitating toward each other again. 

“That’s good!” She takes another sip of wine. “What are your thoughts lately? Are you still considering the same school?” 

You and Jake speak simultaneously again, only this time your answers conflict. He says yes. You say no. 

“Uh,” he chuckles nervously but he’s not smiling. “No?” 

“I mean,” you say slowly. “I think… recent developments in our relationship play a big part here.”

“So do I,” he agrees. “All the more reason for us to go together, isn’t it?”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. “Jake,” you try explaining, “couples who go to college for each other never end well. I’ve seen it. I don’t want that to be us.”

He’s looking at you like you suddenly started speaking a dead language. “So what, we just do long distance for four whole years and hope for the best?” He grabs your hand, gentle but firm. “I don’t want to do that, Y/N.” 

“What if we don’t, then?” you ask quietly, unable to look him in the eyes. 

“Don’t what?” he presses, though he already knows the answer. “Don’t do long distance?” 

You finally lock eyes with him. “What if we just… don’t?” 

He stares at you. Searches your face for further information, but doesn’t find anything. The whole table is so silent you could hear a hairpin drop. Your mom and his exchange looks that say, Is this really happening? Now? 

“You… “ Jake starts then stops, swallowing like he’s fighting the words that want to come out of his throat. “Do you not want to stay together in college?” Somehow, he looks more hurt than when you literally slapped him in the face. 

“I’m just trying to be realistic. For both of us.” You go to squeeze his hand comfortingly, but he removes it, resting it on his thigh. You flinch at his reaction. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this now-” 

“No, let’s talk about this.” he demands. “Here. Now. With our moms.” He looks at them across the table. “I think now’s as good a time as any.” 

In all perfect timing, all your food arrives at that exact moment. The now familiar waitress cheerfully hands out the entrees, oblivious to what she just walked in on. It’s comical how no one breaks a smile as she places the dishes in front of you. 

“Just wave me down if you guys need anything else,” she informs before walking away. 

Looking to drag out the argument—and because you’re absolutely starving-–you announce, “Let’s eat!” 

Five minutes pass without a single word being spoken. You and Jake avoid eye contact with both each other and your moms, the tension steadily growing with each unsaid word. 

Jake finishes a bite of his pasta and simply asks, “Why?”

You’re still mid-bite, chewing to swallow before you answer him cautiously. “What do you mean ‘why?’”

“Why do you want to break up?” He takes another bite, unhurriedly eating like this is casual dinner conversation. 

You put your fork down. “I didn’t say I want to break up.”

“You didn’t say you want to stay together, either,” he highlights. “Sounds like wanting to break up to me.” 

“Jake, please just think about it. Life is gonna be so different. We’re gonna be so different,” you sigh. “We’re gonna be trying new things, meeting new people… what if one of us meets someone else we want to be with?” Not that you could even remotely picture anyone more perfectly suited for you other than Jake, but you’ve heard this breakup line countless times from other people. 

“I already know that’s not gonna happen, Y/N,” he says immediately. “I only want you. I’ll only ever want you.”

You know it’s fake. You know it’s just a line to fit into your make believe story. But still, hearing him say that feels like taking a knife to the chest for reasons you don’t understand. 

“You can’t know that, Jake-” you try, but he cuts you off again. 

“But I do know. That’s all I’ve ever known.” His words come out fast, like he’s been waiting to spit them out for ages. He then decides to rip the bandaid off. “If you don’t plan on us having a future, then why are we even together?” He looks down at his lap. When he looks up to you again, you’re taken aback by his red rimmed eyes, like now he’s the one on the verge of tears. 

Seeing that brings your emotions right to the surface again. You quickly feel streams rolling down your face. “Maybe you’re right,” you say brokenly. “Maybe we’re better off as friends. Maybe this,” you gesture between the two of you, “was a mistake.”

He exhales shakily. “Maybe it was.” Breaking eye contact, he looks across the table to your moms like he just remembered they were there. “Oh,” he says uncomfortably, “I really didn’t want to do this here. In front of you guys.” 

“We’re really sorry,” you emphasize, a glum look in your eyes. “I know how long you’ve waited for this and I didn’t want to ruin things.” You wipe away a tear with the back of your hand. 

“Oh, Bug.” Jake’s mom smiles sadly. “You both could never disappoint us. Really.” Though she stops speaking, she still looks as though she has plenty of unfinished thoughts. 

Because you’re convinced they share one mind, your mom picks up where her best friend left off. “We don’t mean to impose or intrude on your relationship,” she says as preamble, “you two are young adults and can make those decisions on your own. But,” she adds as she stares at you and Jake dead on, “are you seriously ending your relationship like this? Over one bad night and a couple arguments?” 

“Mom,” you speak softly, aware that this situation is less than ideal. “It isn’t really about that. I think it’s been building up all along.” You look to Jake. He nods. 

“This whole time, we always wondered if things would truly change if we became a couple,” he explains, a bittersweet tear falling down his face. “Turns out they did, and they didn’t.” 

“What do you mean?” His mom questions, genuinely trying to understand why two people who were basically created for one another were choosing to call things off. 

“Jake and I love each other,” you state plainly. “That never changed.” 

“And it never will,” he says decidedly. “With this new label, though, came just this pressure. Like there’s something to legitimately lose now. I never had to worry about that before.” 

“It’s just for the better,” you finalize. “By breaking up and going back to being just friends, things can be easy again. There’s no heartbreaks, no miscommunication or dumb grudges held over simple things. We can just go back to being us. Jake and Y/N.” 

Jake smiles through his tears. “Like it’s always been.” 

“And how it always will be,” you finish for him. “Besides,” you say, “these past few weeks have made me realize we were really better off as friends, anyway.” 

The words roll off your tongue with practiced ease, but they leave a bitter taste in your mouth. That’s not how the past few weeks have gone. If anything, all you’ve come to realize is how good of a couple you and Jake could be. But that’s out of the question. That’s not the point of all this. The plan was simple from the beginning: fake date for a short while, go on a date, show why you couldn’t actually be together, break up, and get your moms off your backs forever. You’ve succeeded. So why don’t you feel like you have?

Your mom nods solemnly, processing the reasons just given to her. “I applaud you two for being so mature about this. That takes guts.” 

You give her a small smile to show your thanks for her support over your joint decision. Finally, she gets why it’s been a bad idea all along for you and Jake to date. 

“I do have to say,” she continues, which you didn’t expect, “I’m going to miss the two of you together like this. I haven’t seen Y/N that happy in God knows how long. You don’t even know it,” she says to Jake, “but the way she looks at you? Goodness. I’ve never seen her look at anyone like that.”

Your throat catches. You had no idea you were so convincing without realizing it.

“Jake, too,” his mom agrees, speech directed at you. “Ever since you became official, all I see from him is smiles every minute of the day. Even at night, I can hear his little giggles when he texts you. It’s so cute.” 

Jake obviously was unaware of this, his brows furrowing in bewilderment. 

“We have thin walls,” Mrs. Sim expounds when she sees his expression. “I know what you get up to.” 

He blushes with nothing else to say. You, however, are just a little confused. Neither your gaze nor Jake’s giggles had been intentional levers in your plan, yet they just elevated the illusion altogether. Yay?

“We’ll still be us,” you affirm to them. As a joke, you add, “Jake just won’t kiss me or bring me flowers every time he comes over. This is a positive for his lips and bank account.” 

“Exactly,” Jake backs you up, “and we won’t fall asleep together on the couch anymore. Maybe.” His foot nudges yours under the table.

Both of your moms don’t speak for a moment. From your perspective, they appear to be going through all five stages of grief within the span of one minute. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally–acceptance. 

“If this is what you decide on, of course we’ll love and support you no matter what,” your mom says. “Just let us apologize for being the root cause in the first place,” she chuckles lightly. 

“Oh, she’s right,” Jake’s mom echoes. “I guess it’s kind of our fault for always saying you guys would be good together. That’s our bad.” 

Your mom winces sympathetically. “So, so sorry for that, kids. I promise we’ll stop now.” 

Oh, how no words ever sounded sweeter to you in all your life. Mission completed. End goal achieved. You turn and give Jake a knowing look which he mirrors exactly. You guys did it. Never again will you have to hear some overused spiel about your intertwined destinies. The adrenaline of your success kicks in, putting a pep in your step and lifting your mood. You still have to act a little downtrodden, though. You did just break up with your boyfriend, after all. So you put on a mixed expression, one that says, I’m bummed our romantic relationship has come to an end, but now we can go back to being just best friends. Yipee!

You and Jake go through dinner like nothing ever happened, immediately falling back into your lighthearted banter and personal yet unserious jabs at one another. Plates are cleared, glasses emptied, and Jake covers the bill. A gentleman even if there is no girlfriend to impress, simply the outcome of being raised right. 

As your group of four exits the building (Jake held the door for everyone this time, yourself included) and heads to the parking lot, your mom asks, “Are you two still riding together?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Jake replies without a second thought. “Why wouldn’t we?” 

“Well,” your mom laughs awkwardly, “you two did just break up.” 

“Oh, yeah,” he says. Brilliant. Tragic. You can really tell your fake relationship ending will scar him for years to come. 

“We’re fine,” you tell your mom. “Nothing’s wrong. Promise.” 

“Trust you, sweetie,” she smiles, giving you a quick goodbye kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you at home.” She moves next to hug Jake. “Thank you for dinner, young gentleman.” 

He chuckles. “Of course. You guys have spent plenty more money on snacks for us, anyway. Goodnight and drive safe.” 

Mrs. Sim squeezes you tightly, bidding goodbye. “Have a good rest of the night, Bug.” She leans in closer to your ear and says quietly, “I really am sorry things didn’t work out between you two. Just know that no matter what comes next, you’ll always be my favorite.” You know that she means it.

Her words melt your heart. It’s such a sweet sentiment. “You too, Mrs. Sim. And thank you.”

Jake hugs his mom goodbye with a quick, “I’ll be home by curfew, love you!” 

You part ways and go to your respective vehicles. When the door shuts after you, you let out a long, heavy sigh and slump in your chair. Jake looks over at you and you lock eyes. Silence hangs in the air for one, two, three seconds before it breaks. 

“Oh, finally!” you exclaim, hands running over your face in both exhaustion and victory. 

“I can’t believe we did it,” Jake says in disbelief. He grins wide again, his smile blinding even in the dark of his car. “We actually did it!”

“That was the most elaborate scheme I’ve pulled in my entire life,” you comment as you buckle your seatbelt and kick off your heels. “Gosh, my feet have been killing me all night.”

“You should’ve told me,” Jake frowns, turning the key in the ignition and pulling out onto the main road, “I have an extra pair of sneakers in here you could’ve worn instead.” 

You snort at his suggested solution to your foot pain. “Right, because the oversized Jordans with the dress really go well with Valentine’s at The Claw.” 

“You could pull it off,” he argues, like that’s all the evidence he needs. 

You ignore him. “Okay, favorite moments from tonight. Recap, go.” 

He hums to himself for a second, no doubt replaying the dinner in a flashback film reel in his mind. “You calling me a dick was pretty good,” he says thoughtfully. “That’s gotta be at least top three.” 

You laugh brightly, clapping your hands together once. “That was so vindicating, I can’t even lie to you.” 

“Oh, I’m sure it was,” he remarks sarcastically, “I can’t count all the times you’ve looked like it’s just been brewing on your tongue.” 

“Hey,” you defend, “at least I didn’t actually mean it this time.” You turn your head at him to see him attentively watching the road while he drives. “What’d you think of my crying? Was it convincing.” 

He side eyes you and says flatly, “Yeah, maybe too much so.” 

“Meaning?” You ask, awaiting compliments on your acting. 

“It, like, hurt me,” he shudders then shakes his head. “I really hate seeing you like that. It was so realistic, you looked so freaking sad, it made my chest hurt a bit.” He stares blankly ahead. 

“Wow,” is all you can respond. After a few seconds of silence except for the quiet rumble of the car tires against the road, you add, “I’m even better than I thought!” 

He laughs at that, sighing defeatedly. “Guess you are. Good job on that.” 

You smile triumphantly to yourself, glad to know you gave a convincing performance. “Your crying was amazing too, by the way,” you tell Jake. “You looked absolutely miserable.” 

“To be honest, I kind of was.” One of his hands rests on the wheel, the other propping his head up as he leans against the window. “Or it felt like I was, anyway.” 

“Really?” You ask. Here you’d been thinking Jake was just really into his performance, the whole time he was actually feeling horrible. “Why? I’m sorry about that,” you frown at him. “I didn’t know you’d feel that way.”

“Neither did I,” he admits. “I wasn’t expecting to. It just felt so real for a second, you know?” He runs his hand through his hair, eyes still on the road. “Talking about the future like that, things changing, the thought of losing you…” he drifts off, zoning out while he stares at the dark night in front of him. 

“Jake.” You say his name softly, breaking him out of his trance. “That was all dramatized, overexaggerated.” You think of the right word to describe it. “Fake.”

He lets out a long breath, but that word doesn’t seem to comfort him. At all. “You’re right. It just made me realize I really, really, hate the idea of losing you.” He breaks his stare at the road, eyes meeting yours. 

“You won’t ever lose me.” You give him a soft, reassuring smile. “You don’t ever have to worry about that.” 

His eyes search yours, like he’s checking that you’re telling him the honest truth. Then, he lets out another breath, this time a considerably shakier one that turns into a broken laugh. “Thank you for that. You won’t ever lose me, either.” 

You snicker at that thought. “Like you could ever get away from me,” you say, letting him know he’s stuck with you for the foreseeable future and beyond. He’s still looking at you, and you swear you see his eyes drop down to your lips for the smallest fraction of a second. Suddenly sweating, you look away, your gaze flitting to the windshield. “Jake, the light!” 

He startles, quickly turning his head back to look at the road, slamming on the brakes until you jerkily skid to a stop under the red light. “Whoa,” he pants, “that was close.”

You swallow, frantically looking out the window so you don’t have to look at him. “Yeah, it was.” 

The rest of the car ride passes by in a blur. Comfortable silence falls between you once again, a few stolen glances sneaking in every now and then. You connect your phone to the car again, resuming the love songs playlist without thinking about it. When Pancakes for Dinner by Lizzy McAlpine starts playing, you stupidly feel like you’ve just played the most scandalizing song in existence. Every word burns your ears and you seriously cannot make eye contact with Jake for the life of you. This has never happened before. Even that road trip three years ago when you fell on him in the backseat and accidentally elbowed him in the balls was less agonizing than this. 

After what feels like an eternity, you finally pull up to the curb outside your house. Because you are the luckiest eighteen year old alive, right as Jake puts the car in park, a heavy downpour of rain starts pounding the roof of the car, streaming down the windows and collecting in huge droplets. 

“Oh, damn,” Jake hisses, rummaging around in his backseat and coming up empty handed. “I don’t have an umbrella.” 

“It’s okay,”  you say quickly, desperate to get out of this confined space with him before you do something stupid. “I can just run-”

“You’ll slip,” he rebuffs, putting it out of the question. He sits up like he’s just had a stroke of genius. “Wait, I got it,” he says. He then starts to pull his sweater over his head, layers riding up in the process and flashing you with a glimpse of his torso. 

“WHOA, WHAT?” you practically scream, backing up against the passenger side window. Surely you fell asleep in the car and this is some twisted dream you’re having right now. 

He removes the red sweater and pulls his undershirt back down, leaving him in a white button up. “Relax, you pervert,” he cackles, holding the sweater up between you. “We can hold this over our heads while we walk to the door.” 

“We?” You question sharply, eyebrows raising.

“Yes, we,” he repeats with a roll of his eyes. “I always walk you to the door.” His eyes catch the bouquet of roses put aside on his dashboard. He grabs them with one hand, holding the sweater in the other. 

You just nod cooly, unbuckling your seat belt and grabbing your heels in one hand and your purse in the other. It’s just a short walk across your yard, going barefoot isn’t going to kill you tonight. The way Jake Sim is looking at you, however, just might. 

He’s shamelessly staring at you from the driver’s side, eyes wistful but discerning, like he’s trying to figure something out. You feel like he’s looking at you with x-ray vision, seeing right past your flustered exterior and into your soul, where he’ll discover all the confusing feelings you’ve been pushing down for weeks now. You are terrified, to say the least. You shift your body to open your door, but before your hand can even pull the handle, Jake is there on the other side, opening it for you. He props the flowers under one arm so he has a free hand to offer you as assistance out of the car. His eyes are shining with that unknown emotion, and you offer back a quick smile as you get out and try to dodge the incoming raindrops. 

Jake smoothly raises the sweater over the both of you with one arm, blocking most of the rainfall from your heads. You start moving toward your front door, speed walking through the grass and up your driveway, and you can’t help but giggle at the innocent fun of it all. You could almost pretend that you’re just two kids again, trying to outrun the weather like it’s your biggest opponent. You safely make it under your porch covering and you turn around, feeling a little breathless for reasons that have nothing to do with your almost-jog through the rain. 

Apparently the sweater was not as equally distributed as you thought, because while your hair is mostly dry on top, Jake’s is damp enough that it’s dripping. All the hair gel is washed away, wet strands falling into his face. If it bothers him-–which it probably doesn’t, really—he doesn’t show it, simply grinning down at you. You’re enjoying the view in front of you. A wet-haired Jake in a white button up smiling at you with a bouquet of roses in his hand? Oh, absolutely. 

You sort of forget for a moment that he is still a living, breathing human being with thoughts and actions, so it brings you back to reality when he asks, “Is your mom home already?”

Fully conscious again, you crane your neck to take a peek at your windows. You can see warm light behind the shutters both upstairs and in the kitchen, a good sign that your parents are home, awake, and bustling about. “Yeah, I think so,” you answer, turning back to look at him.

He nods but he looks distracted. One whole second of awkwardness crawls by, and you immediately decide that you hate it and never want to feel that ever again. 

“So, I should probably…” You gesture to the front door and turn to go inside, but Jake’s hand on your arm stops you. 

“Y/N, wait.” He all of a sudden looks a bit sickly. You assume it’s just from the rain and the cold. He’s pale, shaky, and his eyes look kind of wild. When you just look at him with a questioning expression, he explains expertly, “Uh.” He lets go of your arm, his hand returning to his side. He looks at you, then at the flowers in his hand. “Don’t forget these. And… you never said what your favorite part of the night was.”

You break into a smile, feeling relieved that that’s all he wanted to know. Chill out, you tell yourself mentally. You’re freaking yourself out for nothing. Nothing weird is going on. You take the flowers back into your own arm, cradling them while you hold your shoes and purse in the other. “Oh, yeah,” you laugh, taking a moment to think about it. You stare him dead in the eyes. “I just gotta tell you, it was definitely slapping you in the face.” 

“I told you you’d enjoy it!” Jake howls with laughter, clearly satisfied to see that his suggestion was appreciated. “And you were so worried about it, for what?” 

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” you say in defense, laughter trailing off. “Are you sure I didn’t hit you too hard? You’re not gonna wake up with a bruise tomorrow or anything?” 

“I’m fine.” He turns his head so you have a clear view of where you hit him, showing off his high cheekbones and notably unblemished face. “Not a scratch.” 

“I still feel kind of bad for actually hitting you, though,” you continue. “Not to say I haven’t wanted to do that for a long time, cause I totally have.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. If anything, it’s just a boo-boo.” 

That terminology jogs your memory, sending you back to elementary school, when you and Jake were in first grade, playing on the playground during recess. You tripped on a rock and fell, skimming your elbow on the pavement. Jake walked with you to the nurse and sat with you while she bandaged you up, all while you cried from both the pain and the sting of the antibacterial topical. For the rest of recess, you sat on the bench, longingly watching all the other kids play. Jake was right beside you. 

“Why don’t you go play with everyone else?” you asked him, sniffling. “Jay and Sunghoon are playing tag.” 

“I don’t wanna,” he answered simply, legs swinging off the bench. “I wanna sit here with you.” 

“Why?” you asked again, wiping your nose with the back of your sleeve. “This isn’t fun.” 

“I won’t have fun if you don’t. I’ll stay with you.” He pointed to the bandaid on your elbow. “Does it still hurt?”

You nodded silently, your little hand rubbing at it soothingly. “But it’s just a boo-boo.” 

“Can I try something?” Jake tilted his head, his unruly hair flopping into his eyes.  “My mommy does this to my boo-boos. It makes them feel all better.” 

You were willing to try just about anything to feel better, so you waited for him to do whatever it is he’s talking about. He leaned down and puckered his lips, dropping a short kiss right over the bandaid. 

“Did it work?” he asked nervously.

Your crying stopped. You let out one last long, shaky sniffle and look at Jake with teary eyes. “It did. It doesn’t hurt anymore.” 

He grinned brightly, smiling wide even though he was missing two of his front teeth. “I told you it makes them feel all better! It’s like magic.” He hops off the bench and holds out his hand. “Let’s go play now!” 

You giggle and follow him, chasing him onto the playground to go play tag. 

You smile fondly at the memory. Then an idea hits you. “Hey. Can I try something?” 

He narrows his eyes at you, interest piqued. “Sure… what?” 

You move in, face much closer to his than before. “Lucky for you, someone once told me the magic fix for boo-boos.” You swerve your head and plant a kiss right on his cheek, holding for a few seconds for good measure before pulling away. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears. “Did it work?” you ask quietly, eyes boring into his. 

He nods slowly, then quickly, pupils blown and mouth slightly agape. “Yeah.” He swallows, flushed down to his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It did.”

You smile. “Good.” You turn away, walking to your front door. Right before you turn the handle, you look back at your best friend. “Goodnight, Worm.” 

“Goodnight, Bug.” He waves at you, waiting to make sure you’re safe inside before he returns to his car. 

Once inside, you watch him through the peephole, observing how he throws the sweater over his head again as he runs back to his car. The engine roars back to life, headlights shining down your street, and then he takes off. The second he disappears from your vision, you exhale deeply, leaning your head against the door. 

You’re exhausted and confused, greatly looking forward to sleep even though it’s only 10:00 P.M. You drop your shoes by the door and walk into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, finding your mom sitting at the dining table. Surrounding her are various scraps of paper, which you recognize upon closer inspection as Valentine’s cards, all adorned with hearts and glitter. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” she greets you when she hears you walk in. “I just remembered this box was stored up in the closet. It’s full of all your Valentines from when you were little.” 

“Oh, wow,” you breathe out, taking a seat next to her and looking at all the notes splayed across the table. “I didn’t know you kept all of these.” You hang your purse off a chair and lay the bouquet next to you on the table. 

“Of course I did,” she says. “I figured you’d want them one day. Aren’t they just adorable?” She sees the roses and nods at them. “That really is a beautiful bouquet.” 

“They are,” you agree, noticing all the details close up. You look down at the roses again. “And it is.” Drawing attention back to the cards, you comment, “This is so cute, it’s like a mini time capsule.” 

Concealed under a stack of valentines, you see a rounded corner, set apart from all the rectangle and square-cut cards. You pull it out and find that it’s a heart cut out of red construction paper, trimmed with lace around the edges. It’s messy in a way that’s cute, so obviously decorated by a little kid. The glitter glue is faded and some of the gems have fallen off, but you can still read the text written on it. Your heart stops. 

To: Y/N

From: Jake

Scribbled out in Jake’s messy kindergarten handwriting is the exact same thing as what’s written on the Valentine he gave you yesterday. After making that connection, you quickly realize that it’s an entire replica of the card that you’re holding in your hands now. That had to have been on purpose. Were you supposed to know that? Is that why he looked like he was waiting for you to say something else, to notice something else? 

“Mom,” you say, voice wobbly, “when is this one from?” 

She glances over at what you’re holding and smiles when she recognizes it. “Aww, that was your Valentine’s Day in kindergarten. We had you guys make matching cards for each other and then exchange them. Mrs. Sim should still have Jake’s, too.” 

You hum in response, eyes still taking in every detail of the card. “Do you mind if I take this to my room?” 

“Of course you can,” she replies happily. “It’s yours anyway. I was just keeping it safe for a bit.” She eyes you a second longer, looking at you in that way only moms can. “Are you okay? After everything that happened tonight, I mean.” 

“I am.” No, you’re not. “Nothing’s gonna change between me and Jake.” Yes, they already have. “We’re good.” Are you? 

You give her a tight smile and retreat up to your bedroom, shutting the door behind you with a definitive click. You walk over to your desk, where you’d left Jake’s valentine from yesterday. Placing the old valentine right next to it, you gasp seeing them side by side. They’re nearly identical, from the color of glitter glue used to the placement of the stick on gems. He recreated what was probably the first valentine he ever gave you. 

Your heart swells at the realization, tears welling up behind your eyes for what feels like the millionth time this night. You wipe them away quickly, trying to get a hold of your emotions again. It’s just so incredibly sweet that Jake would do such a thing. Sweet that he would put the effort in, sweet that he even remembered this ancient relic from over a decade ago. You just can’t help but wonder why. Why would he do all that just for a fake Valentine’s date you both knew wasn’t going to end well? Why would he show up with a gorgeous bouquet of roses and still give you a tulip because he knew they were your favorite? Was he really that invested in your little romantic ploy just for the fun of it?

Could it have been that he simply wanted to do those things? Just because he wanted to? For you? 

Your head hurts. You need sleep. Putting your racing thoughts on pause, you decide to get ready for bed. You change into your favorite pajama pants and an old hoodie, your favorite. It’s not until you slip it over your head, wiggling your arms in the worn in, oversized sleeves, that you remember this used to be Jake’s hoodie. You freeze, staring at your wall, then let out a groan. You can’t escape the thought of him. He’s everywhere. This hoodie is his. There’s pictures of him plastered all over your bulletin board. The tulips he got you are sitting on your dresser, held by the vase he made. The ladybug Pillow Pet he got you is laying on your bed, staring back at you.

Your lives are so intertwined, Jake is basically apart of your entire existence. 

You feel like your room is shrinking by the second, memoirs of Jake closing in on you faster and faster, so you retreat to your one reliable solace: your bed. You turn off the lights and slip under the covers, grabbing your phone for the first time since the restaurant. 

Of course there’s notifications from him. 

jakey <3:

hey

tonight was so fun

we did a great job!!

#FINALLYFREE

it was truly my deepest honor to be your fake boyfriend :)

also when u could

can you send the pics we took on ur phone??

thanks ur the best !

You type back a quick reply before opening your photos app. 

you:

yes

gimme one sec

Scrolling to your gallery, you click through the pictures Jake had taken right before you’d gone into the restaurant. There’s multiple photos, all of you and Jake standing in front of the rose bush, grinning ear to ear. You unconsciously smile when you see them. 

You select all the pictures and send them to your chat with Jake. 

you:

[attachment: 7 images]

hereee

He reads the message instantly, notifying you that he’s been lurking, waiting for you to send them. 

jakey <3

AAAAAAA 

these turned out so niceee

we look so good 

you:

yeah 

they’re cute 

Gun to your head, you could not explain why you’re being so dry. It’s like your brain doesn’t know how to respond anymore, overthinking every word your fingers type out. You start typing, dude my mom just showed me a valentine from like kindergarten that you gave to me lol. You delete it. You try again, hey, thanks again for agreeing to all this. i know it wasn’t easy and maybe made you confused like i am right now- backspaced immediately. What are you even trying to say?   

Jake was always your go-to person for any and all of your qualms about life. But now, you feel like you can’t talk to him. Because how are you supposed to talk to him when you need to talk about him?

jakey <3:

are you typing out the declaration of independence rn 

you

what

no

why?

jakey <3:

your little text bubble has been bubbling for like 

five million years 

you:

oh

oops 

Jake’s own typing bubble pops up, then disappears, bubbles for fifteen seconds, and is gone again. 

jakey <3:

are you ok? 

you:

i’m fine 

just tired 

think i’m gonna go to bed now 

jakey <3:

oh 

okay 

sweet dreams bug 

Even though it irks your soul, you leave him on read. You don’t trust yourself to respond without saying something you’ll regret in the morning. You shut your phone off, plug it in on your nightstand, and collapse onto your bed. You clutch the ladybug Pillow Pet in your arms. Much to your surprise, sleep overtakes you almost immediately. Fake dating your best friend really takes it out of you. 

It doesn’t feel like the peace lasts long, however. After what feels like only 15 minutes of sleep, you’re woken up by a recurring tapping sound at your window. You open one eye, squinting at the early morning light coming through your curtains. The sun’s up, so you’ve evidently been sleeping for more than 15 minutes, that’s for sure. You aimlessly grab around until you feel your hand wrap around your phone, yanking it off the charger and holding it up so you can check the time. Your screensaver displays 7:14 am. Too damn early on a Sunday morning for whatever’s going on outside your window. What is going on outside your window, anyway? 

You crawl out of bed, limbs cramping from exhaustion as you walk toward your window. You yank open your curtains, hissing when the sunlight hits your face. Blinking rapidly as your eyes adjust to the light, you open your blinds and stare down at your yard. You blink again, frozen. 

Jake is standing on your lawn, camped out below your bedroom window. Just like last time, he’s throwing pebbles up at your room, only this time, there’s no extravagant gifts or signs to win your affection. It’s just him. 

You’re now wide awake. 

You learned your lesson last time when you almost got hit in the face with a rock, so you don’t open the window, just pull up the blinds. When Jake finally sees you, his eyes go wide, like he wasn’t fully expecting you to wake up. He mouths something you can’t hear and you just stare at him dumbly. He makes a phone symbol with his hand, holding it up to his ear and then pointing back at you.

Catching his drift that he’s telling you to go get your phone, you scurry back to grab your phone where you left it thrown aside among your blankets and pillows. There’s already an incoming call from him when you pick it up. You answer right away, holding your phone up to your ear while you go back to the window, now able to hear and see Jake. 

“Good morning,” he says casually, voice audible through the speaker. 

“Good morning,” you reply back, albeit distractedly. “Uh, Jake?”

“Yeah?” He sounds like he’s holding his breath over the line. 

You squint at him down below, crossing your arm under the one that’s holding the phone up. “It’s seven in the morning. Why are you in my yard?”

He laughs—that beautiful, rich, cheerful sound that makes your heart do a somersault in your chest. “Oh, right,” he murmurs, almost to himself, like he just realized this isn’t a normal thing to do. “I was worried about you.” 

“About me?” You point to yourself, eyebrows raised. 

He nods from his spot in your yard. “Yes, you. You were acting all weird last night when I texted you and…” 

“And you what, Jake?” You bite your lip absentmindedly, nerves running rampant through you. You don’t even know what you want him to say, but you’re holding out hope for something.

“I didn’t know,” he starts off quiet and slow, “if I had messed things up last night. With you.” 

You shut your eyes and let out a deep breath through your nose. Your body burns with embarrassment. Gosh, you’re such an idiot. Of course that’s why he’s so concerned. You had to go ahead and let your feelings almost come to surface, and now everything is messed up. He probably thinks you had a freaking stroke after what you pulled with that stupid cheek kiss last night. The magic solution for boo-boos? At your big age? He definitely thought some weird body swap happened in that moment, because why on earth would you act so out of character? It probably terrified him, maybe even made him uncomfortable. You’re his best friend, why are you going and catching feelings from a made-up relationship that was your idea in the first place? It’s pathetic. It’s humiliating. He probably came all the way over here so he could let you down easy in person. That’s even worse! What are you supposed to do now? Are you supposed to just pretend like this never happened? That you never jumped in without thinking, lost all your resolve, and came to the realization that your moms have been right all along: you and Jake are meant to be together? You want to curl up into a ball and never, ever uncoil. You start thinking of logical excuses for your dumb behavior. Sorry about that, I was temporarily possessed- 

“I wasn’t sure if I crossed a line.” The heaviness in his voice makes you put a pin in your unrelenting thoughts. “If I scared you away.”

Your brain isn’t working. “Um,” you say intelligently. “What?” 

He sighs deeply over the phone starts pacing back and forth in your yard. “Do you… do you think I was too much last night?” 

Too much? Oh, Lord, he was everything. “No,” you answer honestly. “Is this about dinner? ‘Cause you were perfect.” 

He chuckles in relief. “Oh, okay. Good, that’s good. I just,” he pauses, his steps also coming to a stop. “You looked kind of… terrified?” He turns the statement into a question, like he’s looking for confirmation.

Crap. You knew you should’ve practiced your poker face one more time. One stupid slip and everything blows up. Wait. Maybe he didn’t realize what exactly you were so afraid of. You cough. “Of what?” 

“When I was telling the story of when I realized I wanted you.” The way he mentions it like it was a true tale makes you lightheaded. “I didn’t even finish it and you started choking on your water.” 

Damn it, you’re too obvious. “Oh! That!” You try to laugh it off, which comes out way too loud and way too high pitched to be authentic, and he knows that. “That was completely unrelated.” 

“Right,” he agrees, but you can tell from his tone he does not believe you one bit. He’s onto you. “And after, when I drove you home. You were looking at me like I was gonna whip out a machete and skin you alive.” 

“Whoa,” you object, locking eyes with him through the window. “That because you just started randomly stripping in front of me-” 

“I took my sweater off, I wasn’t going full nude,” he laughs fully, doubling over for a second before looking at you again. “I wasn’t aware my bare stomach was such a sensitive topic for you.” 

Neither did you. But due to recent events, you’ve concluded that it very much is. “Shut up,” you tell him, fighting the burn in your face. “I was just surprised, that’s all.” 

“Hm,” he hums. That’s all he does. It infuriates you. 

“Look,” you start, beginning to realize you won’t win this time, “if you came over just to check on me, I assure you, I’m fine-” 

“That’s not why I’m here.” Jake keeps his eyes on you, challenging, daring you to ask why. 

You fall for it, hook, line, and sinker. “Then what are you doing here?” you ask tiredly. 

Now it’s his turn to look like he’s on the verge of imminent explosion. His free hand starts fidgeting and he’s not looking at you anymore. Here it comes. He’s feeling bad because he doesn’t want to absolutely crush your soul with his clarification of your relationship: best friends and nothing more.

You don’t want to play this part anymore. You’re done. “Jake, you don’t have to.” 

His head shoots up, confusion clear on his face. “What?” 

“I know what you’re going to say,” you begin quickly, trying to get it out as fast as possible so you have to suffer for a shorter amount of time. “We don’t have to talk about it. We can just carry on like none of this ever happened, and just forever maintain that our moms were wrong.” 

“Wrong about what?” he asks, voice airy. His eyes are wide again as he looks at you. 

Every second of eye contact stings. You turn around and walk a few steps, eyes darting all around your room in hopes of finding a distraction. “You know what,” you laugh nervously. Seriously, what is going on? “Wrong about us being meant for each other, wrong that we’re a good couple-” 

“What if I agree with them?”

Your whole body locks up on the spot. You take a short glance at your window. One step closer and you’d be able to see him again. You feel like you’ve started burning up and the blood in your veins has turned to ice, simultaneously. 

“... what?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. 

Jake laughs breathily, and you can picture it perfectly in your mind even though you can’t see him. “Can you just come down here, please? I’d rather not do this over the phone.” 

You don’t answer him; you can’t. All you can do is hit the red button to end the call, grab a pair of slippers, and fumble with your doorknob before remembering your door swings out, not in. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a pack of gum sitting on your dresser. You grab a stick of gum and unwrap it quickly, shoving it into your mouth and chewing furiously. Just in case.

You stumble down the stairs, through the living room, and past the kitchen, but a pop of color catches your eye. You backtrack a few steps, taking a long look at the bouquet of roses Jake gave you before the date, now lying on your kitchen table. 

Their deep red pigment is taunting you, a tantalizing reminder of the illusory hoax of a romance you just embarked on. A small jab at whatever it is you’re feeling right now. Then you realize they’re just dumb flowers, and Jake is waiting for you behind that door. You take off without a second thought.  

The door swings open, slamming loudly behind you as you run out onto your lawn. He’s waiting there in the same spot, his back toward you. Jake hears you approach and turns around, smiling when he lays eyes on you. 

“Hi,” he says softly. 

“Hi,” you reply just as faintly. 

He takes in your frazzled appearance, from your well-loved pajama pants, to your messy bedhead, to your tired yet bright eyes, to the oversized hoodie you’re wearing. He grins wider when he recognizes it as one of his own. “Nice hoodie.” 

Your eyes expand like saucers and you wrap your arms around yourself like that hides the garment. You feel like you’ve been caught with some serious contraband and not just a hoodie. “I’ll give it back to you,” you rush to explain, ridden with guilt. “Today, if you want!” 

“Keep it.” He laughs and takes a step closer toward you. “You wear it better, anyway.”

You blush, ducking your head to keep him from seeing. He notices anyway. He always notices. 

“I found your valentine,” you say out of the blue, not wanting a single second of silence. “The original one.”

His eyes soften. “Really?”

You nod. “My mom was going through a whole box of old cards and stuff when I got home,” you share. “She said it was from kindergarten.” 

“It is,” Jake confirms. “I’ve had it in my bottom drawer for ages now. The one you gave me.” 

You weren’t expecting him to say that. You were in his room all the time and apparently had no idea he was storing nostalgic pieces of paper in there, right under your nose. You can’t help but ask, “Why?” 

“My mom always wanted it to be kept safe,” he says, “but also said she wanted me to keep it close.” He stops, just looking at you, debating whether or not to continue. “Same with this.” 

He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a folded origami rose. The color is faded, edges frayed slightly by the passage of time. 

He holds it up in front of you. “You gave me this with that card in kindergarten,” he says fondly, looking at it with adoration. “One day in second grade, I was mad at you. You kept calling me Worm all day at school, and I came home absolutely done with you.” 

You don’t say anything, just listen intently. You’ve never heard this story before. 

“It’s stupid, really, but I told my mom I didn’t want to be friends with you anymore,” he chuckles, reminiscing as he stares at the paper flower. “I said I was gonna throw this away because you made me mad and I didn’t want to see you.” His eyes fix on yours. “She sat me down and told me, ‘Jake,’” he begins, doing his best mom voice, which makes you laugh a bit. “‘Y/N is a very special friend to you. I think if you stopped being friends with her, you’d be very sad.’ 

And then she asked me, ‘How would you feel if she got a new best friend and started calling him Worm instead of you?’” He laughs louder, shaking his head. “Man, that made things even worse. That scared me, the thought of you hanging out with someone else. That’s when I decided I was never going to stop being your friend, and I was going to do everything in my power to make sure that you’d never want to bother anyone as much as you wanted to bother me.” 

For some insane reason, your eyes start to water the more he goes on. You remember that day. You’d thought calling him Worm was funny; he was okay with it when you guys were outside of school, anyway. He became annoyed with you and didn’t say goodbye when he went home. That made you sad for the rest of the day. The next morning when you saw Jake, you expected him to still be mad at you. He wasn’t. 

“I remember,” you laugh. “The next day at school, I thought you were gonna ignore me the whole day. I felt bad.” You smile at the memory. “You gave me a hug when I saw you.” 

He scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, first and last time for a long, long while.” He winces, “I could tell right away you hated it.” 

“My opinion’s been swayed,” you say, testing. You look at him and give him a small, knowing smile. “I think I’m starting to get it now.” 

He half smirks. “Oh, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You shift your focus off of his eyes because you can’t handle how he’s looking at you. Looking over his shoulder at the trees surrounding your house, you comment haphazardly, “Man, they really need to trim those hedges. Look at ‘em all overgrown and messy.” 

“Y/N.” The tone in his voice makes you freeze again. 

“Jake,” you respond in the same way, trying to disguise your internal panic. “What?” 

“I don’t care about your foliage.” He takes one step closer to you. “And neither do you.” 

“That’s not true,” you deny quickly, “I am very passionate about nature and gardening.” 

He doesn’t break a smile, just takes another step. “You can’t grow a plant to save your life.”

“Well, that’s rude,” you scoff, your heart hammering in your ears as he closes in on you. “You know, I think if I really put my mind to it-”

“Y/N,” he repeats again, “why are we talking about vegetation?” 

You purse your lips. “I…” No excuses come to mind. “I don’t know, Jake.” 

Another step. “Do you even remember why you’re down here?” 

“Because,” you swallow, the air all of a sudden feeling thick and heady. “You asked me to come down,” you recall, “so you could tell me why you’re really here.” You close your eyes for one second, take a deep breath, and bite the bullet. You lock eyes with him. “Why are you here, Jake?” 

He just stares at you for around four seconds. You start to think, Oh, damn it, he’s trying to phrase how to let me down slowly, and brace yourself for impact. But then he moves forward again, hand reaching out. He freezes. Takes another hesitant step and retracts it. You hear him exhale audibly, heavily, before he surges forward so he’s standing right there in front of you. 

“Oh, my gosh,” he says, “I can’t do this anymore. Screw it.”

You expect the rejection to come quick, bitter and stinging. It doesn’t happen. 

Jake twirls the paper rose in his hand, looking at it as if it’s made of gold. “My mom never let me throw this away,” he reminds you. “She always said I’d regret it cause I might need it someday. I guess she was right.” He looks at you again. “Y/N, I’m losing my mind.”

Your throat is dryer than a desert. Somehow you will yourself to ask, “Over what?” 

“You!” He laughs in disbelief, moving even closer. “I couldn’t sleep at all last night. Not a single second.” He temporizes whether or not he should keep going. “I…” he starts slow, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t want to ruin things. Between us, I mean.” 

And so it starts, you believe. Next will come the line about how this was fun, but you really are better off staying friends. You look down, eyes lasering in on the blades of grass beneath your slippers. 

“But I can’t help it.” 

You so incredibly slowly raise your head to look him in the face. His pupils are blown, mouth slightly agape and his cheeks are slightly flushed. 

Jake swallows, opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Y/N, I can’t pretend anymore.” His eyes survey yours, checking for any signs of discomfort or hesitation. He doesn’t find any and continues. “I know this was all just fake to get our moms off our backs,” he starts, “and I know none of it meant anything and it was all just a means to an end.” Both of his hands brush through his hair, gripping his scalp before dropping down again. “But I’ve never felt like something was more right. Ever. In my entire life.” 

All you can do is stare at him, unable to even blink or nod or offer any sort of acknowledgment. 

He goes on, “I don’t know if it’s all in my head and I’m just crazy or what,” he says, “but there’s no way you didn’t feel something these past few weeks… is there?” 

You shake your head quickly, urging him to go on. 

“I’ve been going insane ever since last night,” he says. “Well, for longer than that, but especially since last night. Being out with you, taking you on a date, holding your hand, getting to go on and on about how I adore you,” he gushes, eyes bright. “That was the best thing ever.” His smile flickers for a second, now unsure. “And it wasn’t real.”

“Jake…” you say, trying to find your voice. It’s shaky and subdued, but it’s there. “That was all just apart of the plan wasn’t it? All rehearsed lines and made up feelings.” 

He lets out one short laugh, closes his eyes, then looks up to the sky like God is playing some cruel joke on him. “I should find it flattering that you think I’m that good of an actor.” He looks back at you. “Seriously, Y/N, do you think I’m freaking Christian Bale or something?” He sighs then goes quiet, so quiet you could swear you hear his heartbeat. “I wasn’t faking anything. I haven’t been for a while now.”

Letting his words hang in the air, you take a long few seconds to fully soak in what he’s saying. From his side, it’s been real. Since even before last night. You’re looking at him, but not really seeing him, his features blurring together by the second as your vision becomes hazy. It feels like the world is tilting on its axis.

“Hey,” he says upon noticing you looking dazed. His brows knit slightly with soft concern. “Are you okay?” 

His voice shakes you out of it again. “Tell me you’re being one hundred percent serious right now,” you say instead of answering his question. “Swear on Layla.” 

He changes his expression to an earnest one, eyes locked straight on yours. “I’m being fully honest with you. I swear on Layla, I’m the worst fake boyfriend ever.” His hands twitch at his sides, hesitant to touch you before he gives in, gently holding both of your hands in his. “I need to know,” he says quietly, just for you, “that it’s not just me. It’s not all in my head.” His eyes stare into yours, glassy and full of emotion. 

You want to tell him of course it’s not in his head. You want to tell him that you feel the exact same, right down to the evident panic displayed in his eyes. But it needs to be right. You start thinking it over. For the first time in your life, you legitimately have no idea what to say to Jake. You just look at him with your lips parted, breath hitching every couple seconds like you’re about to say something, but then nothing comes out. 

His body falters, doubt and embarrassment flashing across his face, head tilting down. His hands holding yours tremor, and you already know what he’s probably thinking. He read the situation wrong. You don’t feel the same. He has to go jump off a cliff now. 

You hear sirens going on in your head when he tries to release his grip on you, his hands loosening and preparing to back away. You can’t let it be like this. In a frenzy fueled by adrenaline that’s kicked in way too late to be useful, you clutch his hands in yours.

“Stop,” you say hurriedly, voice strung with alarm. “It’s not.” You swallow, finally finding the words. “It’s not just you. It’s not all in your head.” 

Jake slowly lifts his head, peeking his eyes at you. “It’s not?” he asks timidly.

You shake your head no, unable to stop explaining now that you’ve started. “I thought I messed up, that I would ruin our friendship if I let these… new feelings happen,” you explain. “It just felt so stupid to me, you know? I mean, after all these years we both spent, like, aggressively detesting a romantic relationship, I just,” you pause, thinking. “I felt like I’d be conforming to some dumb cliche.” 

He laughs brokenly, easing the tension slightly. “I get it,” he says. “Really, I do. Except it just makes me feel kind of like an idiot. Like it took me this long to realize what everyone’s been saying forever.” He looks at you in full. “What was in front of me this whole time.”

Your entire body shivers, feeling like it’s been electrocuted and doused in water at the same time. You think back to the conversation you had in his kitchen about relationships of years past, or more so the lack thereof. 

“Did you really mean what you said that night in the kitchen?” you ask. “When I asked you why you never really dated anybody?” 

Jake facepalms, his eyes squeezed shut. “I was hoping you didn’t register that.” He drags his hand down his face with a groan. “Yeah. I did,” he admits. “I didn’t even think about what I was saying. It just came out.” He eyes you warily. “Do you… think that’s weird?” 

You consider the big picture from Jake’s perspective. “Not really,” you answer. “If anything, you could blame it on being brainwashed by our moms. I’m sure there’s some psychological backup to that.”

“That would be a lie,” he confesses. “That has nothing to do with them and everything to do with you, Y/N.” 

There he goes again with those perfectly crafted words that turns your stomach into a wildlife reserve for very active and annoying butterflies. 

“The story of when I realized I was falling for you?” he recalls. “The one that I pitched and ‘altered?’ Completely accurate.” He smiles lopsidedly. “It’s how you’re always there. And I don’t mean the same always like how my mom’s always yelling at me to stop leaving my shoes by the door, or how we always have homework on Tuesdays.” 

He reaches up and brushes away a strand of hair that’s been blown into your face by the light morning breeze. “I mean always as in, I can’t think of a single time I’ve needed you by my side and you weren’t there. The good, the bad, the ugly, the downright humiliating. You know it all, Y/N,” he breathes out. “You know me.” He locks eyes with you. “You’ve seen every version of me. Every birthday, every stupid phase, every pubescent  hormonal imbalance—you saw all of it. And you stayed.” 

Against your will, the tears in your eyes threaten to spill over upon hearing his impromptu speech. In your eyes, not having Jake in your life wasn’t even an option in any circumstance, especially not for something as minimal as a couple moody days or miscommunications. Your relationship was stronger than that. It was resolute, built on eighteen years of life spent together, things only the two of you understand, countless petty arguments that only strengthened your bond. 

“If I had to picture myself with anyone, it’s not even a question,” he states firmly. “It would be you. No matter when you asked me, it would always be you.” He takes a long, deep breath. “I can’t imagine ever loving anyone the way I love you.”

You pout, fighting back the tears. Your heart is on the verge of explosion. “I feel the same way.” 

“Y/N.” He takes hold of your hands again. “I mean it. I love you.” 

“I know,” you say with a smile, feeling all sappy. “I love you too, Jake.” 

“No, like,” he pants, running a hand through his hair once. “I love you. I’m in love with you.” 

The world should explode right about now. Cracks should spread throughout the ground before you’re swallowed by an enormous sinkhole. 

But it doesn’t.

In fact, it feels like quite the opposite. That horrible, heavy feeling that’s been in your chest for the past couple of weeks? Gone the second those words leave Jake’s mouth.

Your grin is so wide your cheeks ache. “I love you too, Jake,” you repeat again. 

He smiles brightly, all the tension melting from his shoulders as he pulls you in for a hug. A real hug, one where you don’t care if it looks believable or not. You melt into his embrace, eyes fluttering shut as you take a deep breath, breathing him in. He smells like sunshine and his laundry detergent and that something so undeniably Jake. You wish you could turn it into a candle scent and keep it burning for the rest of your life. You sigh in content, nuzzling into his chest with a satisfied smile on your face. Everything feels right like this. 

“Do you know what made me decide to finally suck it up and tell you?” he asks after a moment of comfortable silence, his cheek resting against the top of your head. 

You hum in question, too happy to actually form words. 

“It was what you said at dinner,” he says. “When you said we’d go back to being friends and nothing would change, I just wouldn’t kiss you and bring you flowers anymore.” He pulls back so that you’re still close but face to face now. “Hearing you say that felt like I was being robbed. I don’t want that,” he confesses. “I want to keep kissing you and bringing you flowers.” 

A wave of warmth spreads over you. You feel lightheaded, but remain composed. “Yeah?” you breathe out, eyes flicking down to his lips, unable to help it. 

His Adam’s apple bobs as he mirrors you, simply nodding. You wonder if this is going to hold out for long, but then he swoops down and kisses you warmly on the cheek. When he pulls away, you feel like your skin is burning where his lips touched. 

“Was that… okay?” he asks nervously, unsure if he crossed a line. 

You don’t smile. “No.” 

He looks at you like you’ve just slapped him across the face again. “Wh-what?” 

“It wasn’t okay,” you say quietly, leaning closer to him, lips almost brushing his. “You missed. Try again, Worm.” 

His face breaks into a grin, the former worries leaving in an instant. “Oh, yeah?”  

“Yeah.” You nod, smiling back at him. 

Obediently following your orders, he closes the distance between you, and this time, fully presses his lips against yours. You shut your eyes instinctively, focusing on the feeling. His lips are warm and soft. It’s tentative at first, just a gentle pressure like he’s testing the waters, giving you time to shove him off if you wanted to. You don’t. You really don’t. You smile into the kiss at his bashfulness, hand coming up to comb through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer to you and deepening the connection. Feeling your confidence, he meets you with equal fervor, hands reaching up to cup your face. You can feel him smile back against your lips, tilting his head slightly to change the angle, opening your mouth with his. He groans softly without meaning to, and you can’t help but giggle, pulling away slightly to catch your breath. 

“What?” he asks breathlessly, eyes still closed, forehead pressed against yours. 

“I just,” you laugh out faintly. “Wow.” 

He opens his eyes. “Yeah,” he agrees, “wow.” He clicks his tongue. “You taste minty,” he says like he’s making a discovery, “and I know you didn’t take the time to brush your teeth before you came down here.” A knowing look comes across his face and you want to die. “Did you… chew gum before coming down to see me?” He smirks. “You were planning on kissing me, weren’t you?” 

You flush so quickly it’s embarrassing. “No, I was not,” you deny, very much not true. “It’s just common courtesy to not have bad breath-“

“Nah,” he interrupts, still smiling. “You just wanted to kiss me.” 

You roll your eyes, annoyed, and try to back away from him, but he wraps his arms around your waist, anchoring you to his body. 

“Oh, shut up,” you laugh, pushing lightly against his chest. “If you’re gonna be a jerk about it, then I’ll just go back inside and act like this never-“ 

He cuts you off with another kiss, lips back against yours like they’re magnetized. He sighs happily, arms tightening around you as you kiss him back. 

“You know you can’t just kiss me now whenever I’m arguing with you,” you say in between kisses. 

“I know,” he says, then pecks you on the lips. “But,” he adds after another peck. “It’s worth a try.” He kisses you long, exhaling through his nose and holding you against him. 

You could try to retort again, but you have a feeling that’s not going to get you very far right now. So you drop it, relishing fully in the moment. You’re here with Jake. The two of you together. For real. No performances, no staged affection or scripted drama. Just him and just you. You hate to admit it, but your moms have been right all along. It was always going to be you and Jake in the end.

Operation Big Fake Date with Jake was an astounding failure. And you couldn’t be more glad. 

“Yeah, he’s over here,” your mom says into the phone. She’s on a call with Jake’s mom, who had no idea of her son’s whereabouts this morning. “They’re in the yard.” She takes a sip of her coffee, standing by the window and watching as Jake kisses you again and again. Shaking her head, she just chuckles lightly before walking back to the counter. “They sure do make up quick.”

a/n: holy freakin moly bro this took way longer than i thought but it's finally out and i am soooo gladdddd!!! this is the first full fic i've ever finished so it's lowkey my firstborn child </3 i hope you enjoy these idiots in love as much as i did :)

"What's up? You seem…"

Under Sunghoon's watchful gaze, heaviness doesn't deter the antsy drum of your fingernails into the kitchen marble counter. Piercing skin into the flesh of your bottom lip, you've been watching him for the better part of the last five minutes. Eyes following the space Sunghoon's frame takes up of the room, presence imposing to the abandonment of your dimmed laptop. He's opted for a sleeveless shirt this time, jacked arms on full display with arm sleeves so loose, they expose pale slivers of skin marked in moon crescents of the very nails you gnaw on, consumed by nothing but the mundane. Observing your boyfriend make his protein shake, giving the bottle forceful shakes to mix its contents and your insides, engorged veins running his arms with the flex of his arms, his Adam's apple bobbing as he washes it down. You don't miss a second of it, not the dart of his tongue as he licks the edge of his lips of its reminiscent, tears nearly brought to your eyes as you stifle a pathetic whimper. 

You should be used to it. The gymrat lifestyle your boyfriend's devoted himself to, the one you've reaped the benefits of and yet, here you are, shuffling in your seat because the sweats against your body are suffocating, skin simmering beneath the material while your boyfriend looks at you. Knowing, a sharp edge to the soft smile he gives, edged canine peeking out.

If only he knew you wanted it to sink into your skin. 

"On edge." 

A natural pause allows you to collect some semblance of composure, closed lids with a chest-emptying sigh before you look up again, sternness cemented into the knit of your eyebrows. Fingernails slowing their rhythm, only accentuating every point leaving your mouth.

"Don't tire yourself out," you say, head cocked to the side. "You've got work to do when you're back."

Amusement pulls his smile wider, inches his eyebrow up too. "Is that so?"

"Yeah."

You shift again, laboured chest rising and falling, uncomfortable with actions so blatantly obvious in his eyes. Must be why brightness streaks in them as he slugs his gym bag over his shoulder, his answer clear as day. "You go ahead and stretch,"

His hand lowers his hat, an overcast in his darkened eyes. "You'll need it."

And he leaves. Half hard through his grey sweats with the ticking time-bomb that is you. 

Which is how you find yourself here, folded into his personal origami as his arms pin your legs to your ears, pounding into you without any regard. 

"Didn't you want this, baby?" Sunghoon coos, ragged chuckle ringing in your ears. "So incessant on me fucking you but look at you now - can't get your big girl words out." 

You gargle on some stupid retort, the sound choked in the saliva pooled in your mouth, lips parted to chase the breaths he won't let you catch. Muscles cry in fatigue, in no way helped by the advice you followed through with by stretching. Nails are left to weak scratches against Sunghoon's forearms, the leverage of the leaned back couch allowing him to knock deepest in you.

"You sat here waiting for me, making a mess of your flimsy underwear ── didn't even let me get through the door to beg for my cock. Is that what you are, angel?" Your head lolls back, swarmed with syrupy thoughts as he fucks up into you, hitting your sweet spot over and over again. "Some muscle obsessed cocksleeve? Something for me to fuck and use any way I want?"

Energy summons itself to nod your head, agreement sounding amidst the wet squelch of your cunt splashed back onto yours and Sunghoon's thighs. "I am, I am──ngh!" 

His laugh's rich in your ear, cock pulsing in your walls refusing to let him go, body curling into itself to feel him press further in you, a groaned whimper leaving your kissed-red lips. "Well, aren't you a pleasure to use." 

Your nails drag endlessly, streaking into his skin with no remorse, a sick turn of your stomach calling for scattered words. "Hoon, I─fuck, I'm gonna come again."

"Already? I've barely fucked you, baby," his reply comes with a sloppy few thrusts, hitched momentum in the desperate squeeze of your cunt. "Isn't this what you were on your knees for? Nosing along my balls like some dumb puppy," 

"You smelled good," you whine, slap of your ass echoing against his flexed thighs, him holding you like you're nothing. "Feel good too, fuck."

"Got a pervert for a girlfriend. I can't be surprised," he grunts, notching himself particularly hard to the knock of air out your lungs, strained and desperate for life. "Go on, since you're so easy. Come."

As much control as Sunghoon has over the body he sculpts in the gym, he has the same over your own, unearthing the orgasm ripping through you at his command. A scream unleashes the rawness of your vocal chords, dying into sob-like whimpers as moisture clumps your lashes together, body bucking erratically in a hold Sunghoon doesn't so much as flinch at, keeping you pinned and in plac through your orgasm.

Hazy at best is how your consciousness prevails, a mirage of the warm lights in your living room. Afternoon sunset pours through the windows, curtains you didn't think to close, one-track minded when you heard the lock turning at Sunghoon's arrival. 

The arctic cold of the floor straightens your spine, figure having been moved to hunch over the poor coffee table you served tea and cake to friends not even a day ago, now being defiled as your hands splays against the polished oakwood. In the echo chamber of your breath, your ass lifts as Sunghoon's tip collects slick smeared between your folds, electricity lighting your spine. 

"Mind if I fuck you more, baby?" he asks, voice dripping with the sweet condescending nature you latch onto, pleased moan feeding his ego. "I'll even get my arm around you, just how you like." 

That grabs your attention. Instills life into your tired body with arms reaching back, spine bending with fingers spreading yourself for his taking. "Please, Hoonie. I need it, I need it so bad."

"Want my arm around you, hm angel?" his teasing knows no end, cock drenched in arousal as all he does is run his length along you, tip nudging into your hole to chip away at your soul. "Wanna get pumped full of my come?"

Your breasts peel off the coffee table with an insignificant burn, body squirming as your hips try backing into him. "Want it, Hoon. It's all I want,"

"I'll be good," you slur, cheek pressed into the table. Frustration keeps your lashes wet, face scrunched up miserably. "You know I'm good for it." 

"God, you're sin," his patience reaches its limit, tip breaching further into your cunt welcoming him in. "Since you're so good ─ take it." 

No time is spared for a response, his girthy length sliding into the mess of come coating your walls, the glide and stretch of him filling you bringing incoherent expressions of gratitude out your running mouth. He sets a punishing rhythm, folding himself over to press against your back, uniting you as one as his large arm hooks underneath your chin, locked in by the cross of his wrists while he fucks you with no escape. 

It's the highlight of every life you've lived, a single high curling your toes and engulfing your senses and half-baked thoughts in all Sunghoon. He's so close like this, a waft of sandalwood and cinnamon embracing you in a familiar hug, hard ridges of his body sticking to yours with leftover sweat from the gym and now, his favourite cardio ─ stuffing you full of his cock with every bit of joy you voice.

Pleasure sings in every cell of your body, on cloud nine, aided by the restricted airflow given by the unforgiving cram of his arm, sandwiched in between his hard bicep and forearm. If you weren't so out of it, your teeth would make a home in his skin, no rigidness in your slack jaw. 

"Think you're coherent enough to rub your clit for me or you just gonna come taking my cock?" he muses, breath fanning over the shell of your ear. "Talk to me, princess."

Your hand shakes on the table, wanting to move but unable to. "I can't─I can't move." 

"Oh my greedy girl, I'll give it to you. Just keep squeezing me like that," his wrist separates from the other, leaning your body towards its side to keep you in a chokehold, hand venturing between your thighs. They shake from the force of his thrusts, shimmering with your slick and ghosted over before Sunghoon gets his fingers to rub over your clit. You howl in his hold, overstimulation bucking your poor body that begged for this, the simultaneous feel of his cock and fingers sending you to the edge. "Fuck, you're gonna be dripping with my come if you keep doing that."

"I'm close," you whimper, lips quivering with the anticipation building in your stomach, warm and rearranged in every way you love. "Give me your come ─ pleaseeee," 

"How can I say no when you're so sweet for me?" You hear him smile, feel the press of his lips against your sweat-layered temple before he starts rutting into you, pulling you into him as he chases his high. In the desperate pursuit, his fingers rub your clit faster, unearthing high-pitched moans vibrating off his skin as your cunt weeps around him, walls holding onto him for dear life. "You go first, needy girl. Come for me, I've got you."

And you do, so desperately moulded to his whims your body gives in, starlight streaking across your eyes as you come. Beyond the incessant slap of his hips against your skin, all you hear is the rush of your blood flooding through you, so weak to the explosive burst of euphoria your body operates on instinct, teeth sinking into the flesh of Sunghoon's arm, earning you a grunt. 

"God, you're milking me, princess," he moans, words wobbled at their end. "Gonna give it to you - thank me like a good girl."

The 'thank yous' topple out your mouth like a mantra, plentiful and so true to their word, it pushes Sunghoon deep into your sweet spot, flooding your walls with hot come you push out, clenching in a frenzy as Sunghoon pulls out, watching your body shake in his aftermath. 

"My sweet girl," you hear in the distance of your comedown, shoulder blades pressed in an adoring kiss. "Nothing beats you." 

thank you for reading! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

comments, reblogs and likes are much appreciated.ᐟ ᰔ

to join my taglist, please fill out this form! ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-

GENERAL/ALL WORKS TAGLIST  ⨾ @ahnoote ノ@angelhyuka ノ @hwrtoni ノ @user-0703 ノ

warnings 𖢥⊹ ࣪ ˖ mentions of violence, blood, wounds // mild cursing // multiple kiss scenes bc jake is just so kissable whoops // slowslowburn // jakehoon bromance keeps me alive // jake pines & yearns & longs & yearns.. // concept of 'casual' dating // superhero & mcu elements & easter eggs :3 // jake is a loser but spider-man is a smooth-talker heh

°˖➴ .ᐟ 𖢥 addie ── FINALLY !!! i have finally, finally finished a full fic for the first time in literal forever and i'm actually so excited for this one bc i freaking love mcu & spiderman & jake so freaking much you guys dont understand...spidey was my first ever childhood crush i think i literally made a post abt it somewhere here on my blog ages ago...so my reaction when i got this anon request for this fic?? i cheered. ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵) ty for being patient with me and for all the words of support & encouragement & love throughout the process <333 if you've been here some time and read my other works you know i literally get myself way too indulged into the whole process,,,but i really did have so much freaking fun writing this so i really hope you guys like all 25k words of spidey!jake :3

sim jaeyun has a lot of secrets.

like the fact that he’s secretly (but not so secretly) a giant nerd and, frankly, a genius with the probable IQ of someone who can calculate pi to the 500th decimal in his head just for fun. or maybe the fact that he’s definitely smart enough to hack into the school’s database and find copies of the finals’ answer keys under ten minutes flat.

but he doesn’t. because again. sim jaeyun is a genius (and because he’s scared of getting caught. but mostly the genius thing).

sim jaeyun pours his milk before cereal. he sleeps on his stomach. he doesn’t separate his white socks from his colored ones. he’s terrified of cats. he loves rom-coms. he’s spider-man. he can’t fall asleep without his favorite build-a-bear. and he doesn’t know how to ride a bike.

but his most important secret? he has the biggest crush on you.

so big that he’d say it’s more top-secret than the fact that he uses 5-in-1 men’s soap and being the city’s web-slinging, crime-fighting, red-and-blue spandex-wearing superhero.

and in all honestly— it’s not like the latter is even that secret anymore.

because another thing about jake? he sucks at keeping secrets.

he figured this out about two weeks into accepting his new life post-radioactive-spider-bite—right around the same time he decided yeah, sure, i can totally handle having powers and a double life. and not freaking out every time he accidentally shot a web out in his sleep.

he figured this out when park sunghoon, his longtime best friend, accidentally found jake’s suit in his room. and by accidentally, we mean jake just…left it lying out. on his bed. in plain sight. because he forgot to put it away the day sunghoon came over to share his history notes.

that was the day sunghoon declared himself jake’s “guy in the chair.”

so yeah. jake sucks at keeping his spidey secret…a secret.

but his crush on you? oh yeah.

that one’s highly classified (except from sunghoon. because again—guy in the chair).

“you should probably stop staring before it gets creepy.”

jake blinks.

he stops staring at you—across the cafeteria, laughing with your friends, completely unaware of how he’s most definitely about five seconds away from writing your name in bubble letters with a pink glitter pen on his notebook cover.

he turns his head toward the voice. sunghoon, of course.

“actually, too late. it’s creepy,” sunghoon adds before casually chewing on the cafeteria pizza that’s always a little too suspiciously rubbery but no one ever questions it for their own sake.

jake sighs, his eyes going back to your figure across the busy room. “you think she’ll talk to me in chemistry today?”

sunghoon doesn’t even blink. “she has to talk to you. you guys are literally lab partners.”

“that’s different,” jake mutters, chin in his hand, eyes never leaving you once. “i mean, i could ask what her favorite color is or something…”

sunghoon stares. jaw slack. full deadpan.

“that’s a joke, right? please tell me that’s a joke. because i don’t know what funnier—the fact that you have the pick up lines of a first grader, or the fact that even i know that you know you don’t have the guts to say anything to her that’s not directly related to ionic bonding.”

jake whips his head to his best friend, the look in his eyes being nothing less than betrayed, “i so totally can!”

“jake,” sunghoon says slowly, voice lowering, “you broke the test tube in your hand last week when she asked what your weekend plans were.” a pause. “then you ran out of the room. without saying anything.”

jake groans. drops his head into his arms on the table. “okay, i specifically remember saying we would never bring that up ever again.”

sunghoon chuckles, hands raised, “just saying.”

a brief silence falls over the table as jake lifts his head up in despair. he goes back to probably-definitely-not-so-subtly watching you from across the cafeteria.

“you should just…y’know—” sunghoon nudges jake’s side. “—get your lil buddy to help you out.”

jake freezes. turns to his best friend in horror, “my…lil what now?”

sunghoon’s palm smacks the side of jake’s head before his voice drops to a whisper, “your alter ego, idiot.”

jake rubs the side of his head, staring at the way sunghoon is casually sitting there like this is a perfectly reasonable suggestion.

“you heard me,” sunghoon continues when jake makes no sign of responding, the look on his face enough to tell sunghoon he thinks he’s probably borderline psychotic. “go up to her as spider-man. be mysterious. say something cool. i bet she’ll be super impressed and instantly fall in love with you.”

“that is literally the worst idea you probably could’ve ever thought of.”

“is it?” sunghoon shrugs, smug as he leans back in his chair. “because seeing as your track record so far is either a) breaking glass around her, or b)…actually, no. yeah, that’s it. that’s all i got. your track record sucks, bro.”

jake groans for the nth time and lets his head thunk onto the table this time with a soft clunk. “i hate it here.”

“you’re not even going to consider it?”

jake lifts his head just enough to glare his eyes at sunghoon, “do you hear yourself? you want me to flirt with her…while wearing spandex. in full mask. while i talk like this—” his voice drops to the deeper, definitely-not-as-disguising-as-he-thinks-it-is tone he uses while saving the city at night. “‘hey. i know i’m wanted by, like, a hundred bad people out there, but also, what’s your favorite color?’”

sunghoon grins. “add a little web trick and shoulder touch and boom—she’s yours.”

jake deadpans at him, his voice returning to normal, “do you even like me? are we even friends?”

sunghoon shrugs. pops a fry in his mouth. thinks for a second. “you’re entertaining.”

jake groans again. slumps dramatically into his seat, staring at the too-bright fluorescent lights in the ceiling above him. “i can’t flirt as spider-man me,” he mutters. “that sounds like a nightmare. i can’t even talk to her as me me.”

“duh. that’s kinda the entire point.”

“and then what, huh?” jake dramatically throws his hands up. “i take her on a date while web-swinging through the city? and if i drop her?”

“i dunno,” sunghoon takes another unbothered bite of his rubber pizza. “use two webs? you’re the one with the sticky powers, i don’t know it works!”

jake lets out an exasperated sound.

sunghoon pats his back, attempting to be the supportive friend he is. “face it. it’s the only way she’s ever gonna know you’re slightly even remotely cool and do anything more than read books on like…i don’t know—how physics makes the earth spin or something.”

jake pouts. “i am cool!” “you own a build-a-bear named woofy.” “he’s a comfort object!” “exactly. that’s why spider-man has to take the wheel from now on.”

jake stares at sunghoon, shakes his head, and starts packing up his completely untouched lunch.

“whatever. i’m going to chemistry,” he mutters, swinging his backpack around his shoulder with a huff, despite the fact that class doesn’t start for another twenty minutes.

and it’s not like he needs to get to class early to ask the teacher questions or get extra help on the homework or anything normal and productive like that—don’t be ridiculous.

because here’s the thing. jake getting to class early means one very important thing: he gets to his seat—the one next to yours—before you do.

which means you have to acknowledge him first. which is crucial.

because if the roles were reversed—jake does not trust himself to be able to acknowledge you first and say hi without choking on his own air or probably knocking over a glass beaker that wasn’t there before but would somehow magically appear because that’s just jake’s luck in the process.

regardless, it works. the system works. he’s perfected it by now. because it’s about half way through the school year and without fail, every time you walk into class and jake’s already sitting there—busy pretending like he’s reading some article on his laptop when in reality his senses are going haywire over being overwhelmed by your entire presence that he already felt from down the hallway—you always greet him first with the same airy, cheery tone in your voice, bright smile, hair flowing, perfume floating in the air—

"hi jake!"

jake's soul ascends.

he looks up (too fast), catches himself (too obvious), and tries to play it cool with a little nod and smile that definitely looks a little more like a grimace (too tragic).

"hey." nailed it.

you smile casually as you plop your backpack down on the lab table you share with him and start pulling out your notebooks for the day. and jake just stares ahead like a soldier at war. his hands are sweating. his feet are bouncing. his entire nervous system is screaming at him to say something, anything.

and as if the universe decided to play a casually cruel trick on him—

"...so what's your favorite color?" "so, any fun weekend plans?"

both your voices overlap. you both freeze. turn to each other at the same time. blink.

"oh—" "—sorry, you go—" "no, you first—" "okay—wait—i, i forgot—"

silence. you hold back a smile. jake wishes to melt into the earth and hopes he never reincarnates.

"i was just gonna ask," you say, a small smile still playing on your lips that it makes jake's brain actively start doing 360s, "if you're doing anything this weekend."

jake short-circuits.

say something. be mysterious. be cool. be normal. channel spider-man. but maybe...not spider-man when you talk to him. spider-man when he talks to everyone else. "i'm...uh." he clears his throat. tries again. "probably just, y'know. working."

you tilt your head, eyes sparkling with curiosity, "working?"

"yeah," jake nods, too quickly for his own liking, then stops himself. "like—side gig."

if a side gig came with at least two new bruised ribs some nights and meant saving a city from criminals, but yeah, okay. sure. side gig.

your brows raise. "that's cool! what do you do?"

jake freezes. panics. what does he do.

he can't say spider-man.

he also can't say he has the molecular build of an eight-limbed arthropod and can stick onto walls with only his bare fingers.

and he definitely can't say i spend 70% of my free time thinking about you and the other 30% swinging off buildings.

"...delivery." he says it like he's mysterious. cool. totally normal.

you blink. as if waiting, as if expecting him to elaborate.

he blinks back at you.

"delivering...what?"

"...pizza."

(and he did once deliver a stolen pizza order back to its rightful owner after webbing the thief to a lamppost. that totally counts.)

"oh," you nod slowly, giving him a genuine smile. "that sounds fun!"

jake gives a thumbs up. mentally smacks himself in the face repeatedly. but then, his brain suddenly catches up to the situation at hand and before he can stop himself, he blurts—

"wait—uh, why do you ask?"

and then you break eye contact, glancing down at your notebook, and jake pretends not to notice your fingers suddenly fidgeting with one of your many too-colorful pens.

"well," you start, and jake is trying his very, very best to ignore the fact that his senses can pick up on your heart beat. "we've got the final coming up next week, and i don't know—you always seem like you know what you're doing in class, so—"

she thinks im smart? oh my god. she notices me? even when i’m not breaking glass? oh my god oh my god oh my—

"—i was hoping maybe we could study together?" you look up at him again, your eyes wide. "or go over the study guide one last time or something. but it's totally fine if you're busy working! and that makes sense, you probably don't even need to study, you're, like, uber smart and stuff, so—"

"no."

your words come to a halt and your mouth is left slack.

jake smacks himself. mentally. again. and again.

"...oh, um—"

jake coughs suddenly, a little too loud, a little too forced. "sorry! i mean—no...no, i'm not busy. yes, i'm down. down. to study. together. yeah."

he takes note in the way your shoulders slightly relax and the way you release a breath of what sounds like relief and amusement at the same time.

then, a soft smile makes its way to your face again, "okay! okay, cool!"

jake doesn't know if he should scream, sob, or launch himself into the sun.

he smiles back. "cool."

there's a pause.

"wait—but what about work?" your head tilts slightly, a soft crease forming between your brows.

shit.

"oh. right," jake mutters, clearing his throat as his hand casually brushes through his hair as if he thought this one through (he, in fact, did not).

quick, lie—wait, no. casual lie. lying is not cool. don't lie to the girl you like. you're simply protecting her. be mysterious. be cool. be normal.

"i'm...sure the pizzas will be okay for a night! yeah. they have flexibility. my job, i mean. not the pizzas. my manager's chill."

your smile brightens at his answer and jake decides launching himself into the sun is dramatic. in fact, he thinks the sun came out today just for him.

"okay, yay!" you're beaming. "sounds like a plan."

jake also thinks his heart just tripped over itself.

"here, let me—" you rip off a corner of your notebook and start scribbling something down with one of your pens before sliding the slip of paper over to his side of the table, "—give you my number and you let me know when and where works best, yeah?"

and jake is simply a guy. a guy entirely entranced.

it's the way you lean a little closer to the desk, tongue peeking out at the corner of your mouth in concentration. the way your hair shifts when you tilt your head, the gentle swish of it brushing over your shoulder. the way your bracelets softly clink together when your hands move. the way you smoothly push the small slip of paper with your number and name signed with a small smiley face towards him like it's no big deal.

jake stares at the paper like all those nights of manifesting finally paid off and this small slip of notebook paper is first proof that a manifestation journal really does work.

your name. your number. a tiny smile doodled next to it.

it's the cutest thing he's ever seen.

he looks at the note. then at you. then back at the note.

how did this happen. what did he say? was it the pizza lie? no, it couldn't have been the pizza lie.

"cool," jake eventually says, but he realizes he's said cool one too many times and it comes out so high-pitched, he's genuinely unsure if he said it out loud or just squeaked like a mouse.

and you just simply smile back at him, soft and sweet and light, and jake decides to revisit the potential idea of self launching into orbit.

and when the teacher enters the classroom, immediately starting the lecture, jake turns back to the front of the class, trying his very best to focus—

"pink."

it comes out as a low and soft whisper. jake's head jerks slightly towards you, and you're leaning in, just slightly enough for your shoulder to brush against his.

"...i—what?"

you smile, your eyes crinkled at their corners as you look at him, "my favorite color. it's pink."

then, you turn back to the whiteboard, already scribbling down your notes like you didn't just change the entire trajectory of jake's future.

jake doesn't move. jake, in fact, doesn't hear a single word of whatever the teacher is saying about the synthesis and characterization of something-something-carbene-molecular-something.

all he knows is:

he's seeing you this weekend.

your favorite color is pink.

and tucked into the back of his phone is now a piece of corner notebook paper with your number on it.

and, of course, it's written in pink.

jake doesn’t know what he’s going to tell sunghoon about first—the fact that the favorite color pick-up line potentially worked, or that he has an actual study date with y–

wait.

“do you think it’s a study date?” jake’s voice is muffled by a peanut butter protein bar, his legs dangling off the edge of some random apartment building he deemed clean from bird poop to sit on.

there’s a long beat of silence from the other end of his phone that’s perched beside him on speaker, before sunghoon finally answers.

“i think it’s your chemistry lab partner…who needs to study for an exam…with her super genius bench partner,” sunghoon pauses. “but yeah. it’s definitely also a study date.

jake fist-pumps the air. “right?! that’s what i’m saying!” he leans back on one of his palms, staring down at the blur of streetlights and car headlights below, watching the tiny dots of normal people go about their normal people lives after their normal people days.

“god, i’m gonna say something dumb. i always say something dumb. i’m gonna probably tell her my favorite element is, like, carbon, or something. that’s not even a fun one,” jake sighs as he watches the sun slowly set along the skyline in front of him.

there’s a long, suffering sigh from the phone. “please, for the love of God and everything He created, do not tell her what your favorite element is.”

jake frowns, even though he knows sunghoon can’t see it. “you don’t think it’s charming?”

“remember what happened in the sixth grade when that girl asked for a pencil and you gave her an entire lecture on valence electrons and then she never spoke to you ever again?”

jake makes a face. “okay, but she didn’t specify what kind of lead she needed—”

“just…be normal,” sunghoon cuts in. “be jake.”

jake goes quiet. because that’s just the problem, isn’t it? because jake isn’t normal.

“normal” and “jake” haven’t belonged in the same sentence since he woke up one random morning with super strength, freakish reflexes, and abs (not that he’s complaining about the abs. but still. he knows his two-day-a-week gym habit and occasional protein bar didn’t cause them).

normal isn’t waking up in the middle of the night because your fingers literally fused to your bed frame. normal isn’t learning how to navigate puberty while also learning how different wrist angles shoot out different types of webs. normal isn’t lying to your mom about why your laundry always smells like burnt rubber and concrete dust and weirdly enough, hot dogs.

and normal definitely isn’t sitting a hundred feet above the city at 10PM on a friday night with your best friend on speaker and your spandex suit hidden under a hoodie, trying to decide if your biggest life crisis is:

a — the rise of petty city crime or b — the way your ridiculously pretty chemistry partner smiled at you and made you question your entire being in 0.2 seconds

but when he thinks about you?

when jake’s with you—he’s just jake. no suit, no webs, no…fear of potential death. 

he feels like a regular teenage boy. the kind who worries about history finals and likes stupid memes and builds lego sets with his best friend on saturdays and has a crush on the cute girl in his chemistry class.

with you, he doesn’t feel like a science experiment. or a secret. or an accident waiting to happen.

he just feels like…jake.

“i just—dude. i didn’t even have to pull the spider-man card!” jake sits up a little, legs now swinging. “like. at all. she said i was smart! jake-smart. i didn’t need to save a cat or catch a bus or—”

“—instead,” sunghoon’s monotone voice cuts in, “you told her you deliver pizzas for fun and somehow it worked.”

“you’re the worst guy in the chair.”

“and yet, here we are. you’re still call—”

“wait” jake freezes. sits upright. his head tilts slightly. “hold on.”

something in the air hits him. his senses prick. muscles tense. tingling. sounds slow, scents sharpen. the world zooms in all at once.

“i gotta go,” jake stands up, his voice muffled by shoving the rest of his protein bar into his mouth, already slipping his mask over his head.

“duty calls,” sunghoon replies casually, like this is the third time this week (it is). “be safe!”

“love you, bye!” jake says before the hanging up and shoving his phone into his backpack and thwipping it to the rooftop wall in one motion. it’ll probably still be there later. hopefully.

on most nights, it is still right where he left it, waiting patiently after the hours of his city-saving. but right now, jake couldn’t care any less about his belongings. he’s already airborne, swinging building to building with smooth, practiced ease. he follows the tug in his chest, the sense of something being slightly off. a scuffle. somewhere just a block or two away.

and on most nights, you’re careful. you’re observant, aware. you know how to check left, right, then left again before crossing the street. you stick to the well-lit sidewalks, don’t take shortcuts, avoid the sketchy alleyways your parents used to warn you about growing up.

and you also know, deep down, that you probably shouldn’t have stayed at this library this late. but here we are.

you’re barely a block from the bus stop you just got off at when it happens. a shadow moves—quick, low, but intentional. he’s stumbling. smirking. slurring.

your stomach drops immediately.

“hey, pretty thing,” he calls out, “where you off to this late?”

“not interested,” you mumble, clutching your bag closer to your body, steps picking up faster.

“oh, come onnn,” he draws. you hear his footsteps behind you. too close now. “just a little chat—”

you turn over your shoulder just in time to see his hand land slightly on your shoulder, just where your bag strap sits.

but before you can even react—

THWIP.

it happens before you can even blink.

the guy disappears. yanked off his feet. with a yelp, he’s slammed against the nearest parked car on the street with a heavy thud, followed by a line of white, sticky substance trapping his sides.

and suddenly, another one hits his hands. then his ankles. then his chest.

until it’s all around him and he’s stuck to the car like a decal himself.

you freeze, not knowing what just happened or what the hell you’re supposed to do now. your heart is racing, your brain playing catch-up, your breathing paused.

and as you’re staring at the man-shaped cocoon, wondering if this is what finally wills you into full-blown psychosis—

a figure drops from above. with absolutely zero subtlety. and lands directly in between you and said webbed-up guy in a crouch.

dressed in red and blue. head to toe. and so much spandex.

spider-man.

“wow,” he says deadpan, turning to point at the man-turned-car-decal. “okay. that was, like, a solid ten out of ten on the creep scale. would’ve been a nine, but then you touched her. so. automatic point deduction.”

the guy groans beneath the webbing. “what the—who the hell are you?”

spider-man throws his arms up in exasperation, gesturing to himself like it’s obvious.  “spider-man, dude. the webs? the spider logo on my chest? keep up.”

he then turns to you, brushing off the imaginary dust from his hands. “you know, if i had a nickel for every time some scuffy guy tried the whole grabby in an alley thing this week, i’d have like…four nickels.”

a beat. you’re still frozen. eyes wide. jaw slack.

“which isn’t a lot. but it’s weird that it happened that many times. should probably do something about that. or i guess that’s my job.”

the man groans from behind him, squirming, “get this shit off me man—”

“shhh,” spider-man shushes him, raising a hand. “don’t speak. we’re in a delicate moment of justice here.”

then, he turns back to you, head tilting. the eyes of his mask dilate as they squint at you.

his voice softens. “hey. everything okay?”

and you’re still frozen.

because there are many things you don’t believe in. you don’t believe in narwhals. you don’t believe that tarot cards can predict your love life. you don’t believe in flushing ice down the toilet to make it snow the next day, and you probably, maybe, sometimes don’t believe in birds being government spies.

but spider-man? you didn’t know if you believed in him or not. sure, you’ve seen the headlines. heard the rumors, watched the blurry phone footage. but never with your own eyes. until now.

“uh…” you nod quickly, eyes still wide, mouth still slightly ajar. “i...yeah. thank you. for that.”

and jake tries his best to keep his cool. exhales behind the mask, trying to not completely lose it.

to not completely combust when the literal crush of his life is standing in front of him, somehow glowing even under a dim, flickering street light. to not think about the very real fact that he just saved you from whatever-he-refuses-to-think-about that he just saved you from.

so he gives a casual shrug.

“that’s what they pay me for.”

you blink. “you get paid?”

jake stills. “uh, well. no. not technically. emotionally, yes. and sometimes sweet old ladies buy me churros.”

you blink again, but this time, your lips twitch slightly. “…okay. right.”

jake clears his throat, straightening up, placing his hands on his hips all awkward again and then putting them down when he realizes he probably looks like a cheap superhero mascot like that.

this part—this part—he’s usually good at. web the creep. leave a note for the cops. call them in. that’s how it usually goes. what doesn’t usually happen is…this. saving the girl he likes. the girl who doesn’t know she’s the girl he likes. the girl who definitely doesn’t know he sits next to her in chemistry and pretends to read when she walks in.

the creep behind him groans again. jake spins around on his heels and double thwips a neat string of webs over the guy’s mouth.

“aaaaand silence,” jake mutters, nodding to himself. “look at that. instant peace. should’ve probably done that twenty seconds ago.”

he turns back around. and you’re smiling now. it’s small and slightly shaky, but it’s there. jake notices. of course jake notices.

“are you sure you’re okay?” his voice dips again, gentler now.

you nod. “yeah, i think so. seriously…thank you so much.”

and jake hesitates—heart thumping, nerves sweating, because you are literally standing in front of him and he has the mask of spider-man on right now but the confidence of jake from chemistry. but still, he manages, "get home safe, yeah? you shouldn’t be walking alone this late. city’s full of creeps and…men in spandex.”

you let out a quiet laugh. “noted.”

“cool,” jake lets out, throwing up an awkward thumbs up and he makes a mental note to stop using the word ‘cool’ and to stop using thumbs ups as a defense mechanism.

he clears his throat and takes a casual step back as you watch him, still unmoving, as if you’re still trying to convince yourself he’s real.

“alright,” jake says, pointing his hand up to the building behind you before saluting you goodbye with the other. “spider-man…away?”

he fires. latches perfectly. but the fact that he actually, out-loud, said ‘spider-man away’ gets to his head and so he doesn’t time the swing quite right and his foot hits the top of a recycling bin on the way up. and he really hopes you didn’t see it happen (you did).

he lands on the rooftop above you, immediately crouching down out of view, chest heaving as his brain catches up to his body, still processing what just happened. heart still hammering, fingers still tingling.

then, after waiting a few seconds, he peers his head carefully over the line of buildings down the street and watches your figure walk away. head down, bag hugged close, pace quicker now.

and of course, because he’s jake—and spider-man (but mostly because he’s jake)—he follows you from above. quiet, careful, out of sight. just to make sure you make it back okay.

and when you finally reach your apartment building and unlock the front door, he still waits.

waits until he sees a light flicker on in your bedroom window. waits until he sees your figure draw your curtains closed. waits until he knows you’re safe. only then does he finally exhale.

he drops onto the roof of a nearby pizza place—the one that claims they sell dollar pizza but it’s really $1.49—pulls off his mask with one hand and runs the other through his completely wrecked hair.

“jesus christ, jake,” he mutters to himself, a hand dragging down his face. “spider-man away? really?”

he shakes his head at himself, partly in shame, partly in disbelief, but mostly in shame, then stretches out his legs, groans at the ache in his biceps, and swings back towards the first rooftop where he left his backpack.

and thank god it’s still there. because once he unwebs his bag and fishes through his textbooks, unknown food wrappers, and decathlon club fliers to take out his phone with just merely 12% battery left, he clicks on your contact. stares at the blank message field. then he types.

JAKE (10:42PM) : hey! it’s jake (from chem lol) hope your night’s going okay :) also still good to meet at the cafe near school tomorrow? maybe around noon?

he stares at it. rereads it six times. changes lol to haha. then back to lol. deletes the smiley face. then the whole message. then retypes it word for word.

eventually, he hits send.

and jake, bless his heart, keeps staring at the screen. forgets it’s nearly 11PM. forgets that his mom, who thinks he’s in bed, is probably gonna check in on him any second now (and yes, jake is nearly a legal adult. but he also grew up with chronic nightmares, so. check ins are necessary at times).

but then his screen lights up. your name. a single message.

Y/N (10:43PM) : yes :)

he feels his entire body exhale. or light up on fire. he’s not sure of the difference, honestly. and jake’s also not sure how long he sits there smiling at his phone like an idiot.

he doesn’t remember swinging back home. he doesn’t remember sneaking back into his room through his fire escape. he doesn’t even remember showering and wincing at the sting of soap against his fresh cuts and scratches.

because all he’s thinking about is your text. which is probably why he also forgets to set an alarm.

so when he wakes up the next day at 11:45AM, twenty minutes away from the café he promised to meet you at in fifteen minutes, and absolutely zero minutes ready to leave his place—he’s in full blown panic.

“oh crap, crap—ow, damn it—crap,” he’s mutters, runs into a chair, accidentally smears toothpaste on his hoodie sleeve, and grabs the first protein bar he sees—cookies & creme this time—before sprinting out the door. but not before kissing his mom on the cheek goodbye.

his hair is still damp. his backpack is half-zipped. he’s 85% sure he applied deodorant twice and toothpaste once. or maybe the other way around.

and by the time he barges into the corner café that sells overpriced matcha lattes with the grainy oat milk but has good lighting and free wifi and outlets to use so it’s deemed a good study spot anyways, he immediately zeroes in on you at the small corner table—pen in hand, sipping from a cup casually and not at all aware that your mere existence and the way the little beam of sunlight shining through the café windows reflecting on you is already sending his sleep deprived state into overdrive.

he makes—or more like stumbles—his way over, just in time for you to glance up and catch his eye.

“hey!” you smile, so warm and relaxed that it almost makes jake forget he sprinted over in mismatched socks. “you made it.”

“yeah—sorry,” jake exhales, pulling out the seat across from you and placing his stuff down. “i stayed up late, forgot to set an alarm, then couldn’t find matching socks, i had this blue one on and then a red—“

jake stops himself. looks at you. gives you a sheepish smile. “sorry. you don’t need to hear about the whole sock saga.”

you giggle as you look up at him, “what a shame, i was kinda invested to see where that was going.”

jake tries not to float.

“and it’s fine, jake. really. if it makes you feel any better, you’re only like twelve minutes late.”

jake lets out a nervous chuckle as he slides into the seat across from you, “thanks. i’m usually only, like, ten minutes late, so this is all new to me. including the study date part.”

jake freezes. your eyebrow quirks. why did he say that. why. did. he. say. that.

a small smile tugs at your lips, “study date?”

jake’s eyes are frozen and blown wide as he stares at you in horror from across the table, stumbling over his own words, “i mean. i—no, not a date! unless…unless you wanted it to be a date, which is fine! not just fine! i mean, it’s fine if you wanted—i just assumed that—well sorry, i shouldn’t have assumed—that would be non-consensual and i’m really big on, like, mutual respect and consent and—”

he stops.

jake needs to stop. he should stop talking about consent before he even got to ask you how your morning’s been like a regular human being does.

your stare lingers for a beat longer before you break into laughter, hand flying to your mouth, the other holding onto the table in front of you to support yourself as you snort. “jake.”

jake sinks slightly in his seat. wishes he was sinking into the earth. “yeah?”

your laughter softens into something gentler, and you look up at him, sure and simple and steady. “it’s okay. let’s call it that. a study date.”

you know how your laptop sometimes freezes because it’s firing a million tasks at once and then the fan starts whirring violently before the entire thing decides to just shut off and it has to take a few minutes to recover before rebooting itself back up to be able to fully function again?

yeah. that’s what’s happening to jake. right now.

“oh. okay. cool. cool, cool, cool,” he tugs at the collar of his hoodie. stop it with the cool, jake, we talked about this. and whatever you do, do not throw up a— he throws a thumbs up at you. puts it away. tries to recover. “i’m very…pro…studying.”

you grin at him. “clearly.” the dating part? not so much.

and after that, thing settles. in that warm, weirdly comforting way things do when you’ve either known someone your entire life or just long enough to know you want to.

textbooks open, laptops propped, flashcards highlighted, questions exchanged, your iced matcha is slowly disappearing while jake’s iced americano just sits there untouched—slowly watering down because jake forgets coffee makes him jittery but he was in a state of panic when he got to the counter so…here we are.

“wait, can i ask you something kinda random?"

you glance up from your notes, giving jake a small nod. “yeah?”

jake’s eyes land on the back of your laptop and he gestures vaguely to it. “why is your laptop covered in like…fourteen different beluga stickers?”

your head tilts as you follow his gaze and—yup. it’s true. it’s covered with not only fourteen little cartoon belugas, but also otters, starfish, and a little whale in the corner that isn’t so little and cost you a whole whopping five dollars at the book fair.

you blink at it. “oh, right.” a small smile then tugs at your lips. “i’m kinda obsessed with ocean life. it’s, like…one of my things.”

and jake is silent. not because he’s judging. no, he recites the periodic table in alphabetical order to help him fall asleep at night, so he can’t judge. but because—god. you say that like it’s the most casual thing in the world and not the most adorable sentence he’s ever heard.

“like, belugas are my favorite sea animals,” you continue, your own voice picking up from your own excitement now. “they’re just so cute and squishy looking. and they always look like they’re smiling? and granted i’ve never met one, but if i did meet one, i just know it’d be kind.”

jake is still not saying anything. he’s watching the way your hands move animatedly, the way your eyes light up, the way your voice lifts when you say the words “if i did meet one” like it’s the most natural thing in the world to meet a literal beluga.

“they do look pretty nice,” jake adds eventually, absolutely trying his best to fight the grin off his face. “for a whale, i mean.”

your eyes widen as you suddenly gasp and lean in over the table towards jake, catching him off guard. “okay, i’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that.”

jake freezes. and he doesn’t know how and he doesn’t know when, but he’s pretty sure he messed up somehow just by trying to impress his crush by complimenting a beluga.

“belugas aren’t whales,” you say, matter of fact, “they’re actually a type of dolphin, despite the name. common mistake.”

“oh,” jake just blinks and nods like this is a totally normal conversation. like he isn’t currently being lectured by the cute girl from his chemistry class about beluga whales. beluga…dolphins? not whales.

his eyes flick briefly to your hands, still hovering mid-air, animated from your explanation. then to your face, your eyes sparkling just a little bit too much for him to blame it on the café lighting. and everything—every little detail jake seems to notice and learn about you—makes jake feel like his heart is about to beat out of his chest.

“sorry,” you pause, noticing his stare. “i just…i really love this kind of stuff. it’s all just so fascinating to me. it’s kinda like whenever you start freaking out over, i don’t know…cis-trans isomerism in alkenes?”

jake chokes on his spit. smooth.

“wait,” he’s coughing, sitting up straighter, “how do you know that i—wait, how do you even know about cis-trans isomerism?”

“what can i say? i’m observant,” you look at him over the rim of your cup as you take a sip, casually shrugging, a small smirk on your lips.

and jake just casually tries not to freak out.

because, sure, jake has had his fair share of realizations through out his lifetime. like the day he woke up and found out he could suddenly stop a bus with his bare hands. or the time he discovered he’s mildly allergic to cauliflower. but this? this might top the list.

because you notice things. about him. him. and it short-circuits his brain. just a little. maybe a lot.

jake tries not to smile too hard. tries not to read too much into it. tries not to wonder if you notice the way he leans closer during chemistry labs or the way his voice raises half a pitch when you talk to him or the way he purposely gets to class early just so he could talk to you before.

they’re the kind of thoughts that keep him up that night. the kind that plague his entire mind until the only thing he’s thinking about when he falls asleep that night and the only thing he’s thinking about when he wakes up the next morning is…you.

and for the next few days, that’s just about the most exciting thing that happens to jake. the next few days for him go pretty normal.

and by normal, jake means boring. and by boring, i mean on monday, spider-man stops a bodega robbery and gets a pat on the back from the police officer and a sprained ankle. on tuesday, he wakes up late and almost misses his history final (which honestly would’ve been preferable). and on wednesday, you text jake for help on a chemistry review question. which is actually very exciting and not at all boring nor normal, despite how hard jake tries his best to act normal.

on thursday, however, jake stays late in the school computer lab to tinker with his web shooter tech. and that’s when sunghoon pulls up in front of him, dropping two small pieces of paper on jake’s mess of wires and tools and notebook doodles.

“bada-bing, bada-boom,” sunghoon announces as he plops into the chair next to jake.

jake looks up. sunghoon’s spinning awkwardly slowly in the swivel chair, arms out like a king clearly waiting for applause.

jake squints at the slips of paper. then back up.

“sunghoon.” “yes?” “why are we binging and booming and why are there clown fish on my web shooters?”

sunghoon beams. the kind of beam that makes jake’s spider tingle feel immediately and instinctively nervous. "because, my friend,” he begins proudly, “i am your guy-in-the-chair and thanks to me, you are now officially going on an aquarium date this weekend.”

jake blinks down at the two tickets. then looks up at sunghoon. blinks again. “wait. i’m going on a what with who now?”

sunghoon’s face falls flat. “with y/n, you idiot. who else would i be sending you to the aquarium with? me?”

jake’s jaw slackens. eyes widen. heartbeat pounding, “what—why, why, why, would you do that?”

sunghoon’s brows furrow as if the answer is the most obvious one in the world (and it is), “because you like her? and now you can take her to see those things she has fourteen of on her laptop that she likes so much. beluga whales or whatever they were.”

jake opens his mouth to argue—then shuts it. looks at sunghoon very, very, seriously. “beluga dolphins. they’re beluga dolphins. common mistake.”

and sunghoon could give two flying farts about beluga whales versus beluga dolphins versus beluga birds for all he knows, but because jake’s his best friend, he tries not to judge.

“…okayyyy, beluga dolphins.” he claps jake on the back and jake flinches. “anyways! you. y/n. aquarium date. this weekend. bada-bing. bada-boom.”

friday is the most un-normal and the most un-boring day of them all.

because on friday, right when jake slams his locker shut at the end of the day—ready to go home and debating if he should build his brand new imperial star destroyer lego set or practice different swinging techniques off the library roof—

“JAKE!”

and jake’s spidey sense could not have predicted what happens next. because before he can even register his own name, jake’s slammed into. stumbling. arms flailing. back hitting the lockers behind him.

and it’s you. you, clinging to him in a hug. smiling. glowing. and jake is dying. screaming. ascending.

“I GOT A 99,” you smile as you look up at him, eyes sparkling and wide.

jake swallows hard. his hards are still awkwardly hanging at his side, unsure whether to hug you back or just spontaneously combust into dust right then and there.

“wait. the chemistry exam?” he manages, voice higher than usual.

you nod so fast it’s a blur. “yes!—i think it’s a little stupid she docked me a single point just because i rounded wrong on that molarity question—which, yeah, i know you warned me about. but it’s fine. i’m literally a chemistry genius.”

jake lets out a breathy laugh, looking down at you—still warm, still wrapped around him, still lighting up like the literal sun in the middle of the school’s halls.

“you are,” he says, and it comes out softer than he expected.

and then you’re looking up at him again—close, glowing, happy—and jake swears the whole world pauses. like the only thing that has ever mattered to him is this exact moment. like someone hit pause on everything except you. the shouts, the lockers slamming, the overhead announcements—he doesn’t hear any of it.

all he knows is you. the way your smile curves just slightly more on one side. the scent of your shampoo. the feel of your arms around him and the way his pulse has never been louder in his entire life.

jake doesn’t think he’s ever felt this way about someone before.

and like you suddenly realize how long you’ve been holding onto him, or maybe just how close the two of you are—you slowly pull back. not all the way, just a half-step, your arms slipping from around his middle. you clear your throat, eyes flickering to a locker, then to a ceiling.

“um—thanks to you, though. seriously,” you say, voice softer now, “for all your help. and studying with me.”

and jake is still staring. still dazed. “oh! no, yeah. yeah yeah. totally. i had fun. it was fun.” he swallows again. please stop saying fun. “so fun.” yeah. he’s absolutely a lost cause.

but you laugh. and god, jake loves your laugh. he wants to bottle it up, carry it around in his pocket, and use it like a power-up when he’s out fighting criminals at night.

and it’s in that moment, somewhere between your grin and the sound of your giggle still ringing in his ears, that it hits him.

this is it. this is the moment.

jake clears his throat. wipes his palms on the sides of his jeans like it’ll help. glances off to the side before looking back at you.

“listen, so um—” he’s already fumbling. “i was wondering—like if you’re free this weekend, and only if you really, really want to, seriously no pressure at all because i know you’re probably busy, but—”

he pauses. breathes. tries again. “—but if you’d be down, i, uh—i have two tickets to the aquarium. and since you’re really into the ocean and stuff i thought—”

“oh my god,” you interrupt, eyes lit up. “you got tickets to the aquarium?”

jake nods so fast he swears he looks like a bobblehead.

“yeah! well—no. technically sunghoon got the tickets but—”

“ohhh, like you and sunghoon were going to go together?” you tease, grinning now. “that actually sounds kind of fun—”

“wait. wait—no.” and jake nearly panics, his hands waving. “no, no, no, i mean—i’m trying to—”

jake inhales sharply. gets a grip. “do you want to go with me? this weekend? to the aquarium?”

“oh!” you blink up at him, clearly surprised—but not in a bad way. your voice goes a little softer. “like…just us?”

“yeah,” jake nods, trying to sound chill and not at all like he’s internally combusting. which is definitely, 100%, happening right now. “i mean—if you want. if you don’t, it’s totally cool. i’ll just…give the ticket to my mom or something. she likes fish. i think. probably. i’ve never actually asked—”

“jake.”

jake stops. looks at you again. “yeah?”

you smile. all fond and amused and sweet. “i’d love to go to the aquarium with you.”

and jake completely loses the grip he thought he had a strong hold of.

“wait, really?” “really.” “oh,” jake breathes. “cool. cool, cool, cool.” you tilt your head, “you’re doing the repeating thing again.”

“i know,” jake groans, dragging a hand down his face. “i literally had a whole mental intervention about this, it’s not working—

you laugh. again. and jake ascends. again.

“okay,” you say, stepping back just enough. “aquarium this weekend. it’s a date.”

jake ascends a third time.

“right,” he says, barely recovering. “totally. i’ll—uh, i’ll text you the details?”

you nod, already backing away towards the main doors, “can’t wait!”

and forget the imperial star destroyer set or brand new swinging techniques. jake 100% knows what he’s doing tonight—and it’s sounding a lot like googling beluga dolphin facts. 

later that night, jake’s perched on the edge of a random rooftop—one leg dangling off the ledge, a protein bar in one hand, his phone in the other, glowing with an article titled: top twelve facts about belugas that will shock you.

but then—his spidey senses prick.

because at exactly 10:32PM, like clockwork, your usual bus pulls up to the stop below the building he’s seated at.

okay. so maybe it’s not exactly a coincidence he’s here. and maybe this roof isn’t that random after all.

and maybe, just maybe, he’s made it a habit to make sure you get home safe every night. it started with just one night—making sure you got home safe after last week’s incident. then it turned into two. then three. then…every night. at exactly 10:32PM. now it’s a full-blown instinct he hasn’t admitted to anyone (especially not sunghoon) because, well…he likes making sure you get home safe. sue him.

when he sees your figure step off the bus, jake immediately straightens. the hairs on his arms prick up. his pulse quickens. his palm slightly sticks against the protein bar wrapper. and this is just a regular friday.

except—it really isn’t. because today, you—you, the very smart and very funny and very pretty ocean-loving girl who sits next to him in chemistry—hugged him today and agreed to go on a date with him and oh god.

so actually, nothing about today was regular. not even close. and nothing about what jake is about to do is regular.

instead of just watching from above like he has the past week… he swings.

with a few quick, practiced motions, he webs himself building to building, bouncing off a wall to land neatly right in front of you on the sidewalk.

and you scream. “what the—oh my god—” you jolt back mid-step, instinctively clutching your bag closer to you.

“ah—sorry! sorry!” jake holds his hands up, immediately regretting his dramatic entrance. he straightens up from his crouch, brushing dust off his suit. “that probably looked a lot cooler in my head.”

you narrow your eyes, still trying to catch your breath, looking not totally convinced, “right.”

jake rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

then, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to be nearly ambushed by a red-and-blue-suited vigilante, you simply adjust the bag on your shoulder, sidestep him, and continue walking down the sidewalk.

jake blinks behind the mask, stunned for a second, before quickly scrambling to catch up.

“you know,” he says, effortlessly falling into step beside you, “if i didn’t know any better, i thought we agreed you wouldn’t be walking home alone this late.”

you glance over, the corners of your mouth slightly tugging upwards, “and if i didn’t know any better, i’d say you’re starting to follow me, spidey.”

“woah,” jake fake-gasps. fake-clutches his chest as if offended. “spidey? oh wow. we’re already on nickname basis and i don’t even know yours.”

you snort. “y/n,” you say, finally looking at him fully. “it’s y/n.”

jake’s heart does a triple flip. he thinks he’s heard your name a thousand times already—slipped through conversations with sunghoon, when your teacher calls out your name during attendance, in his dreams—but somehow, this feels new.

he flashes a smile you can’t see behind his mask, “y/n.” he repeats it like it’s the most important thing he’s ever learned. he then points to himself. “spidey.”

you laugh again, this time loud and real and soft and sweet. and suddenly, jake’s night feels warmer.

“yeah, i got that,” you say, shaking your head. “thanks for the clarification, spidey.”

there’s a short silence after that—comfortably quiet, but not empty. both your footsteps crunch against a thin blanket of scattered leaves, the echoes of your steps bouncing off the dimly lit sidewalk. somewhere in the distance a dog barks faintly. a bus drives by.

“shouldn’t you be out—” you finally speak again, glancing up at him, “—stopping carjackings or getting churros from old ladies?”

jake hums, the sound low in his throat. be mysterious. be cool. be normal. "well yes,” he clears his throat and adjusts his web shooter just to do something with his hands, “but it’s also part of my duty as your friendly neighborhood spider-man to make sure the citizens of this city get home safe.”

you raise a brow, smirking, “is it also part of your duty to walk every single citizen home after saving them?”

“…well. not exactly,” he tries not to sound nervous. tries. “just the ones i think are…pretty.”

you freeze mid-step. your breath catches, feet stopping entirely.

jake does the same. his heart might actually fall out of his chest. “that’s—” he coughs, scratching the back of his neck. “that’s just you, by the way. if that wasn’t…super clear.”

your mouth parts. but no words come out. only your eyes react—wide, soft, blinking.

“oh—" you eventually say, softly and unsure, as if you’re trying to figure out if the literal spider-man is trying to flirt with you. “thanks? i think.”

and jake is 98% pretty sure he’s redder than his own suit right now. “yeah, yup. of course,” he says, voice cracking ever so slightly as his mind searches for anything, something else to talk about. “uh…so any fun plans this weekend?”

smooth. so smooth.

you blink, still looking at him a little weird, but your smile comes back almost instantly as you two start walking again, “actually yeah! i’m going to the aquarium tomorrow.”

jake’s heart does another little flip. yes. yes, yes. she still wants to go. she’s still going with me—

“with this guy,” you add casually, kicking a pebble in your way.

jake feels his heart do a little pause. “a guy?” he says, wincing when it comes out just a little too quickly, a little too high-pitched. “oh. a guy guy. wow. a guy.”

you nod along, completely oblivious, mind clearly elsewhere, “yeah, he’s pretty great. got us the tickets and everything.”

jake nods stiffly, staring straight ahead like the lamp post across the street is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen in his entire life, “nice. that’s…really nice. sounds like a pretty solid dude.”

“totally,” you grin up at him, and it’s the kind of grin that makes jake’s lungs forget why they exist in the first place. the crinkle of your eyes, the curve of your mouth, the gentle ease in your voice—it all hits him at once. the most perfect storm.

“a little awkward,” you continue. “says ‘cool’ way too much. but he’s really sweet. and funny. and a genius.”

and jake combusts on the spot. jake thought he knew what happiness was. he thought getting accepted into the school’s robotics team felt good. he thought shaking hands with the mayor after saving him from a limo crash was peak fulfillment. he even thought finishing the millennium falcon lego set with sunghoon in a single night was the height of his serotonin levels. but this? hearing you talk about him—about jake—with that softness in your voice, that tilt in your smile, that warmth in your eyes?

oh yeah. this is what true happiness is.

and by the time jake returns back to earth, the two of you are approaching your apartment now—he recognizes the street by heart at this point.

you come to a stop in front of your building, turning to face him beneath the glow of the overhead lighting, “thanks for walking me, by the way.”

jake shrugs, hands shoved into the sides of his suit awkwardly, “it’s part of the job description. gotta make sure my favorite citizen gets home safe.”

you give him a look. one of those lingering ones that makes jake wonder. the kind that lasts a beat too long.

“…favorite, huh?” you raise a brow, lips quirking into a soft smile. jake’s heart stutters. “top three, at least.” you giggle again, shaking your head slightly, “night, spidey.”

“night, y/n,” he murmurs quietly before you go in, watching as you head inside. the door clicks shut behind you, and jake’s world immediately feels a little dimmer.

jake stands there in the quiet for a second. and then— he fist pumps the air in celebration, kicking his leg up like an animated character, “yes, yes, yes!”

with the goofiest grin under his mask, jake flings a web up toward the apartment building across the street and launches himself in one fluid motion. he lands with practiced ease, sitting in his usual spot just as the light flickers on in your bedroom window.

he’s still grinning. still breathless. still absolutely unable to believe what just happened.

with a newfound confidence, jake pulls out his phone from one of his suit pockets and unlocks it.

JAKE (10:54PM) : hey! just wanted to say im excited for tomorrow :) hope you have a good night y/n

he doesn’t hesitate before hitting send this time.

and when he wakes up the next morning, jake is still smiling.

no nightmares. no forgotten alarms. no dreading history finals. just the lingering memory of yesterday—from the hug to the walk last night, from the way you smiled at him to the way you said ‘night, spidey’, from the way he swears your laugh is not permanently stored in his brain’s top five sounds of all time.

now, he’s staring up at the massive curved glass in front of him, a large ‘beluga whales here!’ sign above him. you’re already right up against the glass, peering inside like you’re looking at the most fascinating thing in the world.

and to you—it is. to jake? his answer would be very different. his answer would look a lot like you.

because you’re right there, next to him. shoulder brushing him. looking effortlessly beautiful in the soft dim blue light of the tank.

and jake is trying very, very hard to look calm, cool, and collected. despite the fact that he’s sweating through his button-up because he’s nervous, giddy, and definitely sprayed way too much cologne (two spritzes max, sunghoon said. jake did six. he panicked).

but you—you look completely at peace. you’re smiling, your eyes lighting up with wonder, one palm pressed gently against the glass as you watch one of the belugas swim past.

“they’re literally smiling,” you whisper, completely in awe. “look at them. they’re so pretty.”

jake glances at you. then the belugas. then back at you.

he’s not entirely sure who you’re talking about anymore.

“yeah,” he says, a little breathlessly. “they’re…really pretty.”

at that, you turn to look at him and jake has to force himself to not look away. he smiles at you when your eyes meet his. and your smile is soft. soft and amused. like you knew what he was saying. like you’re choosing not to call him out on it.

“so,” you eventually say, tilting your head to look up at him. “on a scale of one to ten, how ridiculous does this shirt make me look?”

jake glances down at your outfit—you’re wearing an oversized t-shirt now layered over the outfit you picked out for today. it’s bright blue, has a cartoon fish giving a thumbs up, and across the front in bubbly letters sits, ‘fish makes life betta’.

your eyes landed on it the second you two walked past the gift shop. and you had to have it. immediately, of course.

jake had laughed at first when you turned to him, holding up the shirt against you, eyes wide. “should i buy this?” you asked, not a hint of sarcasm in your tone.

and that’s when jake realized, you meant it.

and that was also the exact moment jake realized he’s absolutely, undeniably, hopelessly gone for you.

“negative twelve,” jake says now, very seriously, despite the smirk on his face. “you look unironically very cool.” you scoff, “you’re such a liar.” jake shrugs, still grinning. “did that get me a couple more points at least?”

one of your eyebrows quirk, like you’re surprised by the sudden confidence. and honestly? so is jake.

there’s a beat—one of those soft, lingering ones carrying a silence that feels full with something unspoken. the kind that hums quietly below the surface. the kind jake could live inside forever.

then, your lips twitch into a smile. “mmm…maybe half a point. you’re up to, like, an 89.5%.”

jake lets out a soft, breathless laugh, eyes still on you, “i’ll take it. that’s like…a B plus.”

“better than what you got on the history final,” you say, already smirking.

jake’s eyes widen as he gasps, “hey—what!? that was so uncalled for.” you laugh again, clearly enjoying this. “you got a 73, jake.”

“a 74!” he corrects you, his voice now a pitch higher. “it was curved! and i woke up late! blame it on sleep deprivation.”

“that…still sounds like barely passing to me.”

jake narrows his eyes at you playfully, “okay, you know what? i’m deducting your points for emotional damage. 99.5%.”

you gasp dramatically. “you can’t deduct points!”

“better than what you got on the chemistry final,” jake says, eyebrows quirked, feeling ridiculously proud of himself for that one.

your eyes widen—equal parts shocked and impressed, “touché, jake. touché.”

and jake just grins, heart pounding so fast he swears it’s about to break out of his ribcage and up and run.

your smile lingers for a little longer before you glance away for a moment, returning your gaze back to the tank in front of you, watching as the belugas swim past lazily, weightless and floating like clouds. and you think there’s something oddly calming about them. it makes the whole world slow down.

jake watches you instead.

the lights from the tank dance against your skin, your features glowing blue and soft and perfect. your hands are simply at your side, head tilted slightly as you follow their movements with your wide eyes. you’re not even saying anything—but you don’t need to.

jake swallows hard. takes half a step closer to you.

“hey,” he says quietly. you look over. “yeah?” “i’m really glad you came today.”

your expression shifts—just a little. surprised, maybe. but then, it softens. into something gentle and honest. “i’m glad you asked,” you say, just as quiet.

and jake is so close. so close, that he can feel the slight brush of your pinky against his own. and suddenly, the air feels heavier. tighter. packed with nerves and possibilities and hope and everything that makes jake’s senses want to scream into a pillow.

and jake, because he’s still jake, blurts out the first thing his brain lands on— “let’s take a picture with a beluga!”

you blink. but then, your laugh bubbles up again as you nod, stepping close behind him as he’s already fumbling to pull out his phone.

the photo is slightly blurry. your shirt is bright and front and center. jake’s smile is too wide, and yours is somewhere between a laugh and a look—

one that’s angled towards him instead of the camera.

the walk back later that night is quiet. not the awkward quiet. not the quiet filled with weird tension. but soft quiet. warm quiet. the kind of quiet that settles over jake like his favorite blanket—thick and safe and familiar, the kind that jake feels whenever he’s tucked into bed after a night out around the city.

and when you two walk side by side, you’re close enough that jake can feel your sleeve brush against his every few steps. and the sidewalk is wide. but neither of you move away. not even once.

street lamps shine above you, the city hums quietly around, and jake—who literally has the ability to swing between skyscrapers and soar through the air—feels like he’s floating for the first time in his life.

because he’s definitely not thinking about how he can catch the small traces of your perfume or how your hand keeps brushing his. and he’s definitely not spiraling over whether or not you’re thinking about how his hands keep brushing yours back.

and right when he’s mentally trying to calculate just how fast his heart is currently beating (and if his calculations were correct, he thinks he’s at 142 beats per minute)—

you stop walking.

jake halts a half step ahead, blinking in surprise as he turns back to face you, “everything okay?”

you bite your bottom lip. squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “yeah. yeah—i just…” a breath. “i have to tell you something.”

and that knocks the air straight out of jake’s lungs. he steps towards you instinctively, his steps quiet against the pavement until he’s standing right in front of you—frozen under the soft glow of the streetlight overhead.

“okay,” he says, trying to sound normal. which is hard. because jake is currently experiencing what can only be described as sensory overload. 

he tries to not notice the way you’re fiddling with the hem of your incredibly bright blue shirt. or the way you’re blinking too many times. or the way he can literally hear your heartbeat from where he’s standing. and he calculates 143 beats per minute. maybe 144.

“i—um…i actually didn’t really need help with chemistry,” you blurt, eyes still focused somewhere near his shoelaces in front of you. “i know exactly what cis-trans isomerism in alkenes is. not only because i thought it was really cute when you explained it in class that one time, but because i genuinely think it’s super cool so i did my research project on it last—”

you pause. “…which is super irrelevant. oh my god—wait, let me backtrack.”

then your words start tumbling. “i just—i thought you were really cute. and smart. and witty. and honestly, probably a little awkward too but, like, in a cute way. and i didn’t know how else to talk to you outside of class. i figured you were too busy or not really into random girls asking to hang out. so i panicked. even though i have a 98 in chem right now.”

you stop. take a breath—finally.

jake, however, does not. jake’s entire being has stopped functioning. his brain is blank—no thoughts, just the steady, continuous static of oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. every nerve in his body is on high alert. his spidey senses are firing—heart pounding, breath caught, fingertips tingling. it’s like his body’s trying to prepare him for a fight, when really? he’s just trying his hardest not to melt into the ground.

and jake can feel everything. the warmth of the streetlight on his back. the shift in the breeze between you and him. the exact distance between your body and his. it’s all too much and not enough and jake is losing his mind.

and when you notice his frozen stare, you wince—your eyes squeezing shut again as you start mumbling, “oh my god. i’m so sorry. okay, let’s just forget i said—”

and jake, because he’s still jake, doesn’t think.

jake kisses you.

it happens before he can overthink it. which is entirely a lie, because jake always overthinks.

but this time, it happens before he could spiral through every worst case scenario. before he could remind himself of all the ways he could possibly screw this up.

all he knows is that you were standing there—rambling, flushed, perfect—and he just had to.

his hand finds your cheek instinctively, warm and unsure and trembling ever so slightly. and when his lips meet yours—it’s gentle. so gentle, like a question asked without words. like an answer given all at once.

and jake is still spiraling. his senses are everywhere—you smell like faint citrus and something a little like vanilla, your grip on his shirt is tight, and your lips are soft, so soft, moving with his like you two have known this rhythm forever.

everything is heightened for him. blurred and focused at the same time. and the kiss isn’t perfect—his nose bumps yours and you step too close and accidentally hit his shoe—but none of that matters.

because this is real. because it’s you.

and when jake finally, slowly, pulls back—just barely—both of you are breathless.

both heartbeats loud enough for jake to hear. quite literally.

“you think i’m smart?” you let out a small scoff as your eyes meet his, his shirt still under your grip, “out of everything that just happened, that’s what you’re focusing on?” “i mean,” jake shrugs, helplessly smiling, “i’m just making sure i heard that part correctly.”

you laugh louder now—relieved and warm and everything jake wants to hold onto forever.

the rest of the night moves slower for jake. literally slower. like neither of you want the moment to end—your steps gradually slowing the closer you get to your apartment building. jake keeps his hands in his pockets, fingers still tingling, goosebumps still on his skin. every now and then, he steals a glance your way, just to make sure this is real. that you’re real.

and when you reach the front of your apartment building, jake’s chest tightens the tiniest bit. you stop at the base of the stairs. so does he.

“well,” your voice is quiet as your eyes flick up to his. “i’ll see you at school on monday?”

jake nods, trying to look cool, calm, and collected even though he’s pretty sure he’s still at 142 beats. “yeah. for sure. monday.”

you smile, soft and a little shy. “night, jake.” “night, y/n,” he echoes, offering a tiny, awkward wave that makes you smile as you slip through the door.

jake lingers for a second longer, watching until the door clicks shut. then he spins on his heel, a giddy smile on his face, stumbles three steps down the sidewalk and—

“holy shi—” he physically clamps a hand over his mouth to keep himself from screaming.

jake fist-pumps the air. once. twice. spins in a circle. nearly trips and eats it on the curb. but he doesn’t care.

he kissed you. he kissed you. and you kissed him back.

and jake is back to nearly launching into orbit.

his fingers are still trembling as he pulls his phone out from his pocket, text message already full of typos from typing too fast when the screen lights up—

incoming call : GUY IN CHAIR 🧠

“DUDE,” jake answers instantly, breathless and borderline yelling. “i was just about to text you—I KISSED HER!”

a beat.

“WHAT?!” sunghoon’s voice explodes over the phone. “you KISSED her? you KISSED HER? oh my god.”

jake is pacing now, still walking down the street but barely aware of it. “i know. it just happened. i don’t even know—like, we were walking, then she stopped and told me she didn’t even need chemistry help and that she just needed an excuse to talk to me and i literally blacked out so i don’t remember the rest—”

“oh my god. oh my god.” “i KNOW.” “like, wait—you kissed her-kissed her?” “i KISSED her-kissed her, dude.” “bro.” “i know.”

they’re both beaming. celebrating. somewhere above him, a very confused old lady stares at jake from her window as he dances in the middle of the sidewalk like he just won the lottery.

“wait. wait, crap—” sunghoon cuts in, tone suddenly serious. “hang on, i called you for a reason.” jake freezes mid-spin, “huh?”

“guy in chair duties,” sunghoon’s voice shifts. “there’s a call coming through the police scanner. armed robbery. bank on 23rd and main. it just came in, like, thirty seconds ago.”

jake stops. groans. “you’re kidding me,” he mutters under his breath.

“sorry, man.”

without missing a beat, jake glances around for any people—then ducks into the nearest alleyway.

“can’t a guy catch a break?” he mumbles, already yanking off his button up, his suit already underneath (because—obviously, you can never be too prepared), then bunches up the shirt and webs it to the brick wall in one fluid motion.

sunghoon’s voice buzzes through his phone, “good luck, spidey.” jake pulls the mask over his face. “i’ll just tell you the rest on monday.”

“copy that.”

“thanks, hoon. spidey’s on it.”

turns out—spidey, in fact, was not on it.

he doesn’t know if he should blame it on the fact that he was mildly (extremely) mentally distracted by the memory of kissing you under the warm streetlight, or the fact that those robbers had insanely good aim, but either way:

jake comes home with a black eye, a rapidly darkening bruise on his cheekbone, a bullet graze burning across his left side, and what he’s 97% sure is a dislocated ankle.

“crap, crap, crap,” he mutters under his breath, wincing as he carefully locks the window behind him. he drops down from the ceiling with a thud, trying not to yelp out in pain when he lands on the ankle that he’s now 99% sure is dislocated. the apartment is quiet. his mom’s probably asleep. hopefully.

jake rips off his mask and immediately grimaces at his reflection in the mirror, “jesus.”

his right eye is already swelling. there’s dried blood going down the side of his face. his suit is slightly torn and singed and still sticky over the wound at his ribs. he presses a palm there, breathing through his teeth.

it’s fine. he’s fine. totally fine.

the shower was probably the most painful part of the night. every drop stings, and there’s something really, really humbling about trying to wash off dirt and dried blood while also replaying the moment you kissed him in perfect clarity over and over again in his head.

and jake’s been at this for a while now. out patrolling, out fighting crime, out throwing dad jokes to creeps at night. but he’s never had a night like this. not with this much chaos, not with this much feeling.

an unexpected bullet. a slam against concrete. some dumb goon with a perfect punch. but right before it? you. you in an obnoxiously bright blue t-shirt saying ‘fish make life betta’. looking at him like that. kissing him like that.

by the time jake stumbles out of the bathroom, patched up with some teenage mutant ninja turtles bandages and wrapped in an oversized hoodie, he’s exhausted.

every limb aches. every muscle screams. every brain cell thinking of you.

and by the time monday rolls around and he wakes up to his alarm at 6:32AM—because he snoozed it for 32 extra minutes—jake frowns at what he sees.

his black eye looks worse, his face is, at least, five different shades of blue, purple, pink, and his ankle is still swollen. every step sends a jolt of pain up his body that even breathing feels like a core workout.

so jake does what any emotionally and physically fatigued teenage superhero would do.

he fakes food poisoning.

when his mom knocks on his door to get him up for school, jake meekly groans out a quick, “mooom. i’ve been projectile vomiting since, like, 3AM. i think it was the fish tacos.”

jake did not eat fish tacos.

but she buys it anyways, says something about him getting rest, and how she’s going to the store for medicine.

and jake sighs. mentally blesses his mom’s heart. attempts to fist pump weakly. fails. winces in pain. then, he turns his phone completely off, buries himself under his blanket, and with nothing but the hazy image of beluga whales, a reminder that he needs to wash his bloodied suit, and you—jake finally falls asleep.

the next thing jake can comprehend is more than twelve hours later. a lot more than twelve hours later. when he blinks awake—it’s pitch black, his body is still aching, his phone is dead, and—

there’s knocking. soft, but persistent.

he stumbles out of bed with a groan and a wince, croaking out a low, “coming..” while he limps over with one arm holding his side before he whips his door open and—

it’s you. jake blinks. you blink. your jaw drops.

“y/n,” jake blurts out, eyes wide. he rubs them once. twice. hopes, prays, this is just one of those weird fever dreams that feel way too real that he gets whenever he sleeps for too long.

but then you rush forward, brows furrowed and eyes flicking from his black eye, to the bruise on his cheek, to the way he’s leaning heavily on one leg with the other slightly elevated—

yeah. this is not a fever dream.

“what are you—what—how—what are you doing here?” jake stammers, instantly turning around, nerves spiking as he quickly scans his room for any incriminating spidey-like props.

suit? mask? web shooters? where did he put that damn mask—

“i texted you, like, fourteen times,” you say following him in, concerned painted all over your face. “you didn’t show up to school. you weren’t answering. i panicked and your mom let me in—jake.”

you stop. jake stops. your voice drops.

“what in the world happened to you?”

jake did not plan for this part. well, he didn’t plan for any of this. “i—uh,” he turns to you, eyes wide. “i…fell.”

your eyes flick down to his knuckles—bruised, battered, and definitely the aftermath of punching something hard. you raise a brow.

jake follows your gaze. panics.

“jake—did you…get in a fight?” “what?!” his voice goes an octave too high. he clears his throat. tries again. “no. no, no. i don’t—fights? me? no. i don’t—i don’t get into fights. that would be very…un-cool.”

you give him a look that says you clearly don’t buy it, but to his relief, you don’t push.

but because jake is still jake, he continues anyways. “i…i was biking—” jake doesn’t know how to ride a bike. “—without a helmet. bad idea, don’t do that. and then i hit this…massive pothole. huge. basically fell off and hit the curb and…and yeah.”

you blink at him. and jake’s panicking, so he’s still going.

“—and then a pigeon flew into me…?” you blink again. “a pigeon.”

jake nods quickly, as if that could convince you anymore (it doesn’t). “a pigeon! you know how they are. dumb pigeons.”

there’s a pause. you stare at him from halfway across the room. jake stands there awkwardly with his hands by his side.

you sigh. cross your arms. “you’re a really bad liar.”

jake looks at the ground. his ears turn red. then he looks back at you with a small, sheepish smile on his face. “yeah,” he admits softly. “kinda am.”

jake moves to sit on the edge of the bed, and you take that as an invitation to sit next to him. there’s a silence between you two again as jake fiddles with the ends of his hoodie, his face warm from either the bruising, the fact that you just called him out, or the fact that somehow, someway, you’re here. in his room. on his bed.

you glance sideways to look at him. then at the floor. then back at him again. you nudge his knee with yours. “…well,” your voice comes out quiet. “are you okay? at least?”

jake looks up. meets your eyes.

and they're wide and worried and so completely focused on him. and for the second time in twenty-four hours, jake thinks his heart might literally give out.

he nods once. swallows. “yeah. yeah, i am. thanks, y/n.”

the moment lingers as the same warm hush settles again between you, like some kind of quiet, mutual agreement—like hey, i’m here, and yeah. i care. and no, i’m not going anywhere. and jake doesn’t know what to spiral about first.

the fact that:

you haven’t left.

you haven’t pried about why he looks like a literal punching bag.

you care.

you shift a little, reaching into the backpack that jake hadn’t even noticed you brought, and pull out a packet of neatly clipped papers.

“i brought the chem notes from today,” you say, holding them out in between you. “there was a pop quiz, and i figured you might want the stuff we reviewed after.”

jake blinks down at the packet, then up at you. then back at the packet. he tries to act normal when he brushes against your fingers when it takes he from your hand. fails spectacularly.

“and,” you continue, eyes flicking to his for a second before focusing somewhere behind him. notably, the crooked bill nye ‘science rules!’ poster taped to the wall. “i just…wanted to see you.”

and jake, quite literally, forgets how to form words for half a second, but you don’t notice. your knee is still against his and he thinks he’s memorized the smell of your shampoo at this point.

“anyways—” you clear your throat and the shyness in your tone makes jake forget how to breathe. “—there’s this documentary they’re playing at the theater tomorrow.” you pause, as if gauging his reaction but jake’s pretty sure he’s blacked out right now. “it’s about—um—deep sea ecosystems? something about bioluminescence and predator-prey adaptations and this super weird jellyfish migration they just discovered.”

jake blinks hard. shakes himself back to reality. realizes this definitely, 100%, isn’t a fever dream. but surely, he’s dreamt of something like this before.

“that…sounds amazingly weird,” is all he can manage to say, nodding slowly.

“i figured,” you give a little half-shrug, “maybe you’d wanna go with me?” then you nudge his shoulder this time. “if you’re not still crippled by then, that is.”

there is a full three seconds of stunned, stunned silence. then, jake scrambles to sit up straighter, eyes wide, “yes. yeah—yes, i’d love to. with you. to see the jellyfish. yeah.”

you smile at him, “cool.” and jake can’t stop smiling back. he’s 98% pretty sure he looks like an idiot, but 100% knows he doesn’t care in the slightest.

you push up from the bed before grabbing your backpack and slinging it over your shoulder. “alright then,” you say, clapping your hands together. “i should go. rest up, okay?”

“i will. i will,” jake nods quickly, still a little dazed. “can’t be too crippled for tomorrow.”

you let out a soft laugh as he follows you to the front door. and when you step outside, you pause in the doorway—hovering like there’s still something on the tip of your tongue.

jake’s hand lingers on the doorknob. you glance up at him. open your mouth, then close it again.

then finally, quietly—you try again. “i, um…” you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “about the other night…”

jake’s heart rate spikes. your eyes flicker up to meet his, and they’re a little unsure. as if searching.

“i wasn’t sure,” you admit. “when you didn’t show up to school and didn’t answer my texts…i didn’t know if maybe—”

you trail off for a second, then finish in one quick breath: “if maybe you regretted it.”

and jake—bruised and aching and completely out of his mind for you—feels the air knocked out of him all over again.

his entire body goes still before he reboots all within 0.5 seconds. “no,” he says. fast. too fast, jake. “god, no.”

your eyes lift again.

“i didn’t regret it. not even a little bit,” his voice stumbles, his nerves are on fire, and his chest tightens with something dangerously close to hope. “i think…i think i relived it a million times in my head, honestly.

jake lets out a small chuckle—partly pathetic, but entirely sincere. “i meant it,” he murmurs. “every second of it.”

you shift your weight from foot to foot, “okay.” a reassured smile rests on your face. “just checking.”

jake exhales, rubs the back of his neck, and looks at you with something boyish and sorry. “i don’t regret it, but i do regret not checking my phone. that was stupid.”

you smirk at him, “a little bit.” jake grins, releasing a short breath of relief as he leans a little against the doorframe, “i’ll do better.”

you hum, giving him a certain, knowing look. “i’ll hold you to it,” your voice drops a little, and before jake can fully process the shift, you lean in—just barely, but yet just enough—and place the lightest kiss to his cheek.

and jake goes completely still. because it’s not dramatic, and it’s definitely not cinematic by any means.

not when you’re both standing in the middle of his apartment hallway, under a flickering light his super refuses to fix no matter how many maintenance requests his mom files. not when there’s a suspicious cloud of weed-scented air coming from the new college neighbors, who obviously do not care about the no smoking indoors sign. and especially not when jake’s ankle is still swollen, his ribs still sore, and he’s wearing star wars pajama pants with a hole in them that he’s praying you didn’t notice.

but it’s warm. and real. and so vulnerable it makes jake’s heart yearn in the most inconvenient way. like breathless honesty wrapped in nothing but silence and the glow of someone who cares.

you pull back slowly, your cheeks a shade pinker than before, your eyes still on his. and jake—well, he’s pretty sure his entire body is red head to toe. his cheek tingles from where your lips just were and his senses are so hyper-focused on you, he doesn’t even notice the pain of his wounds anymore.

“goodnight, jake,” you say finally before turning and going down the hall. and jake stands there, watching you—entirely, irrevocably, shamelessly, gone.

when you’re finally out of sight, jake finally stands up straight, snapping himself out of it and shuts the door behind him, limping his way back to his room when—

his eye catches the clock. 10:43PM. crap. you really need to stop walking home this late.

and suddenly, jake’s adrenaline kicks back in. not from the kiss. okay, maybe a little from the kiss. but mostly because it’s you, and you’re walking home alone, and, yeah, you live a five minute walk away from his but what if something happened, and then— yeah.

with no hesitation, jake locks his room door, goes into his closet, and grabs his suit—still battered and bloodied and roughened up, but it’ll do. two minutes and one-struggle-to-put-on-a-suit-when-half-crippled-later, jake is quietly hobbling out of his window, praying his mom is asleep.

he swings himself easily onto the rooftop of his own building, easily spotting you already a block down. he keeps to the rooftops, stealthily going from building to building until—

his damn ankle. his ankle—which he clearly forgot about for a hot business second—catches on a loose gutter and the next thing jake knows is pain, the taste of concrete in his face, and a loud-and-not-so-subtle crash, bang, clang.

“crap, crap, shit—” jake stands up, dusting his suit off, one leg propped up as he balances on his good one. “ouch, god—” “spidey?” oh god. jake freezes. peeks over the edge.

and there you are—fifty-something feet below, staring up at him, brows furrowed, arms crossed. “oh—” jake gives an awkward wave from where he is. “—y/n! hey! hi. what’s—uh—what’s up?”

jake steps back to duck out of sight, muttering a stream of whispered curses to himself before inhaling sharply and flinging himself down from the rooftop, landing right in front of you with the composure of someone with a screaming ankle and bullet-shaped wound in their abdomen.

you arch a brow. “…is this the part where you admit you are following me, after all?” jake straightens up slowly. and painfully. “i—what? no. i was, uh…” he gestures vaguely down the block. he has no idea what he’s pointing to. “getting pizza. dollar slice. late night craving.”

“uh huh,” you squint, clearly not believing him. “if i promise to stop walking home this late, will you stop stalking me from rooftops?” jake pauses. tilts his head. “define stalking.” you let out a small laugh, half-exasperated, half-fond.

“fine then,” you say, shrugging, “c’mon then. you’re already out. i’m coming with you.” jake blinks. “…coming with me to…where?”  “to get pizza,” you’re walking now, already turning without second thought. “duh.”

ten minutes and two lukewarm pizza slices later, you’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on your fire escape. the air is thick with humidity and smells faintly of marinara, melting cheese, and rusted metal. there’s a low buzz of cars below in the distance, and the stars up above are mostly hidden.

you’re chewing in silence. jake, on the other hand, is holding his slice in his hand in fear—too nervous to even lift his mask up to eat it. thankfully, you don’t notice. or if you do, you don’t mention it. either way, he’s relieved.

you knee bumps his. “so why do you do it?” jake startles slightly, his eyes dragging over to you beneath his mask, “why do i…do what?” you take another bite, still staring out across the street. “spider-man. why do you do what you do?”

he follows your gaze to the building you’re looking at. gives a weak shrug.

“i…didn’t really have a choice, i guess,” he offers quietly. that makes you turn. “you’re being forced to do this?” “no—no, not like that,” he’s quick to shake his head. then he pauses. thinks for a second. “it’s more like…one day, i woke up with these powers. and i realized i could do something with it, you know? like something good. and if i have the chance to…shouldn’t i?”

you’re silent for a second. then you glance over, studying the smooth fabric of his mask like you’re trying to see the face beneath it.

“so you fight crime and get beat up on the daily…willingly?” you shake your head, a small scoff escaping your nose. “you’re better than me, spidey.”

jake lets out a short breath—half of a laugh, half of a sigh. “someone has to. i mean, if i just sit back and watch bad things happen…then it’s like the bad things happen because of me.”

you nod slowly, your lips pressing together in thought. “yeah. that makes sense.”

there’s another pause. quiet, mutual. a pocket of space in the noise of the city where nothing exists but your knees pressed side by side and the pizza box going cold between you. you shift beside him, letting your legs dangle freely off the fire escape. “you’re a good guy,” you say eventually, turning to shoot him a soft smile.

jake swallows hard. his heart’s somewhere in his throat, and he doesn’t quite trust his own voice not to crack, so he simply nods—just once—and turns his gaze back out to the horizon.

“welp,” jake finally says, voice low, a little reserved, “i should probably get back to…you know. my thing.” you tilt your head, eyes narrowing playfully. “like walking your favorite citizens back home?”

“that part—” jake scoffs under his breath, then smirks behind the mask, “—is already done.” then, because spider-man is still jake, he throws up a finger-gun for good measure. he hates himself.

you roll your eyes, but the same smile stays on your face, “you’re unbelievable, spider-man.”

“i try.”

jake slowly rises to stand on the narrow ledge, glancing down at you one more time. the moonlight hits your cheek just right. you’re still holding the crust of your pizza slice, legs swinging, your eyes slightly narrowed like you’re trying to figure something out. and for the third time in twenty-four hours, jake still feels like his heart might give out.

he gives you a little salute, meant to be casual, but he feels anything but. and then, without thinking—he says it.

“see you tomorrow.” a beat of silence. jake’s face blanks. his body completely stills. you blink up at him. “…tomorrow?”

crap. crap, crap, CRAP.

jake’s silence goes for a second too long. then he scrambles for cover. “i mean—uh—hypothetically,” jake stammers, waving a gloved hand vaguely. “like, if you’re…out again. tomorrow. late at night. which you shouldn’t be. because, you know. laws.”

you give him a look. “laws?” “yup,” he taps his chest with two fingers. “spidey laws.” you let out a small giggle and lean back against the railing, arms loosely wrapped over your knees. “right. goodnight, spidey.”

jake clears his throat and bids a small, “night, y/n,” before shooting his web to the corner of the next building and swinging himself out of sight.

and jake doesn’t stop smiling the whole way home. not even when he peels the suit off with a small wince. not even when he collapses into bed, muscles aching and bruises throbbing and heart racing.

but the panic eventually sets in. and it’s early evening the next day by the time it does for jake.

jake stands in front of his closet, yanking hangers out as he quickly skims and tosses another outfit into the rejected pile.

sunghoon lies on the bed behind him, sprawled out horizontally, lazily twisting a rubik’s cube with one hand and scrolling on his phone with the other.

“you know,” sunghoon says without looking up, “it’s literally just a movie. actually, it’s barely even that. it’s a documentary.”

jake whips around, ignoring sunghoon’s comments, holding up a navy button-up in one hand and a graphic tee in the other. “which one says i-tried-but-didn’t-try-too-hard-because-i’m-not-100%-sure-what-we-are-quite-yet-but-just-enough-try?”

“…okay,” sunghoon says, twisting the cube into a perfect, one-colored side. “i’m just…gonna ignore everything you said. but go with the navy.”

“perfect,” jake grins at first, before his eyebrows furrow slightly. “wait, wait, wait. do you think she suspects anything?”

sunghoon lowers the cube. looks at jake. “about you liking her? bro, you kissed her—dude, it’s so obvi—she knows, trust me.”

“no,” jake hisses, yanking off his shirt and then buttoning the navy one on. “about me. like me me. like, spider-man me.”

sunghoon pauses. eyes jake. “what? why? what did you do?”

jake tries to fight back the dumb grin growing on his face as he runs his hand through his hair. “i walked her home.”

“okay…” sunghoon gives him a look that says he’s not impressed. “and i walked my grandma home last week, what’s your point—”

jake rolls his eyes and glances at him through the mirror. “as spider-man.”

“wait—” sunghoon gasps. “so you did end up using your lil guy!”

jake turns to sunghoon, face horrified, “can we please stop calling it my lil guy—”

but before sunghoon can respond, a sudden crackle of static cuts through the air from where jake’s police scanner sits on his cluttered desk.

“—reports of an assault in progress near 37th and bay. suspect is armed. five victims. officers en route. any nearby units respond.”

the air stills. sunghoon immediately sits up. jake’s head jerks towards the tracker. sunghoon’s already reading the look in his best friend’s eyes, “don’t.” jake doesn’t answer.

his eyes are locked on the scanner. his jaw tightens. his mind already racing.

assault in progress. you. suspect is armed. documentary. weird jelly fish. 37th and bay. you. five victims. y/n. y/n. y/n. y/n.

sunghoon watches him carefully, like someone trying to talk a bomb out of detonating. “jake. don’t even think about it.” “i’m not!” jake blurts, too fast, too high, and the crack at the end gives him away.

sunghoon groans. “dude. you have another date. with y/n. you’ve been waiting for this for so long.” “i—i know,” jake’s voice rises in panic. and he’s trying so hard not to panic. “but what if no one gets there in time? w—what if…it’s close. i can handle it. i’ll be quick.”

“jake.” sunghoon gapes at him. “quick? you literally limped up the stairs today. you barely beat that guy from the other day!”

jake doesn’t hear him. in fact— jake’s navy button-up is already off.

“i’ll be fine!” “you still have a bullet scar in your stomach!” “exactly, sunghoon. scar. practically healed. no biggie!” sunghoon throws his hands up. “you can’t be serious—”

“i’ll be done and early to the theater. i swear, hoon.” jake is already tugging the suit halfway over his upper half, wincing at the movement but powering through. “i’ll swing in, swing out. three minutes, tops.”

sunghoon groans louder. and jake is already yanking the window open. “jake.” his friend’s voice softens slightly. “don’t blow this. you like her. she likes you.”

jake pauses, foot on the ledge, mask in hand. he turns back towards sunghoon, lips tight, shoulders tense. “i do like her,” he murmurs.

he pulls the mask down over his head anyways.

“but you know me, sunghoon. you know i can’t be the guy who looks the other way.” and sunghoon does know. of course he knows. this was always a losing battle from the start. because he knows his best friend, he knows jake. knows his heart wasn’t just made of gold, but forged in it. soft and stubborn, foolish yet fearless. the kind of heart that doesn’t back down, even when it knows it should. the kind that tries anyways.

so sunghoon doesn’t push any further. he presses a hand to jake’s shoulder and gives it a firm pat.

“you better not be late.”

jake offers a crooked salute with two fingers—part promise, part apology— and falls backwards out the window.

a flick of his wrist, a few shots of web, a sharp whoosh of air as jake swings into the wind—and the night cleans the rest of his loud thoughts out of his head.

because as much as he wants to see you—as much as he’s worrying about being late—he can’t think about that right now.

and so one fight, a couple hard punches to the gut, a potentially dislocated shoulder, and a webbed-up criminal later—

jake is limping his way back across a rooftop ledge, blood in his mouth and the taste of guilt already rising up like bile behind it.

he lands with a grunt just outside his window on the fire escape, cracking it open and tip-toeing in. he stumbles into his room—still half-messy from earlier—navy button-up on the floor, rubik’s cube on the bed.

jake groans softly, one hand pressed into his side, the other slowly dragging his mask off. his jaw aches. his ribs throb. his other ankle is definitely going to bruise. but his heart? sinks when he finally turns on his phone.

6 missed messages. 3 missed calls. all from you.

Y/N (7:41PM) : hey! just got here early :)) but no rush!!

Y/N (7:57PM) : are u on ur way?

Y/N (8:03PM) : jake? is everything okay?

Y/N (8:16PM) : im going in now…meet me inside when u get here?

Y/N (9:45PM) : jake if u forgot u can just tell me

Y/N (10:12PM) : i hope ur okay

jake stares at the screen. sits on the edge of his bed, defeated. like he might fall apart.

because jake has seen a lot in his short lifetime. he’s seen back alleyways soaked in red. he’s seen broken glass way too many times a teenager ever should. he’s seen someone take a swing at him with a crowbar. he’s seen bruises bloom on his ribs and vanish before anyone could ask questions. he’s seen criminals twice his size fall, and he’s seen friends—good people—get hurt anyways.

but this? this wrecks him. this has jake in shambles.

because he missed it. he missed you. and before he could talk himself out of it—before he even knows what he’s going to say—he’s tapping on your name and pressing the call button.

it rings once. twice. three times.

“jake?” your voice is soft. cautious. like you didn’t know if you should answer, but did anyways.

jake swallows hard, voice caught in his throat.

“i’m sorry.” a pause. it hangs in the air and jake already wants to scream. “i’m so sorry,” he says again, voice low, words falling out fast, as if trying to outrun his own guilt gnawing at him. “i—i didn’t mean to—i was gonna be there, i swear i was gonna be there, but then something happened and—”

“hey,” your voice cuts through. not loud, not pressing, not angry. “it’s okay.” but it’s far from it. not in jake’s head. not when the image of you sitting alone in the dark theater has already carved itself into his brain. not when he can hear the disappointment in your voice.

jake licks his lips. he can hear the shift of your weight rustling against your bed. maybe you’re curled up somewhere in the dark. maybe you’re still in the outfit you wore to the movies. maybe you cried, and maybe you didn’t. and maybe jake will never know.

“no, no it’s not,” jake manages. he winces—at the pain growing at his ribs, at the mess he’s made, at himself. “i—i didn’t even text, i—god, i’m such an idiot—”

“you’re not an idiot, jake,” you say. and your voice is tired, but never cold. “i was just…worried.”

“i’m okay. i promise. and i promise i didn’t forget,” he whispers. “not even a little.” and there’s so much more jake wants to say.

“…did something happen?” you ask gently. jake’s fingers tighten around the phone. “yeah,” jake says, the sound barely coming out. “kind of.”

another beat passes. a small exhale from you. “do you want to talk about it?” and jake’s throat closes up.

because he wants to. god, he wants to. he wants to tell you everything—about the fight, the chase, the guy with the knife, the way his side still burns, the way he pictured you waiting outside the theater for him with every swing and every hit he took and every punch. he wants to tell you he didn’t forget. that you were the only thing on his mind the whole time.

but he can’t. he knows he can’t.

“…i—i can’t.”

you’re quiet again. but this time, jake can feel the shift even over the phone. and it’s not annoyance, it’s not cold. jake doesn’t think a single bone in your body could ever hold an ounce of bitterness. just disappointment. sadness.

“…okay.” your voice barely goes through. jake squeezes his eyes shut. his fist balls up the sheet under him. “i’m sorry,” he whispers again.

you inhale through your nose, “it’s okay. i just—i didn’t know if something happened. i didn’t know if you were hurt...or if i said something wrong.”

jake’s stomach twists—sharp and awfully close to throwing up. and this time, it’s not from the amount of times he took it to the gut today.

“no,” he blurts, too quickly but he doesn’t care. “no, it wasn’t you. you didn’t do anything wrong.”

another long, still silence.

“alright…well,” you murmur eventually, voice light in that way people use when they’re trying not to sound disappointed. “i’ll see you at school then, i guess?” 

“yeah,” jake nods, even though you can’t see him. “yes. yeah, tomorrow.”

you don’t say anything else. and neither does he. you end the call first.