othernightslikethis

[othernightslikethis]

NIGHTS LIKE THIS

M!Batman Reader x Rosé

Premise: Fighting crime and splitting your attention was... tough. Being sentimental and getting your life wrapped up in it was complicated, and, most of all, you couldn't do both. Unfortunately, everything comes to an end.

Pure anguish, so don't expect a happy ending :(

Nights.

Cold and distant nights.

Long ago that's what you were, the night. Revenge.

You remember, with vivid clarity, the fervour with which your mom clutched you in her frail arms, quivering with terror, as your wide, disbelieving eyes watched your dad, gripped by a desperate impulse, try to fight back against the muggers. Try—that’s the word for it.

The gunshot rang out like a doom-laden thunderclap, and your vision caught, in morbid detail, the bullet tearing through your father’s skull, ripping through his head with unholy brutality. Thick, warm blood splattered your face, mingling with your mum’s desperate sobs, her screams slicing through the night like razors. She begged, pleaded to some merciful entity not to take him, to grant one more breath, one more moment with the man she loved. But you? You couldn’t muster a flicker of reaction. Not even when a second blast shattered the silence, fired with cold detachment into the chest of the woman who birthed you.

All over a pearl necklace. A bloody cursed trinket. Or so you believed your whole life.

The truth, though, turned out far more twisted. Your parents’ deaths weren’t some tragic accident, nor a botched job by petty thieves after easy loot. Nah. It was a hit—a scheme cooked up in the shadows by that bastard Carmine. He ripped them from you, dealt the blow that condemned you to a life of anguish. And now, a bitter smirk twists your lips. Who’d have thought your dad’s bid for South Korea’s presidency would end in such a balls-up? He should’ve never gone down that road. Had he stayed in the shadows, no one would’ve dredged up the past, exposed your mom’s stint in the loony bin. Her fragile mind became ammo for the political vultures, and your dad, scrambling to save face, turned to the infamous Falcone. From that moment, your family’s fate was sealed.

That truth eats you alive. Gnaws at your insides like slow poison, burning your guts and stealing sleep night after night. That relentless pain’s been your mate for years, fuel to keep you going.

Every time you slip into that suit—your true skin—it’s that agony driving you forward. To endure the battering, the biting cold of Seoul’s wee hours. Each night, when you emerge from the shadows, it’s that weight guiding you, reminding you of your purpose: to fix this city, scour its corruption, make it proper.

But she was there.

The one decent thing the world gave you.

Chaeyoung was a proper gift from the gods. Her smile, her scent, every inch of her a blessing. You loved her with a right proper intensity, more than the skyscrapers you endlessly prowled. But you had a duty, a burden forced on you the day you took up the mask.

“We all have a duty. When it calls, you answer—no matter the pain. That’s what makes us men.”

Your dad’s words rattled in your skull as you swung between towers, your bat-hook anchoring to solid beams. Icy wind lashed your face; pissing rain battered your knackered body. With a final leap, you landed on a rooftop, allowing yourself a quick kip. Then you took a proper look at yourself.

The searing pain in his right leg had become unbearable; the Joker’s acid had eaten away at his flesh with a ferocity beyond words. His right rib throbbed in agony after taking a brutal hit from Bane. His twisted ankle—courtesy of a desperate escape during a clash with Solomon Grundy—sent waves of torment through him with every step. And to complete this symphony of suffering, his head pounded as if it were about to explode, a lingering gift from the four savage blows dealt by Croc.

All of this in a single night, and he wasn’t even halfway through.

Taking a deep breath, he felt the communicator vibrate. The butler, perhaps? His only confidant, his unwavering ally. But as he glanced at the screen, his heart clenched. It was her. Chaeyoung. A weight, crushing and relentless, settled on his chest. He answered, shutting his eyes for a moment, dreading what was to come.

"Where are you, love? You said we were going out..."

The softness of her voice carried a note of disappointment that cut through him like a blade of ice. The promise. He had promised, hadn’t he? Bloody hell. Why did fate have to be this cruel?

"I know, darling. I’m so sorry. Work matters, you know how it is. Can we reschedule?"

A brief, deafening silence followed before she replied.

"You said you would... It’s our anniversary."

Reality hit him like a runaway train. Two years. Two years of love, devotion, whispered promises in the dead of night. He had sworn to himself that this day would be hers entirely, that he would banish the darkness from his life for just one night, wrapping her in tenderness and devotion. And yet here he was, shattering the hopes of the most precious woman he had ever known.

Reality hit him like a runaway train. Two years. Two years of love, devotion, whispered promises in the dead of night. He had sworn to himself that this day would be hers entirely, that he would banish the darkness from his life for just one night, wrapping her in tenderness and devotion. And yet here he was, shattering the hopes of the most precious woman he had ever known.

What kind of man did this? What kind of monster allowed himself to break the heart of the one he held dearer than his own existence?He ran his tongue over his dry lips, feeling utterly wretched. And then, he heard it. A muffled sniffle on the other end of the line.

He had made her cry.

At that moment, he felt like the vilest, most despicable creature to ever walk the earth.

"Sorry, I have to go."

"Okay, love you."

Without even realising he hadn’t said it back, he hung up, ready to carry on with the night. After all, the city still needed him.

---

It had been over two weeks since your last contact, and the anguish consuming you was beyond words. Every unanswered call, every door shut in your face when you knocked at her place, only fed the torment gnawing at your insides. With each passing day, the idea that some wretched villain had taken her away seemed more plausible, and the thought of it tore at your soul with merciless precision.

Your gaze fell once more upon the cold device in your hands, its screen displaying a now-familiar image: her, in all her effortless beauty, holding a tiny black cat and pulling a childish face. The memory of that moment invaded your mind, vivid and relentless. You recalled her pleading to take the cat home, the tenderness in her voice as she spoke of wanting a companion.

With a shaky sigh, you opened the messaging app, confronted by the countless failed attempts at contact. Thirty missed calls, a barrage of desperate texts, anxious inquiries about her well-being—every single one ignored without hesitation. And then, a notification flashed on your screen: a new Story on Instagram.

Your heart lurched as you tapped her profile. There she was, radiant, surrounded by friends, a dazzling smile lighting up her face. But as you scrolled through her page, a crushing realisation hit you like a blade to the gut. There was no trace of you left. No photos, no affectionate declarations, no immortalised memories—obliterated. Even the ring emoji that once sat proudly in her bio, a silent testament to your bond, was gone. More than that, she wasn’t even following you anymore. And that was when you understood, with a weight that felt inescapable, the sheer magnitude of your downfall.

And yet, a sliver of hope still clung to your chest. Determined to salvage whatever was left, you spent an entire month chasing her forgiveness, trying to see her, to make her hear you out. And now, here you stood, heart in turmoil, as she refused to meet your gaze.

You fucked everything up.

She stood with her arms wrapped around herself, a defensive posture that betrayed just how uncomfortable your presence made her. You knew it then—you were guilty. Completely and utterly guilty.

— Hey.

She let out a short laugh, but there was no sweetness in it, no nostalgia. It was bitter, jaded, final.

— After everything, all you’ve got to say is “hey”?

You tried to step closer, but the words died in your throat. What could you possibly say to undo the irreparable?

— I messed up. I know. Please, forgive me. I lo—

— No. — Her voice was a quiet, cutting whisper. — Don’t say that.

She was looking at you now, and in those eyes that once held you spellbound, there was nothing left but pain and disappointment.

— Don’t say that when it’s a lie. It hurts. It hurts even more... If you wanted to end things, you could’ve just told me.

You reached out for her, a desperate reflex, but she recoiled as if your touch were poison.

— There’s someone else, isn’t there? — Her voice wavered. — You never picked up my calls, forgot our dates, didn’t even remember our anniversary... And worst of all, you stopped saying you loved me.

— No! I love you! I love you more than anything! I messed up, I —She let out a melancholic laugh, and the sound of it sliced through your chest.

Years ago, you’d made a promise to yourself—to dedicate everything to the city, to duty, to eradicating crime. Love was a luxury you couldn’t afford. But now, standing before her, you were just a ten-year-old boy again. Frozen. Powerless. Helpless as something precious slipped through your fingers.

— I put up with this for a whole year. — Her voice trembled. — But I can’t do this to myself anymore. I deserve to be happy.

— I love you! I swear I’ll change! I promise! There’s no one else, I—

— Then what is it? — Her eyes were pleading. Deep down, she wanted to believe you. She needed a reason to stay. — What happened? What pulled you away? What do you do every night? Why won’t you let me in?

— I... I can’t.

— I knew it. — Her whisper was a lament. — You haven’t loved me for a long time.

You opened your mouth to deny it, but there was no time.

— Thank you for everything. But from today onwards… it’s over. I hope I never see you again.

And then, without hesitation, she pulled away and disappeared into the cold night.You stood there, motionless, hollow, feeling the abyss within you widen. Alone again. As you had always been. As you always would be.And then, something pierced the darkness.A beam of light slashed across the sky, casting the silhouette of a bat upon the clouds. Duty was calling.And no matter how much you wanted to chase after her, to beg her to stay, to give up everything for love...

Maybe it's your fate.

Finish alone.

[othernightslikethis]

wyd?

IVE Yujin x Male Reader | 8094 words Tags: Exes, Car Sex, Rough & Messy, Face Riding, Overstimulation, Ass Teasing.

Six months apart, and it’s always the same—one text, three letters: wyd?

You could pretend it doesn’t matter, but when it comes to Yujin, you never resist.

You're mid-round in Marvel Rivals, playing as a tiny shark that blows bubbles to heal your team. Ducking behind cover, you wait for your cooldowns to refresh while your boys call out plays and hurl mild insults in your ear. Just another night, same as always.

Then your phone buzzes. Once. Then again.

You ignore it at first, barely glancing. But something makes you check. Yujin.

wyd?

You sit back in your chair, staring at the screen. The game noise fades. You’re still, quiet enough that your homies notice. You could ignore it. Maybe you should.

It’s always her reaching out first. Always her making the move.

And you? You just… wait. Maybe that was the problem in the first place.

“Yo! Where’s my heals?” one of your friends yells as he gets mauled by Venom.

Another beat. Then you move.

“Bro, don’t tell me—”

“Man, again?”

“We’re really gonna lose our healer to his ex.”

“You know she does this on purpose, right?”

Laughter. Some exasperation. Someone sighs, everyone already know how this ends.

Your hands hover over the keyboard. The cursor blinks. Your team is mid-fight, and Jeff is already out of bubbles. Someone’s health bar is flashing red.

Another buzz.

You exhale, slow.

Then, without a word, you click out of the game, disconnect from the call, and push back from your desk.

You move through the next steps without thinking. It’s muscle memory at this point. Shower, cologne, fingers through your hair. You grab the basket from your closet—pillows, blankets, washed. You don’t need to check; you always make sure they’re clean.

It’s routine. The same every time.

For a moment, you pause. The hesitation is brief, barely even there, but it exists.

You know exactly how this night will go. How it always goes. She texts, you come. And after?

You don’t think about that part.

Your fingers tighten around your keys. You could still stay home.. 

Maybe this time, you don’t go. Maybe this time, you just say— "I'm tired. Cant."

The words come back too fast, too easy. The way she got mad. The way it escalated. How a stupid thing turned into six months of this.

Then your phone buzzes again.

You grab your keys.

The drive to Yujin’s place is always the same. The same route, the same practiced motions . If she ever thought you weren’t around enough, then why does it feel like every street in this city leads back to her?

Three days together. Then one missed night. That’s all it took?

The afternoon sun filters through the windshield of your mom’s SUV, the sun glaring against your eyes. The city blurs past, the same roads, the same turns. And every time, you think about it—why did you even break up in the first place? It felt dumb then. It still feels dumb now.

Maybe if you had just texted first, or if you had just said the thing she was waiting to hear, you wouldn’t be here six months later, pretending this was still casual.

You pull up in front of Yujin’s house, engine idling, the warmth of the afternoon settling over the quiet neighborhood.

The sun hits the pavement, the air thick with that mid-day stillness.

That same familiar house—its windows dim, the curtains drawn, the driveway exactly as you remember it. You stare at it for a moment, the weight of memory settling in. Then, the front door creaks open, just enough for her to slip through.

She moves carefully, pausing to nudge the door shut with her foot so her dog doesn’t slip past. A practiced motion. Something second nature by now. She scans the street, spotting your car. No reaction, just a small exhale.

She’s wearing a fitted pastel pink long sleeve that rides up just enough to show a sliver of her midriff and loose grey sweatpants, the fabric pooling over her Crocs. Her hair falls naturally past her shoulders, a few loose strands framing her face. Glasses rest on the bridge of her nose, slightly oversized, making her look softer in the afternoon light.

Effortless.

Casual.

Like she didn’t think twice before stepping out. Phone in hand, she walks down the driveway.

She slides into the passenger seat without a word. The door clicks shut, sealing you both inside the familiar silence.

Her fragrance fills the car instantly—lychee, rose, vanilla, and something undeniably summer. It lingers in the air, familiar, the kind that sticks to your clothes, your skin, something you used to know too well.

Without thinking, you reach over and pull her seatbelt across her, clicking it into place. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react—it’s rehearsed, something that no longer needs permission. Her fragrance lingers in the small space between you, sweet and warm, and for a second, it’s like nothing has changed. She exhales softly, a quiet hum, her usual way of saying thanks.

Your eyes meet for half a second. No greetings. No small talk. Just routine. She shifts, tucking one leg up onto the seat, sitting cross-legged like she always does, settling in like she never left. It’s unconscious, effortless, like muscle memory. You don’t say anything, but you notice.

Before you even reach for the gear shift, she leans forward, grabbing your phone from the dash.

Without hesitation, she unlocks it—still remembers your password. A flick through Spotify, a song queued like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She leans back, satisfied, as the opening notes play. The sunlight slants through the windshield, catching on her features as you ease onto the road. The city hums around you, strip malls and quiet residential streets stretching under the afternoon sky.

The air between you is thick, filled with everything unspoken.

Six months since the breakup. Countless times in this same car.

The silence is comfortable. Or maybe just necessary. Either way, you don’t break it.

The drive is automatic, familiar. The streets, the turns, the stretch of road leading up to the overlook—it all blends together, like a loop you’ve never broken. The city fades behind you, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over quiet streets, and ahead, the ocean stretches out, shimmering under the golden light.

The ocean stretches out before you, endless and bright, the water catching the sun’s soft haze. The sky, still blue, deepens with hints of orange, the afternoon slipping into something softer.

You step out just long enough to fold the seats down. Neither of you speak. You don’t need to. The ocean breeze rushes in as soon as the doors open—salty, heavy, wrapping around you. The seats creak, metal clicking into place. Blankets rustle as you spread them out, fabric settling into familiar folds.

And then you’re inside again, the doors shut, the world locked out. Blankets and pillows surround you, cushioning the space you’ve built in the back of your mom’s SUV. A makeshift bed, one you’ve laid out too many times to count.

Yujin exhales beside you, sitting cross-legged, her glasses now set aside, forgotten. One hand scrolls through her phone while the other idly toys with the hem of her sleeve. The soft tapping of her long nails against the screen is steady, rhythmic, filling the quiet between you. You watch her for a second longer than you should, something restless curling in your stomach.

Then she moves.

No hesitation. No preamble. She swings a leg over you, her crocs slipping off in the process, leaving her in just her socks. Her phone falls somewhere beside her, forgotten. Her hands find your shoulders, sliding down your chest, fingers curling into fabric. Her nails, cool against your skin even through your shirt.

She kisses you first. Hungry, teasing, her lips parting just enough to make you chase, to make you want. As she deepens it, her hips shift, her weight pressing against you. She’s already shimmying out of her sweatpants, lifting her hips just enough to kick them aside. Her long sleeve is still on, her legs now bare, her body pressing closer. Your hands slide down, resting against the curve of her bare ass, her skin warm under your touch. Everything shifts—heat rising, breath hitching, hands gripping skin, fabric pulling.

"You always let me do this," she murmurs against your lips, breathless but smug. "So easy for me." Another kiss, deeper this time, her teeth catching your bottom lip before she pulls back, just enough to look at you.

"What if I stopped reaching out?" she taunts, her fingers trailing up your chest. "You’d never text me first, would you?"

Her nails scrape lightly down your torso, fingers catching on fabric. She tugs at your shirt, not pulling it off yet—just toying with it, teasing. "No one fucks you like I do."

Her fingers slip beneath your shirt, nails grazing over your stomach before she pushes it up, just enough to feel your skin against hers. Then she pushes you back, guiding you down onto the blankets, crawling up towards your face with purpose. Her hips roll against you, teasing, her breath warm as she lingers above you.

She doesn’t bother taking off her panties—black lace, delicate, pressed against you. Instead, she hooks a finger under the fabric, pushing it to the side. For a moment, you see her—slick, smooth, her folds glistening in the dim light filtering through the SUV. The sight makes your breath catch, your fingers twitch against her thighs.

Then she lowers herself onto you, slow, deliberate. The heat of her, the slick press of her skin, makes you exhale sharply. Her scent is thick, dizzying, filling your lungs as she settles above you. One hand still braced against the ceiling, the other sliding from her panties to your hair, fingers threading through, tugging with just enough force to make sure you’re exactly where she wants you.

"Open up," she murmurs, her voice low, breath hitching. "Come on, make me fucking lose it."

Her thighs tense against your cheeks as she settles onto your mouth, her heat pressing against you, her scent—heady, intoxicating—filling every inhale. Your fingers dig into her skin, keeping her steady as she gasps, barely audible, before bracing herself. One hand shoots up, pressing against the ceiling of the car to keep balance, while your fingers dig harder into her thighs, your nails pressing into soft flesh, marking her there, leaving behind faint red streaks.

Her other hand keeps her panties pushed aside, a fleeting hesitation, as if teasing herself with the idea of restraint. But it doesn’t last. The pleasure builds too quickly, and soon, she abandons the fabric entirely, fingers slipping into your hair instead, gripping, using it for leverage as she rolls her hips against your mouth.

"That’s it," she breathes, half a moan, half praise. "You know how to use that mouth, don’t you?"

Your hands grip her thighs, keeping her open as your tongue glides over her. When you suck just right, she shudders—sharp, uncontrollable.

You pull her closer, tongue pressing, lips wrapping around the sensitive bud, and she whimpers, her body giving the first sign of unraveling. You feel the shift in her, the control slipping, her thighs twitching as she tries to keep herself steady.

Then you suck harder, your teeth grazing just enough to leave a spark of pleasure, and her breath stutters. Her head tilts back, the sound of her moans filling the car, swallowed only by the thick afternoon air. She tastes like salt, like something warm and familiar, like something you’d get drunk on if you weren’t already drowning in her.

You know what she likes. You know how to pull those breathy little gasps from her throat, the way her thighs twitch when you flick your tongue just right. So you give it to her. Slow at first, teasing, dragging your tongue along her folds before pressing in, sucking at her clit just enough to make her shudder.

"Fuck, yeah," she breathes, her fingers twisting in your hair, her hips rolling down against your mouth. "Just like that. Don't stop."

You don’t.

You nip at her, a sharp little bite to her folds, then another to her clit, knowing she loves it just rough enough to make her squirm. She jerks, gasping, and you feel her hand brace against the ceiling again, her other gripping your hair even tighter.

"Holy shit," she pants, voice dripping with pleasure, with something wicked and teasing beneath it. "You love this, don’t you? Bet you’d fucking live down there if I let you."

You groan against her, the vibration making her moan louder, her hips grinding down against you, using your mouth to chase the high building inside her. You can feel it in the way her thighs tremble, the way her breath hitches, her body tightening, straining, needing more.

So you give her more. You grip her thighs harder, spreading her open as your tongue works faster, hungrier, dragging her closer and closer to the edge.

She’s wetter now, the slickness coating your lips, your chin, the sounds between you growing filthier, wetter. You flick your tongue over her clit before pressing in deeper, letting yourself sink into the heat of her. You suck, pull, letting her ride the sensation, letting her lose herself against you.

She whimpers, breath stuttering, her nails digging into your scalp. "Fuck—" she gasps, her voice ragged. Her hips stutter, like she’s caught between wanting to grind harder and losing control entirely. "You’re—god, you’re making a fucking mess."

You groan against her, the sound vibrating through her, making her jolt. She gasps, her thighs clenching, and you use that moment to grip her tighter, dragging her down against your mouth. You keep her there, force her to grind against you, matching the rhythm of your tongue. The wet sounds between you grow filthier, obscene, each flick and suck making her shudder harder.

She jerks when you sputter against her folds, your breath hot and heavy, the mess between her thighs smearing against your jaw. Her fingers twitch in your hair, but then she lets go—her hands leaving your head, reaching forward instead, gripping onto the back of the seats in front of her as she steadies herself, her body arching as pleasure overtakes her.

"Shit—" her voice wavers, fingers tightening in your hair. "You love this, don’t you?"

You only answer by sucking harder, wrapping your lips around her clit and flicking your tongue in quick, insistent strokes. She lets out a sharp moan, her entire body shuddering as she fights to keep herself steady, one hand still bracing against the ceiling, the other yanking at your hair, desperate and needy.

She’s losing it now, panting, her thighs trembling around you, her slickness coating everything between you. You feel her breaking, her voice going breathy, whimpering curses spilling from her lips, and you know she’s right there, right at the edge, ready to fall apart.

Then you attack her clit, alternating between sucking and flicking your tongue over it before dipping back down to her folds, teasing her, drawing out every shaky breath. Her thighs clench around your head, her grip on the seats tightening as her back arches.

Her lips part, breath stuttering, and for a second, she fights it—bites down on her lip, eyes squeezing shut, her body tensing. "I'm—" she chokes out, voice breaking. "Gonna—fuck—" But you don’t let up. You suck harder, press your tongue flat against her clit and flick in rapid strokes, pulling a soft, desperate scream from her throat.

Her whole body tenses, her stomach tightening as she crashes into it, hips jerking against your mouth as pleasure rips through her. Her fingers slip, barely holding onto the seats before she gives up entirely, body shaking, breath coming in broken gasps as she rides out every wave, every pulse, every sharp aftershock that makes her legs tremble around you.

Her body is still shaking when you pull her down, her legs weak around you, her breath coming in slow, uneven gasps. She’s wrecked, undone from the way you just had her, but you don’t give her a chance to recover. You guide her down onto the blankets, the weight of your body pressing against hers, and she lets you, pliant beneath you.

Her panties are a mess, soaked through, sticking to her skin from where you had your mouth on her. You hook your fingers under the lace and pull them down, dragging them over her thighs, her knees, tossing them somewhere behind you. She shivers as the cool air hits her, still sensitive, still throbbing. Your hands settle on her inner thighs, spreading her apart, your fingers teasing, stroking lightly over her slick folds. She twitches, her breath catching.

"Sensitive?" you murmur, rubbing slow, just barely grazing her clit. She jerks, biting her lip, trying to suppress the reaction. "Still so wet for me."

She exhales shakily, half a glare, half anticipation. "Then do something about it." She’s bare beneath you now, except for her top, still clinging to her frame, pushed up slightly from where she’d been grinding against your face. You could take it off, but not yet. Instead, you shift back onto your knees, pushing your sweatpants down, kicking them off until they’re lost somewhere in the mess of blankets. Your cock springs free, aching, flushed, and heavy in your hand. Yujin’s eyes flick down immediately, her lips parting, a quiet hum of approval slipping from her throat. She licks her lips, reaching out, fingers brushing against your length—

You catch her wrist before she can wrap her hand around you, pushing it away. Her eyes flick up to yours, a challenge in them, but you don’t waver. Not this time. "Not right now," you murmur, your voice firm, your grip on her tightening just slightly. "I’m in charge now."

Your cock is already aching, flushed and heavy in your hand as you settle between her legs, pressing the tip against her entrance, dragging it through the slick heat of her.

She exhales sharply, her fingers flexing against the blankets. "Fuck—"

You don’t push in yet. You drag the head of your cock against her, teasing, smearing her wetness along your length. She squirms, her hips shifting, her body already responding.

"Don’t tease," she mutters, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown. "You know I can take it."

She gasps at the stretch, her nails scraping against your shoulders.

You don’t respond, just grip her hips, pushing in slow, deliberate, feeling the way she stretches around you. The heat of her is overwhelming, the contrast stark between the cool air against your skin and the wet, pulsing warmth surrounding you. Her breath catches, fingers tightening on your arms, her back arching instinctively.

"Fuck—" she gasps, nails digging in deeper as you fold her legs up, pressing her knees toward her chest, opening her up more. The shift makes her whimper, her body clenching around you, pulling you in deeper, tighter. The pressure is unbearable, intoxicating, her slickness making every inch of you ache as you fill her completely.

"God," she whimpers, her fingers twisting into the blanket beneath her. "You’re so deep—"

You bite down against her neck, hard, sucking at the skin there, not enough to bruise but enough to make her squirm beneath you. She moans, tilting her head to the side, giving you more, her body shifting, arching up against you.

"You love this," you murmur against her skin, dragging your teeth over the flushed heat of her throat before biting down again, harder this time.

She gasps, nails digging into your back. "Yeah," she exhales, breathy, wrecked. "But you love this more."

She’s teasing, but you can hear it, the slight break in her voice when you pull back and thrust into her harder. Her body jolts beneath you, her thighs tensing around your hips as she struggles to keep up with the pace you’re setting.

Her hands find your arms, nails biting into your skin, holding on tight as if grounding herself. It only makes you go faster, makes you push deeper, makes her moan louder.

"Fuck—" she gasps, her legs trembling. "Harder. Don’t hold back."

You don’t. You grip her hips, hold her down like you’re trying to leave something permanent, like you want her to feel this for days. The sound of skin against skin fills the air, loud and messy, her moans breaking between sharp, breathless gasps.

She reaches for you, drags you down into a kiss, messy and desperate, her tongue pressing against yours, her teeth catching your bottom lip before she pulls away, panting.

"Knew you couldn’t take it slow," she murmurs, half-laughing, voice shaking.

You tug at her hair in response, pulling her head back slightly, making her gasp. "Shut up," you mutter against her throat before sucking another mark there, another place to remind her of this later.

She just smirks, but it melts into something softer, her breath stuttering when you hit just the right spot inside her, the one that makes her moan louder, makes her nails claw at your shoulders, her body clinging to yours, desperate, wrecked.

You shift, angling deeper, pushing her knees higher, folding her into herself. She gasps, her back arching, her hands gripping onto your forearms, holding tight as if you’ll slip away. Her shirt is still on, bunched up beneath her ribs, exposing the taut lines of her stomach, the soft ridges of muscle tensing beneath you. You drag a hand up her body, palm pressing flat against her neck, feeling the quick, frantic beat of her pulse beneath your fingers.

"Oh f—" she whines, breath catching as you thrust harder, deeper, grinding your hips into hers. She’s trembling, her body taut beneath you.

You shift too far back, the heat of her slipping away as your cock accidentally slides out, leaving you both gasping at the sudden loss. "Please," she whimpers, her voice breathless, raw. Her hands tighten against your arms, her body arching up, desperate to pull you back in.

But you don’t give in right away. Instead, you slap your cock against her soaked pussy, the wet sound sharp and obscene between you. She jerks, a sharp inhale, a full-body shudder, her thighs twitching. Then you do it again, dragging the head of your cock against her clit before pulling back and doing it once more. One hand stays firm on her hip, keeping her in place, while the other slips down to toy with her clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles.

Her body tightens beneath you, her breath stuttering, her fingers clawing at your skin. "Fuck—" she gasps, her voice breaking. She’s almost folded over at this point, her knees pressing against her chest, fully open, fully exposed to you. The sight alone makes your cock throb.

Finally, you give in, pushing back inside in one hard stroke, knocking the air from her lungs, pulling another sharp gasp from her lips. As soon as you're buried deep again, you shift your grip, pressing her left leg down while keeping the other folded high, trapping her beneath you. The angle makes her moan, high and shaky, her hands grasping blindly at you.

One of your hands moves up, cupping her face, thumb brushing over her parted lips as you thrust into her again. The other stays between her legs, fingers rubbing at her clit, teasing, pushing her further into that desperate, needy space. She's almost folded in half, her body giving beneath you, her moans turning into broken gasps.

The heat inside the car is suffocating now, sweat slicking both of you. Her shirt clings to her body, damp, sticking to her skin, darkened in places where the fabric is soaked through. Strands of her hair stick to her forehead, damp with sweat, and her breath is hot against your face, panting, uneven. Every time you thrust into her, a soft whimper spills from her lips, her voice high, desperate, shuddering through each gasping exhale.

You lean down, pressing your forehead against hers, your breaths mingling, heavy and uneven. She tilts her chin up, catching your lips, kissing you deep, messy, her nails scraping lightly against your arms. It’s all hunger, all desperation, neither of you slowing down, neither of you wanting to.

You thrust into her a few more times, each movement deep, precise, shifting your angle with every stroke to watch how she reacts, how her breath stutters, how her body grips you tighter. Her moans turn guttural, almost a growl, her fingers gripping at your arms, her body arching against yours.

For the last few thrusts, you bring your hand to her throat, gripping firmly, not just to hold her but to claim her. Her breath stutters, a strangled moan slipping out, her body tightening beneath you. Her eyes flutter, her mouth parting as she surrenders to it, to you. Her moans turn guttural, almost feral as her body clenches around you, desperate, overwhelmed, lost in the sheer force of it all.

Then it hits you—the burn in your muscles, the weight of exhaustion creeping in. You push in one last time before pulling out, panting, sweat dripping from your brow onto her collarbone.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The only sound is your breathing, heavy, uneven, filling the small space between you as you both lie there, gasping in silence. You shift back, sitting on your ankles, thighs burning from exertion. Yujin just lays there, boneless, her body slack against the blankets, her chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths. Her arms are sprawled out at her sides, fingers twitching slightly, as if she’s still processing what just happened.

The silence lingers, heavy with the weight of everything that just happened, bodies still humming with heat. Yujin is the first to move. Her breath is slow, measured, before she finally tilts her head up, eyes still half-lidded, and murmurs, "Come here."

She reaches toward you, fingers curling slightly, and you don’t hesitate. You help her sit up, hands firm but careful, steadying her as she adjusts. Then, before you can react, she shifts forward, pushing you back until you’re leaning against the interior wall of the SUV. The blankets beneath you are damp with sweat, the air inside still thick, still heavy. She kneels in front of you, her legs folded beneath her, her gaze dark and unreadable.

She starts with her top, but there’s no rush, no fluid motion. She’s still catching her breath, her movements slow, deliberate. Her fingers grip the fabric at her shoulder, tugging at one of the sleeves, pulling her arm free. Then the other, sliding her limbs out one at a time before finally peeling the tank over her head and discarding it beside her.

Your eyes track every shift, every subtle flex of her muscles beneath sweat-dampened skin. Her bra is next. She reaches behind her, fingers fumbling slightly, and you move to help, undoing the clasp with ease. She lets the straps fall down her arms, and you brush them off her shoulders, sliding the fabric down and away until she’s fully bare before you.

She shifts slightly, adjusting her position without thinking—one leg bent closer to her, the other stretched out at an angle, her feet still covered in those white socks. Her body is tight, toned but soft in the right places, the way she carries herself effortless. Then she reaches up, arms stretching, pulling her hair into a loose bun to keep it out of her face. The movement lifts her chest, elongates the lines of her body—the curve of her waist, the soft definition of her abs, the smooth dip of her armpits as her arms stretch overhead. The tendons in her neck shift, her head tilting slightly, lips parting just so. Strands of damp hair stick to the sides of her face, and for a moment, all you can do is watch, hunger curling in your stomach. Your mouth waters.

You lean in, pressing your lips to the side of her neck, tasting the sweat that lingers there. She exhales, tilting her head slightly, letting you in. You trail kisses lower, down to her shoulders, dragging your mouth along the curve of her collarbone. Your hands find her waist, fingers kneading into her skin, feeling the warmth of her beneath your palms.

Then lower. Your mouth finds her chest, your lips brushing over the swell of her breasts before you take one in your hand, your thumb tracing over the sensitive skin. She shudders, a quiet gasp slipping past her lips, and you revel in the way she reacts, the way she melts into your touch. Your mouth follows, lips parting against her skin, tongue flicking over the peak before you suck gently, savoring the taste of her. Your hands roam, caressing, feeling, groping—memorizing the shape of her, the softness, the heat.

She sighs, threading her fingers into your hair, tilting her head down just enough to watch you. There’s no urgency now, just this—just the feel of her, the press of your mouth, the warmth pooling between you as you take your time, exploring every inch of her bared skin.

She lets out a hushed moan before pressing against your chest, gently pushing you back until your shoulders meet the SUV wall. You barely have time to react before she turns around, shifting into your lap. Her knees slide under yours, her body fitting against you perfectly as she moves closer, her back arching slightly.

Then, slowly, she spreads herself open—her fingers parting her ass cheeks, exposing everything to you. Her pussy lips glisten, her tight hole stretching just slightly with the movement, teasing you with the sight. Your cock twitches, aching, as you instinctively reach down, guiding yourself against her folds. The heat of her, the slickness, sends a shudder down your spine.

She shifts back, taking you in slow, the stretch making both of you groan. The grip of her around you is almost unbearable, pulling you in deeper inch by inch, her breath shaky as she adjusts. You watch the way her body takes you, the way she exhales, trembling slightly as she sinks further, her hands bracing against your thighs for balance.

Then she moves. Slowly at first, lifting herself up before sinking back down, her rhythm changing. It’s not bouncing anymore—it’s deeper, slower, a deliberate grind. Each roll of her hips forces you in at a different angle, dragging against every inch of her. It’s slicker, hotter, the sound of her taking you deep filling the thick air, the obscene wetness between you making every thrust a decadent mess. Your grip tightens, your fingers flexing against her hips, nails pressing slightly into the flesh as she grinds deeper, dragging pleasure from both of you in slow, devastating waves. The muscles in her back flex, taut beneath the dim light filtering through the SUV windows. Her breath stutters, a moan slipping out between her parted lips.

You groan, gripping her hips, feeling the shift of her muscles under your fingertips, the subtle dip of her spine flexing with every bounce. Your hands explore, trailing up her back, tracing the defined ridges, the smooth stretch of skin as she moves. One hand shifts higher, fingers spreading over the back of her head, gripping, grounding her as she rocks against you. The friction, the slick heat of her, has you clenching your jaw, your fingers digging into her skin. Her head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut, her lips parting with another breathy moan.

"Fuck," you mutter, the word slipping out unfiltered, guttural.

She lets out something close to a whimper, her body shivering from the way you're holding her, guiding her down harder each time. Sweat beads along her spine, her muscles shifting beneath her skin, the dip of her back deepening as she tilts her body forward, adjusting. Strands of her loose bun begin slipping, stray hairs sticking to the back of her damp neck. She keeps one hand planted on the blankets to steady herself, the other lifting to the back of her head, holding her hair up—displaying herself for you. You know she’s doing this for you. She knows it too.

Her back, arched, muscles shifting under sweat-damp skin, the flex of her stomach tightening with every movement. Your cock twitches inside her, and she gasps, breath catching, body momentarily tensing before sinking back into the motion. Your own shirt clings to your skin, soaked through, suffocating in the best way. Sweat drips from your temple, slides down the curve of your jaw. The windows are fogged, the air so thick with heat and breath and lust that every inhale feels like a drug. And still, you can’t get enough. You can feel the sweat pooling between your shoulder blades, the fabric growing heavier against your skin, but you don’t care.

You don’t give her a chance to adjust. One moment, she’s grinding against you, taking everything you give her, the next, something surges through you—your body coming alive again, energy surging back into your limbs, your need for her taking over completely. You grip her waist, lifting her slightly before pushing her forward, pressing her down onto the blankets. Her breath stutters, her body folding into itself, her knees sliding apart as she falls into position—ass up, face down, her cheek pressed against the damp fabric beneath her. It’s different now. You’re not catching your breath anymore. You’re in control again, and you’re going to use it.

The shift is seamless. You’re still inside her, still buried deep, and you don’t stop moving. The new angle makes her whimper, her fingers curling into the blankets, gripping them like they’re the only thing keeping her grounded. She’s already trembling, her thighs quaking from the force of every thrust.

You pick up the pace. Rougher now, deeper, urgent. Each thrust has her jolting forward, her body pliant, wrecked beneath you. Your hands roam, running up her bare back, her waist, gripping her hips, keeping her right where you want her. Sweat rolls down her spine, the slick heat of her skin under your palms intoxicating. She’s so open like this, so exposed, and she moans like she knows it, like she loves it.

You know exactly what to do next, exactly how to unravel her completely. 

You bring your thumb to your mouth, wetting it thoroughly, dragging it across your tongue, coating it in spit before pressing it against her puckered hole. The slickness makes her jolt, a shudder rippling through her spine as you circle slow, teasing, pushing just enough to make her gasp. Her entire body tenses, a sharp cry ripping from her throat. You keep fucking into her, keeping time with the way you play with her, pressing, circling, easing her into it. Every motion makes her squirm, her moans growing louder, breaking into desperate whimpers as she pushes back against you, needing more.

""Oh—fuck—oh my—please—" she chokes out, voice catching on every syllable, her body trembling like she’s unraveling at the seams. Her fingers claw at the blankets, grasping for something, anything, but it’s useless. She can’t ground herself, not when you keep working her open, not when every slow press makes her shudder, makes her walls flutter around you. Her legs twitch under you, every muscle taut, waiting, wanting more.

You push a little more, not inside, just enough to make her feel it, and she screams, her body shuddering, the sound raw, helpless. Her muscles tense, legs trembling, and then she lets go, completely, lost in the overwhelming pleasure. You press your hand into her lower back, keeping her down, controlling the way she takes it. "Take it," you murmur, voice low, firm, the heat in your words making her moan even louder.

"Play with my ass—yes—" she babbles, voice high, wrecked, her mouth hanging open, drool slipping from the corner of her lips. She’s almost crying, her body shaking beneath you, lost in it, falling apart in your hands. Her fingers dig into the blankets, nails scraping, her moans breaking apart as she pushes back against you, desperate for more.

You grip the back of her neck, pressing her further into the blankets, keeping her exactly where you want her. Then you slap her face—light but firm, just enough to make her gasp, her eyes fluttering, her breath stalling for a second before she moans, louder, messier. Drool pools beneath her cheek, her body trembling, fully at your mercy.

You pull out abruptly, and she whimpers, her pussy clenching around nothing, her body instinctively pressing back like she can pull you inside again. Instead, you bring your fingers to her, slipping them in deep, curling, fucking her with them until she’s writhing, moaning in broken, incoherent strings. Her body tightens, her walls fluttering around your fingers, and then you push back into her, filling her in one hard thrust.

You do it again. And again. Pulling out, fingering her, fucking her, over and over, building her up higher, pushing her closer each time. She’s shaking now, her voice raw, nearly sobbing into the blankets.

"Fuck—you’re gonna make me cum again," she gasps, her words slurring, nearly lost in her moans.

"Then do it," you murmur, gripping her hip, slamming into her harder.

"Faster—please—" she begs, her entire body convulsing, her arms writhing against the blankets. You obey without hesitation, thrusting into her as hard and fast as your legs will let you. Your muscles burn, your thighs trembling from exertion, but you don’t stop, not when she’s begging, not when her voice is breaking apart.

Her pussy clenches around you, gripping you tight, sucking you in, the wet heat dragging you deeper with every stroke. The sounds between you are obscene—slick, messy, the sharp slap of skin against skin echoing inside the vehicle, mixing with her breathless, desperate cries.

She jerks beneath you, back arching, her entire body locking up as the tension snaps. "Oh—fuck—I'm—" Her voice cuts off into a strangled scream, her pussy fluttering, spasming around your cock as she cums. You don’t slow down. If anything, you fuck her harder, driving into her through the unbearable sensitivity, through the overwhelming rush that has her shaking beneath you.

Her body writhes, her moans dissolving into helpless whimpers, her fingers clawing at the blankets. She’s sobbing, wrecked, unable to form words, her body so lost in it that she’s barely holding herself up. The car rocks with the force of your thrusts, windows fogged, the air thick with sweat, heat, desperation.

You tighten your grip, fingers pressing into her hip, into her throat, into her ass—claiming every inch of her, making sure she feels everything, making sure she knows there’s nothing else but this, but you. She whines, twitching, sensitive and overwhelmed, yet still pushing back against you, still taking all of it.

The car rocks with the force of your thrusts, the air thick, humid, the scent of sweat and sex drowning you both. You feel it then—That familiar heat curling in your spine, the pulsing, aching pressure that tells you you’re close. Too close.

And so you stop.

You pull out, panting, your cock throbbing, aching, but you don’t let go. Not yet. You want to drag this out, savor it, enjoy her fully, completely. You want to make this last.

And yet, as you look down at her, something inside you tightens—not just from sex. The blankets are twisted beneath her, damp with sweat, her ass still arched, her back curving like something carved from heat and hunger. But it’s her breathing—ragged, slow, mouth parted against the blankets—that freezes you. The way she trembles, wrecked yet impossibly beautiful.

Your hands twitch, wanting to pull her back in, but you don’t. Not yet. Instead, you just watch—every shiver, every unsteady breath. She’s a mess, undone beneath you, and somehow, that feels inevitable.

You shouldn’t be thinking like that. But fuck, she’s still so hot. And she’s still Yujin.

You swallow it down.

She stirs, shifting slightly, her breath still shaky. Then she turns her head toward you, her eyes woozy, hazy, her hair sticking to her damp skin. She blinks slowly, lips parted, breath uneven.

"You… cum next," she slurs, her voice soft, cock-drunk, barely able to form the words. Her body still trembles, wrecked and used, but the way she looks at you makes your stomach twist, heat curling in your chest. For the first time all night, the air feels different.

She shifts, moving with a lazy kind of determination, and before you can react, she flips herself over, swinging a leg over your waist, straddling you face-to-face. Her body still trembles, breath still shaky, but her eyes lock onto yours, something heated, something unspoken passing between you.

She doesn’t give you a choice. Her hands find the hem of your shirt, tugging at it, dragging the damp fabric up and over your head. You let her take it, barely breathing as she tosses it aside, her hands already back on you, tracing the sweat-slicked lines of your shoulders, your chest, your neck. Then she leans in���teeth grazing your skin, lips pressing open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone, your jaw, your throat. She sucks at your skin, bites, her nails scraping lightly over your ribs, down your stomach, leaving you raw under her touch.

You groan, hands finding her waist, holding her close. She’s burning against you, skin against skin, the heat between you unbearable in the best way. The windows are fogged, the scent of sweat, sex, and her filling your lungs. Her lips brush your ear, and then she whispers something teasing, something possessive, something she doesn’t quite mean—but maybe she does.

She sinks down, slow, taking you in inch by inch. A sharp inhale leaves both of you as she takes you in, her fingers digging into your shoulders, clutching at you like she needs something to hold onto. She exhales, forehead pressing against yours, her breath warm, shaky. You can feel everything—the way her walls flutter around you, the way her nails dig into your skin, the way her thighs tense as she adjusts to the depth.

And then she moves.

It’s different like this. No frantic pace, no desperate urgency. Just this—her, guiding the rhythm, rolling her hips slow, dragging you deeper into her heat. Her hands trail over your chest, fingertips gliding through the sweat beading along your skin, tracing the sharp lines of your torso like she’s memorizing you. Then she leans forward, pressing her lips to your neck, kissing, tasting, sighing against you as she moves.

She takes your hands, guiding them over her body—up her sides, over the curve of her breasts, down to her waist. She shudders when your palms spread over her back, pressing her closer, her chest flush against yours. Every slow rock of her hips forces out a shaky breath, a soft moan into the humid air between you.

Her lips find yours. A deep kiss—nothing rushed, nothing sloppy, just deep. She kisses you like she wants to drown in you, her fingers tangling in your hair, her body tightening around you, her breath uneven as she pulls away only to come back again. And again.

She smiles, lazy, breathless, her lips just barely grazing yours. "You’re close, aren’t you?"

You swallow hard, your grip tightening against her waist. She knows you are. She can feel it.

"Where do you want it?" you rasp, barely recognizing your own voice.

She doesn’t hesitate. "Inside."

Your body tenses. For six months, you’ve never done this. Always pulled out, always left it on her back, her stomach, her tongue. But this time—this time, she doesn’t let you. Her hands curl against your shoulders, her body pressing down harder, holding you there.

"Inside," she repeats, her voice softer now, but firm. No room for argument.

She leans in, lips brushing against your ear, breath hot, sticky with everything between you. "Fill me up."

Your stomach tightens, your grip on her waist flexing. She knows exactly what she’s doing, how to draw you deeper into the feeling, how to make you lose yourself in her completely. Her sweat mixes with yours, bodies slick, the air thick, humid, unbearable. She’s so close, her forehead pressing against yours, the wet strands of her hair sticking to your temples. Her voice—low, honeyed, almost teasing—sends a deep, primal pulse through you. "I want to feel you. All of you."

She rolls her hips, slow, deep, dragging the moment out, making you feel every inch of her around you, gripping you, milking you. Your whole body tightens, heat flooding your spine, pooling low in your stomach, curling tighter with every deliberate grind of her hips. It’s not just sex anymore. It never was.

"Fuck—," you choke out, barely able to breathe past it, past the weight of her around you, the way her walls squeeze, coaxing you closer, making it impossible to hold on.

"Do it," she murmurs, lips brushing against your ear, voice dripping with something dangerous, something sweet. "I want all of it."

Your stomach clenches, heat rising sharp and fast, spiraling through your spine like wildfire. It builds, unbearable, rolling through your muscles, making your breath hitch, your grip on her tightening like you’re trying to hold onto something slipping through your fingers. Your whole body seizes, every nerve burning as the pleasure crashes through you. It explodes in sharp pulses, radiating outward, drowning you in the moment as your hips jerk up, pushing deeper, filling her completely. Your jaw clenches, your hips snap up, burying yourself as deep as you can go.

"Shit—I'm—" The words barely make it out before you shudder, the release hitting you so hard it nearly knocks you out. But before you can even finish saying it, she grabs your shoulders, pulling herself down against you, her lips crashing into yours. She kisses you through it, deep, needy, like she wants to consume every last sound, every breathless moan spilling from your throat.

Her arms wrap around you, her nails digging into your back as her walls clench down around you, milking every last drop, her body pulling you in like she never wants to let go. She gasps into your mouth, her breath stuttering, her whole body trembling as she takes everything you give her. Your mind blanks, everything narrowing to this—the slick warmth of her wrapped around you, the way she shivers, the way she feels, completely, entirely yours. It lingers—hot, overwhelming, raw. Different. Deliberate. Something neither of you acknowledge, but both of you feel. 

Your body is still pulsing with aftershocks, but your mind is clear. Maybe clearer than it’s been in months.

Her lips are still on yours, the kiss deep, unhurried now, like neither of you wants to break it first. Like neither of you knows what happens when you do. Her hands stay on your shoulders, fingers light, trailing over your skin, and your own hands settle against her back, keeping her close, not yet ready to let go.

She’s still sitting on you, still holding you inside her, her breath shaky against your mouth. She exhales through her nose, her forehead pressing against yours, and for the first time all night, the silence between you is loud.

She’s warm, slick, sticky against you, the sweat between your bodies making it impossible to tell where you end and she begins. The SUV is stifling, the windows fogged, the scent of heat and sex thick in the air, but neither of you moves to break away.

You swallow, your throat dry. Your hands flex on her waist, gripping, grounding. The weight of her is still there, her warmth sinking into you, pressing into places you don’t want to acknowledge. Then, because you always do, you ask—“Was it good?”

Her eyes flick up to meet yours, heavy-lidded, unreadable, and for a second, she doesn’t answer. Then she exhales a laugh, something soft, shaking her head slightly.

“You always ask,” she murmurs, and it should be dismissive, the way it usually is, the way she usually just brushes past it. But this time, she lingers. Her fingers skate up, push damp strands of hair from your forehead, her thumb brushing lightly over your temple before pulling away, but not completely. Her other hand stays against your chest, her palm flat, feeling your heartbeat, like she’s holding onto the moment itself.

“Yeah,” she finally says. Then, quieter, more real: “Yeah. It was.”

It shouldn’t feel different. But it does.

Her body shifts slightly, and you can still feel her around you, still tight, still there, and you realize you don’t want to move. Not yet. Maybe not at all. Your hands slide down to her waist, grounding yourself, feeling the warmth of her, memorizing the way she feels against you.

For the past six months, it’s always been like this—hooking up, fucking, leaving before it could turn into anything else. Before either of you could say something real.

But now she’s still here, looking at you like she sees something she hasn’t let herself before. Like maybe she doesn’t want to leave either.

And for the first time, you don’t want to let her.

--

The air outside is cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat that still lingers on your body. The trunk of the SUV is open, airing out the lingering humidity from what just happened inside. You both sit on the edge of it, the makeshift bed in the back still rumpled behind you. Yujin has her legs folded beneath her, knees drawn close, wrapped in your zip-up hoodie—the one you’d left in the car weeks ago, the one she threw on without asking after cleaning up.

Your drink sits between you, condensation dripping down the sides, untouched. A crumpled napkin rests beside it, damp from where she’d pressed it against her palm earlier, like she needed something to do with her hands.

Yujin stirs her drink absentmindedly, straw scraping against the plastic lid, over and over, rhythmic, almost like she’s trying to drown out the weight between you.

This is part of the routine. Sometimes it’s ice cream, sometimes it’s boba, but there’s always a buffer spot—a place to sit, to let the heat cool off, to pretend the ending isn’t creeping up on you. But tonight, it feels different. The usual buffer doesn’t seem to be working. The silence isn’t settling—it’s stretching, pressing between you.

She hasn’t said much since you parked outside your favorite boba place. Neither have you. The neon glow of the shop sign flickers against the pavement, catching the light off the curve of your drink. The hum of passing cars, the occasional murmur of voices from inside, the faint bass from a stereo down the street—it all fills the space between you, but none of it breaks the weight of the silence.

The sun is setting now, washing the street in soft gold, the sky burning orange and violet. You both just sit there, watching cars fly by, the city moving around you like it always does, like it always has. A streetlight buzzes to life beside you, casting a dim glow over her skin. Somewhere in the sky, a lone star flickers through the haze, barely visible, like something trying to push through.

You glance at her, expecting something—some offhanded, teasing remark to ease the tension, a snide little smirk, maybe even a cocky joke about how you always get attached. Something easy.

But then she stops stirring.

She exhales, slow, deliberate, like she already knew she was going to say this before she even got in the car today. Her fingers tighten around her cup, just slightly. Like she already knows the answer but still needs to hear it. She looks at you, and then—

"Do you want to get back together?"

Your stomach pulls tight.

You blink, caught off guard, the words settling heavy between you. She’s never asked before. Never even come close. And yet, it doesn’t feel like a question she just thought of. It feels like something that’s been sitting in her chest, waiting for the right moment to spill out. It’s the way she says it—serious, expectant, none of the usual bravado or games, none of the usual ways she brushes past real things before they can land.

You sit with it, six months pressed into your chest, thick as breath. Picking her up. Folding down the SUV seats. Fucking her like it meant nothing. Pretending it meant nothing. But you always ended up here—parked outside some late-night spot, coming down from it all, sitting next to each other like nothing had changed. Except it has. You can feel it.

She watches you, unreadable, but you take in the details—the way her hair is still tied up, loose strands slipping free near her temples, sticking slightly to her skin. The glow of the streetlights catches on her glasses, masking her eyes for half a second before they flicker, searching yours. Her lips, the ones she had redone after you cleaned up, press together like she’s holding back more words.

You think about how you’re supposed to answer.

You always waited. Let her text first. Let her reach out first.

But she’s looking at you now, waiting, expecting.

And this time?

You don’t wait.

You know the answer.

AN: Anotha one. Hope you guys enjoy. I got a fun one comin soon, just finishing it up ;)

I always appreciate kind words n feedback.

[othernightslikethis]

THE WHITE EMPEROR

Cap 1 here

Ningning x Male Reader x Winter (aespa)

3k words

There were two things your very core despised more than the colour green—which, for some reason, you had always loathed above all else—boredom and loneliness. And yet, it was precisely these two afflictions that now imposed themselves upon your existence with inexorable voracity.

Flat on your bed, staring at the ceiling like a shipwrecked man drained of strength, you lay prisoner to your own inertia. Your leg bounced incessantly—sometimes in aimless frenzy, sometimes in a more measured rhythm—as if that minuscule movement could somehow ease the crushing monotony consuming you. Sleep, ever elusive, refused to grace you with its veil of rest, even as lethargy spread through your limbs like a slow-acting poison.

The irony lay in the fact that this idleness did not stem from a lack of purpose but rather from a cruel, exasperating wait. Only a single day remained before you flew to London, yet each second stretching between you and that coveted moment felt like an eternity. Time, relentless and mocking, dragged itself forward with deliberate slowness, seemingly revelling in your torment.

Fate, a capricious creature of surprises, had a peculiarly fortunate misfortune in store for you. To your unexpected delight, an event of considerable excitement presented itself. The shrill ring of the doorbell—once a source of irritation and exasperation—echoed through the house with vigour, its sound travelling through the rooms until it reached the upper floor. Curiously, the very noise that had tormented you for an entire year now brought inexplicable relief, as though it heralded something of utmost significance.

With a drawn-out sigh, void of enthusiasm, you emerged from your sluggish haze, abandoning the bed with no particular haste. Your limbs, weighed down by idleness, moved with reluctance as you rose, utterly indifferent to the idea of dressing with greater propriety. Composure gave way to urgency as you descended the stairs, each step creaking beneath your indolent tread.

The night air, cold and slightly damp, slipped through the cracks of the windows, pricking at your bare skin. Yet, such discomfort barely registered, for your mind—still shrouded in the fog of unrested sleep—was wholly fixated on the source of the interruption.

At last, reaching the door, your hand hesitated on the handle. A moment of uncertainty lingered between you and whatever lay beyond. But with one final resigned breath, you turned the latch and opened the door.The silence blanketing the space was abruptly shattered by a lively, resonant voice from the doorway.

— How long do you plan on standing there lookin’ like a dead fish, bro?

Before you, dressed in casual attire, stood none other than Vinícius José Paixão de Oliveira Júnior—or, as he was more commonly known, Vini Jr. His eyes, alight with an energy impossible to contain, flitted upwards to where the unmistakable figures of Rodrygo Goes, Jude Bellingham, Kylian Mbappé, and Eduardo Camavinga loomed. Last, but by no means least, stood Antonio Rüdiger, adorned with a hat so utterly bizarre that its eccentricity was rivalled only by the effortless ease with which he wore it.

— We’ve come to drag you out for a bit. A farewell party—what d’you reckon? — Vini announced, a mischievous grin playing at his lips.

Time granted you all of two seconds to process the situation before the entire group, like a relentless tidal wave, breached the sanctity of your home without the slightest hesitation. Caught in the sudden invasion of your peace, your only response was to shut the door behind them, a quiet chuckle escaping your lips. Shaking your head in amused resignation, the hint of a smile still lingered on your face.

— I really do love these guys.

Strobe lights flashed at a frantic pace, reflecting in the eyes of those who stared at them, while deafening music pulsed from every corner of the room. And yet, far from being a nuisance, that chaotic symphony had a hypnotic allure—something that, strangely, you found enjoyable.

The table where you and your friends were gathered boasted a medley of drinks, each glass holding a different concoction, and the air buzzed with an ephemeral sense of celebration—a welcome distraction from the impending departure awaiting you at dawn.

Vini, ever the exuberant one, leaned towards you, giving your shoulder a light tap to steal your attention. His expression bore an almost childlike anticipation, certain that he’d draw the words from you that, deep down, you knew had to be spoken.

— So then? You and that girl you’ve been into… What’s the deal? — he asked, his voice laced with genuine curiosity.

You sighed deeply before bringing the glass to your lips, allowing the whisky to burn its way down your throat with a mix of sting and comforting warmth. The faint touch of honey attempted to temper the alcohol’s harshness—but to little avail.

— Feels like I’m talking to a ghost. — you murmured, setting the glass down with a dull clink. — She barely bothers to reply to my messages. One moment, she treats me with absolute indifference, and the next, she throws me a few scraps of attention. It’s like she sees me as a bloody pet—gives me a momentary treat, and there I am, wagging my tail and begging for scraps of affection.

The weight of frustration crashed down upon you so heavily that your head fell against the table with a dull thud—a quiet, resigned groan slipping from your lips amidst the indistinct murmur of the room

Rüdiger, in an almost paternal gesture, placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, while Rodrygo, his expression sombre, crossed his arms and took a slow sip of his drink before stating, with cutting pragmatism:

— And you’re just gonna stay like this?

His tone held no condescension—just a blunt, matter-of-fact certainty. Vini, nodding vehemently, reinforced the sentiment: — If she treats you like that, maybe it’s time to move on, mate. There’s no shortage of hotties in the world

— Leave him alone — Mbappé said as he settled beside you, sliding a drink in your direction. — He needs time for himself.

Just then, Mbappé and Camavinga arrived with the next round of drinks. The older Frenchman led the way, while the younger trailed just behind, tilting his head inquisitively.

Eduardo, however, remained standing, arms crossed over his chest, his expression scrutinising as he asked:

— What’s this all about?

Rüdiger, with a knowing smirk, tossed out a teasing reply:

— Our dear little Japanese friend is suffering over love.

— I’m Korean! — you snapped, irritation flaring as you scowled.A chorus of laughter erupted around you, a mix of exasperation and begrudging amusement washing over you.

— "Same thing!" someone called out between chuckles.

— My man, have you actually told her how you feel?

The silence that followed answered for you. Your hesitant glance and slight shake of the head were enough for Mbappé to exhale thoughtfully, drumming his fingers against the rim of his glass.

— Hmmm… Then maybe you should. — He raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip. — She’s not a mind reader, man. She won’t know how you feel unless you tell her.

He let the words settle before setting down his drink with finality.

— But for now, forget about all that. Go dance. Leave the overthinking for later. Tonight’s your send-off—make the most of it! We’ll see you in a year!

The last sentence was repeated in unison by the group, followed by an enthusiastic toast. The clinking of glasses echoed in the air—a fleeting moment of celebration before the night continued.

---

Winter felt restless, to say the least. Anxiety coursed through her veins like an insidious poison, undermining her usual tranquillity. She had sent him a message three hours ago, and the silence that followed had become an unbearable weight on her chest. It was an unusual absence, unsettling, almost unnatural. She was used to receiving his response instantly, as if his very existence lingered on the edge of hers, always ready to dispel any shadow of uncertainty. What had once seemed charming now felt deeply disquieting.

Why hadn’t he answered? What was keeping him? Was it merely a distraction, or was something more serious standing between them? Under normal circumstances, she might have convinced herself that he was sleeping, wrapped in the languor of slumber. But no, Winter knew—with the unshakable certainty of one who observes a sacred ritual—that he never slept without receiving her goodnight. It had become an unbreakable tradition, a habit deeply rooted in their routine.

Restlessness settled in like a weed, choking her thoughts. With every passing minute, her mind wove increasingly disturbing scenarios, as if the absence of a single response could herald impending disaster. Almost involuntarily, her fingers hovered over the screen, hesitant, torn between reason and the impulse to send another message.

Letting out an audible huff, Kim Minjeong was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t even notice Yu Jimin—Karina—settling beside her with quiet serenity. The leader, observing the vacant, distant expression on the younger girl’s face, reached out gently, resting her fingers on her shoulder in an attempt to pull her back to reality. But there was no response. Persistent, Karina insisted, giving her a light shake several times until Minjeong finally emerged from her daze. She blinked a few times, visibly confused, before lifting her gaze to the other girl.

— What? What happened? — she asked, her voice slightly hoarse, as if she had gone a long time without uttering a single word.

— Nothing in particular… It’s just that you haven’t said a word for nearly two hours.

As she spoke, she raised a hand and, with careful precision, placed her fingers against Minjeong’s forehead, subtly assessing her temperature. Her expression remained unchanged, but there was a trace of concern in her voice.

— I was worried.

Winter shook her head, forcing herself to push aside the thoughts that had insidiously invaded her mind. At last, she abandoned the brooding that kept her bound to that figure whose affection for her was so glaringly obvious. Who, after all, could ignore such evidence? And yet, she had never managed to discern whether, deep down, she could ever truly return it.

She had never been granted the boldness to do so, leaving her only with hesitation and the gnawing guilt of keeping him tethered to her so mercilessly. Sometimes, she saw herself as a jailer of emotions, depriving him of the freedom to seek love elsewhere, though never out of deliberate cruelty. Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps it was the selfishness that pulsed within her in secret.

But for some unfathomable reason, merely imagining the possibility of him falling for someone else made her stomach churn, as if a venom coursed through her veins, robbing her of breath. The mere thought of his eyes—once fixed solely on her—turning towards another, of his smiles, his gestures, his very essence ceasing to belong to her, was an intolerable affront, an unbearable misfortune.

He was meant to be hers—from his first breath to his very last.

Two pairs of footsteps echoed through the room, accompanied by the sound of suitcases being dragged along the floor. Suppressed giggles dissipated into the air.

— She’s thinking about her prince charming! — Aeri teased, a sly grin on her lips.

Karina, slightly furrowing her brows, turned to her friend, arching an eyebrow in evident confusion.

— What are you on about? — she asked, doubt clouding her gaze.

— She’s talking about [Y/N.] — Ning chimed in, exhaling a sigh laden with exasperation before throwing herself onto the opposite sofa, arms crossed over her chest. — I don’t get what she sees in him. A rude, ill-mannered man with… Urgh! The most insufferable arrogance. I hate that man!

Her tone dripped with resentment, and the irritation that coloured her expression made her disdain painfully obvious.

— Oh, him. What’s her problem? Did they have a row or something? — Giselle, saying nothing, merely shook her head in response. — So?

The young woman, visibly exasperated, let out a sharp huff before finally voicing her grievance:

— That bastard! Not only did he spill orange juice all over me, but he didn’t even bother apologising! And to make matters worse, he had the audacity to say that if I was going to be a whiny baby, I should just wear nappies! The nerve of him!

Karina and Giselle exchanged a knowing look, as if trying to gauge how seriously she was taking her outrage, while Winter, unable to hold back, let out a quiet chuckle, covering her mouth in a feeble attempt to disguise her amusement.

---

The journey unfolded without incident, and the presentation in London proceeded in an orderly and formal manner. However, the reception was far below expectations—an inadmissible slight for someone of his stature. After all, it was a loan for a season and a half, but even so, his arrival should have been met with the pomp and reverence befitting his name. What kind of insolence was this? In just a year on the Old Continent, he had amassed more titles than those dull, uninspired nobodies had won in an entire decade. And yet, his arrival was marked by an infuriating coldness.

There was no frenzied crowd, no eager reporters vying for his words, no paparazzi scrambling for the best angles of his figure. No bombastic headlines, no fanfare. Nothing. They treated him like some random nobody, a mere afterthought, and the sheer audacity of it all made his blood boil. How dare they? How could they ignore his greatness? Talent and glory should speak for themselves, yet here, they seemed invisible. The silent disregard gnawed at his pride, fuelling his indignation. He was a blazing star, a force of nature destined to make history. And yet, here he was—cast into obscurity by a bunch of visionless fools.

London had better open its eyes and bow, for soon enough, it would have no choice but to kneel before his grandeur.

Even so, he was compelled to report for training that very same day, with no room for delays or indulgences. With meticulous resignation, he donned his gear, adjusting each piece with an almost mechanical lack of enthusiasm. A club staff member had been tasked with showing him around—a formality he found utterly tedious, devoid of charm or novelty.

The tour dragged on at a sluggish pace, punctuated by dull descriptions and robotic gestures. The staff member, diligent in his duties, detailed every facility with almost solemn seriousness, while he, in turn, absorbed the information with blatant disinterest, as if every word were a distant echo incapable of sparking even a flicker of curiosity

When he was finally given permission to begin training, his steps towards the pitch were slow, lacking vigour or determination. There was an air of laziness about him, a sense of weary indifference in the way he moved, as though every metre covered was an unnecessary burden. As he set eyes on the impeccably manicured pitch—an emerald carpet many would consider a sacred altar to the sport—he felt nothing but sheer boredom. A yawn escaped his lips, an uncontrollable reflection of his apathy, dissipating into the air like an unmistakable signal of his utter indifference.

Then, he felt an unexpected touch on his shoulder.

Upon entering the facility, he was greeted by a man slightly shorter than himself. His features betrayed his Korean heritage—just like his own, the idol of his national team, Heung-min Son. With an affable smile and an air of camaraderie, Son extended his right hand towards him in a gesture of courtesy.

— Welcome aboard, mate!

His face bore a friendly expression. His hand remained suspended in the air for a moment, waiting to be accepted. He considered the gesture briefly, contemplating whether to return the courtesy. But then, a sardonic smile curled his lips, and a low chuckle escaped his throat. He shook his head in refusal and turned his back on Son without hesitation.

— I’m the star here, old man.

As he walked away, Son remained there, his hand still hanging mid-air, his lips slightly parted in perplexity, his eyes widening just a fraction as if trying to decipher the logic behind such a blunt, unexpected reaction. However, after a brief moment of hesitation, he merely shrugged, resigning himself to the lack of explanation and choosing not to dwell on it.

Still, he observed him closely, noticing how he remained slightly apart from the others, detached from the interactions around him, sitting in wait for coach Ange Postecoglou, who would soon be giving instructions for training. There was a subtle melancholy in his posture—or perhaps just an involuntary sense of displacement, a feeling that he was a stranger in a sea of familiar faces.

And then, before he had even noticed the approach, someone sat beside him.It was Richarlison.

— Don’t even think about opening your fuck mouth, you donkey.

His response came swiftly, laced with contempt, cutting off any attempt at conversation before it could begin.

The striker, however, seemed entirely unfazed. He merely raised an eyebrow, as if hostility were nothing new, and shrugged indifferently—suggesting that, from the very start, he had perhaps never intended to say anything at all.

---

Throughout that week of gruelling training sessions, the Tottenham squad clocked onto the half-arsed effort you were putting in. Your shots were limp, completely lacking any proper power, like you couldn’t be arsed to give it some welly. Your movement, meanwhile, was lethargic, not a shred of graft or determination. Slacking off had become your most glaring trait, and the blasé way you treated every drill reeked of silent arrogance — a proper delusion that your spot among the starters was set in stone, no matter how pony your performance. But that bubble burst in the most humiliating way. On the eve of the clash against Brentford, as you scanned the starting XI list, your eyes scoured the names once, twice, three times, hoping to find yours. No such luck. Reality hit like a ton of bricks: your name wasn’t there. Your heart skipped a beat, proper gobsmacked, and like a mug, you checked again, squinting for a typo, a mistake, anything to explain the snub. But nah. No getting around it.

The air rushed out of your lungs in a proper rage. Your fingers tangled in your hair, yanking hard, as you exploded with a torrent of proper meltdown:

— THE ACTUAL WHAT?! — you bellowed, your voice bouncing off the changing room walls, dripping with disbelief and proper cheek. — WHO DOES THAT COACH THINK HE IS?!

The silence cracked with a calm but firm voice behind you:

— Your coach. — Turning, you faced Kulusevski, staring you down like he’d seen this tantrum coming a mile off. — S’only natural a player who can’t be arsed starts on the bench — he carried on, all chilled, almost taking the piss. — If you’re not grafting in training, why’d you expect a spot among the starters?

A mirthless, bitter laugh slipped out, stewing with that toxic mix of indignation and scorn bubbling inside. This twat who’d nicked your spot had the bare-faced cheek to chat like it was nothing, like he hadn’t proper mugged you off just by existing. Who the bloody hell did he think he was?The rage lit you up, proper fuming, moving sharp and narked. On a proper strop, you spun on your heels and charged at him, shoulder-barging him proper. The clash was a proper clatter, catching the lad off guard and slamming him to the deck before he could blink.

— What a fuck liberty, mate.

---

The match kicked off without you getting a sniff of the pitch, and no one needed to tell you how proper gutted you were. The team’s shambolic mess of a performance had zero tactical shape—proper car crash stuff, made even worse by the gaffer’s cluelessness. His decision to leave you rotting on the bench filled you with silent rage. Not even a hint of you coming on, like, he didn’t even glance your way! What’s that bloke’s problem? Instead of firing you up to work harder, it just made you couldn’t-be-arsed in training. A proper spiteful lethargy took hold, this involuntary sod-it-all attitude showing in your half-hearted drills and calculated sulking. Every drill, every shout from the coaches, your mind drifted further, already convinced you’d never get a proper chance under a gaffer who picked the squad like he was drawing names from a hat.

But then, as if fate decided to take the piss out of your sulk, the unexpected happened: when they announced the starting XI for the League Cup semi against mighty Liverpool, your name was in there. The initial shock turned into a mix of disbelief and proper disdain. Was this the gaffer’s desperate Hail Mary? A random whim? Or some weird power move? Didn’t matter. Like it or not, you were starting the biggest game of the season. Now, with the training-ground sulk behind you, it was time to decide: prove your worth proper, or let the apathy win and fade into irrelevance.

Soulmate ❄️

"Im playin' today."

"That's great, I've been kinda busy, but I swear I'll watch the highlights"

"Better do it, gonna play like always 😜"

Pocketing your phone with a smirk, you got your head straight. You pulled on the number eleven shirt—never your favourite. You’d always fancied the number ten, proper iconic, the maestro’s number… or maybe twenty-eight, a nod to the day you first locked eyes with Minjeong, that split-second moment etched in your mind like it’s framed in gold.

Taking a deep breath, you climbed the stadium stairs, boots clattering on concrete. The distant roar of the crowd mixed with the changing-room banter, a proper buzz of anticipation. Your chest tightened with nerves and adrenaline, the weight of the coming battle on that sacred turf. At the tunnel’s edge, you paused, shut your eyes, and let the cold wind slap your face—game on.

It’s gone past the 61st minute of the second half, and you couldn’t be more off the mark. The match had been a proper shambles for you, a right spectacle of frustration and gloom. The bloody ball barely came your way, dodging you like it couldn’t stand the sight of you, and your own teammates—far from linking up with you on the pitch—acted like you were a ghost, useless and aimless, blithely ignoring your existence.

Even when the round thing did finally land at your feet, your noggin couldn’t conjure up a decent move. Your attacks crumbled against the relentless wall Liverpool had thrown up, every defender like a slab of granite. And to top it off, you couldn’t be arsed to track back and help defend, leaving a gaping hole in your lot’s backline. The cost? Brutal: two lightning counterattacks from the opposition, both turned into goals that rubbed salt in the wound. Deep down, you knew—your half-arsed effort had weighed heavy in the collapse. But you weren’t the only one having a mare that night; your whole squad looked knackered, proper lost.

There was this cursed lethargy in the air, a sluggishness that turned your team into a piss-poor parody of itself. Football, in all its glory, demands grit and fire, but your lot just lay down, gutted and hollow.

Not that any of this bothered you much—you’d already made peace with the disaster. At least until your eyes caught that sodding electronic board glowing in the shadows, flashing your number without a shred of mercy.

— What?! — you barked across the pitch, half-laughing in disbelief. — Nah, no fucking way.

You shook your head, raking your hands through your hair, biting your lip till the metallic tang of blood hit your tongue.

— Fuck this.

You finally caved, trudging off the pitch without so much as a nod to anyone, straight down the tunnel to the dressing room.

Two hours after the final whistle, the worldwide web had turned into an absolute circus. Gutted and seething, you nearly launched your phone at the wall, as if that could wipe away the torrent of abuse flooding your mentions. The headlines were merciless, screaming in block letters about a collapse that’d seemed unthinkable. The story was unanimous—no sympathy, no doubts:

Moon [Y/N], the Biggest Disappointment of the Season?

Korean Star in Decline

Moon [Y/N]: Understand How He Went From Olympus To Becoming Football's Biggest Failure In Recent Years

Some Spurs fans were practically calling for his head on a pike while others defended him.

@fanaticalspur876: Moon was clearly lazy, just see for yourself!

@Yuliandremoslc: Someone told [Y/N] he could play football, and he believed it!

@hosterbigwf: We gotta be patient. Moon will get the hang of it and be our star player!

"Blimey, what’s the bloody issue with these blokes? Clearly, I wasn’t the only one to cock things up, to fail miserably at meetin’ the expectations that, God knows why, were piled onto me.

You, clockin’ the situation, shook your head with a mix of resignation and proper disdain, choosin’ to ignore the whole kerfuffle. But how’d you manage it? Bloody hell, how! You distracted yourself, chuckin’ yourself into hedonistic binges. Lost in huntin’ down raves in London—ones that’d make you forget the bloody shambles your life’d become—you decided to stumble into the first dodgy joint that crossed your path.

Gettin’ in wasn’t the hard part; the real struggle was keepin’ your act together. Pissed as a newt, you could barely stand upright. Before you knew it, you were lurin’ toward the dance floor, driven by some primal urge. There, you started grindin’ against some random bird, a total stranger who, despite her delicate appearance, radiated a vibe that didn’t match her frame. She was a good eight inches shorter and slim-built, almost fragile, you thought. But sod it, you were dead wrong! Fragile? Not a chance. Her arse kept rubbin’ against your thigh so insistently that your knob, already at full salute, felt ready to burst.

Her scent was weirdly familiar, like a distant memory, makin’ you wrap your arms round her waist, feelin’ her warm, smooth skin against yours. Your fingers trailed down, explorin’ every curve, till she leaned back with a soft sigh, her head restin’ on your chest.

— Please… Fuck, you’re so hard I’m goin’ proper mental. Let’s find a better spot… — she purred, with a sly grin that screamed both cheek and impatience.

You, playin’ along, let out a low chuckle and leaned in closer. Your lips met her neck, kissin’ it with a mix of tenderness and proper lust. She arched her head back, givin’ you more access, a silent, fiery invitation.

— You’re a bit keen, ain’t ya? Who said I wanna leave? — you shot back, tone dripping with cheeky defiance.Then her hand, quick as a flash, grabbed the bulge in your trousers, makin’ you jolt and yelp:

— Wow! hell! What’s that for?!

— “Can’t stand man who play daft. I’m gaggin’ for it, you are too—let’s skip the faff and just fuck already. — she fired back, no-nonsense, her bluntness borderline brutal.

— My flat’s nearby. Let’s go.

She turned around, and that’s when you got a proper look at one of the most fit birds you’d ever laid eyes on. Her eyes, near hypnotic, seemed to throw your whole world off-kilter.

For a split second, a weird déjà vu gripped your chest, like you’d met somewhere in another life. Both of you frowned and blurted in unison:

— Do I know you?

The synced words froze the moment—a beat of shock—before meltin’ into pissed, careless laughter. Without another word, you both staggered toward your flat, lurchin’ down the street like two sods surrendered to chance and pure, raging horniness."

---

When the two of you stumbled into the flat, you could barely walk without tripping over every bloody thing in your path. Your mouth was locked deep in a snog with the woman whose name you couldn’t even be arsed to ask, but who—with proper skill and heat—dominated your tongue like a proper expert. Her hands, quick and sly, slid under your black shirt, scraping lightly at your ribs, drawing out a muffled groan you could hardly stifle.

Your hands, once resting on her waist, slid down to her firm thighs, gripping them hard before hoisting her onto your lap. She didn’t hesitate, wrapping her legs around you, breaking the kiss just long enough to fix you with a blazing stare.

— Hhhnm, you’re fit — she whispered, breathless, trying to catch her air. — Tomorrow… I’ll… I’ll proper regret this…

She sighed deeply before a proper moan slipped past her lips as your teeth grazed her bare neck. Even as she bit her lip to hold back, she couldn’t stop grinding against you while you sucked and kissed her skin.

— You’re dead sensitive here — you murmured, earning a squeak as she shoved you back toward her neck with her hands.

A laugh slipped out, but you carried on for a bit, finally tossing her onto the bed to take in her full glory. Her lips were swollen from snogging, a slick of spit glistening at the corner of her mouth. Her neck was littered with bruises, and her chest heaved as she fought for breath.

Your hands moved to her earrings, carefully removing them and setting them on the dresser. Then you knelt before her, grabbing the hem of her dress and peeling it off slow, leaving her in nothing but a lacy white lingerie set.

— You’re like a goddess — you gasped, laughing under your breath. Leaning in, you pressed soft kisses to her flat, toned stomach, feeling her shiver and arch toward you. — Christ, you’re hot. Proper hot.

The only reply was a faint, languid moan—nothing like the loud, over-the-top noises you’d expect. Maybe she was too shy to let go, or maybe she was just the quiet type. Either way, it didn’t matter. With proper skill, you undid her bra, freeing her tits, and a smug little laugh escaped you.

— You pissed?

— Proper wankered.

— Just don’t spew on my bed, yeah? I’d owe you one.

She laughed, but it quickly turned into a sharp, ringing moan that filled the room. Your mouth latched onto her nipple, greedy, as her back arched and her body writhed. Your right hand squeezed her other breast, while your left slid down, slow and deliberate, to her soaked knickers.

— You’ve drenched these — you rasped, voice thick.

— That’s your fault — she shot back between gasps. — I’m proper soaked for you. Hurry up and fuck me already!

Her voice, though shaky, had an edge that vaguely reminded you of someone—though you couldn’t place who.

— Patience, babygirl — you replied, half-authoritative, half-seductive. — You’ll get what you want… if you’re a good girl for me, yeah?

She whined and clamped her thighs around your hand. You smirked.

— You like being called ‘babygirl,’ eh? Proper naughty, you!

You sang the words, sliding your hands up her body to her waist. With steady fingers, you tugged her knickers down, letting the fabric glide over her legs. Every inch revealed felt like a victory. You kissed her calves, working your way up to her thighs, where her arousal was already slick. The wetness was mad—had to be because of you, right? You’d stick with that to keep your ego intact.

When you finally tasted her, it was like the universe had cracked open. Even if you weren’t usually fussed about the flavour, hers was addictive. Your finger circled her clit, precise, and she gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth. You stopped.

— What’re you doing? I want to hear you — you ordered softly.

You smacked her thigh three times, leaving red marks. Instead of fighting, she yanked your head back between her legs.

— Then shut it and eat me out already, you sod!

You obeyed, diving in like a man starved. Your tongue worked her over—licking, sucking, worshipping—and her moans drove you wild. She squeezed your head with her thighs, forcing you deeper.

— Yes, you bastard! Eat this pussy! — she cried, writhing. — This what you like, eh? Licking me like a proper obedient pup! That’s it, baby! Don’t stop!

She threw her head back, eyes wide, as you pressed her thighs harder. Not to suffocate—you wanted her to clamp down. She grinned, wicked.

— Christ, you’re fit… I’m gonna… Fuck!

You kept at it, feeling her shake. Her legs trembled until, with a muffled scream, she came hard—body arching, crushing your face into her. Her juices flooded your mouth, and you drank her down like a man possessed. When her legs finally gave out, you pulled back, breathless.

— Fuck… Never had anyone come that hard on my tongue — you muttered, admiration in your tone.

— Fuck, I’d love to suck you off right now, but I reckon I can’t even stay on me feet this second. — She pauses, catching her breath. — fuck me. Now.

You don’t show a hint of hesitation, guiding her firmly onto the bed. Settling between her thighs, you lean toward the nightstand—but she slaps your wrist away sharply.

You don’t show a hint of hesitation, guiding her firmly onto the bed. Settling between her thighs, you lean toward the nightstand—but she slaps your wrist away sharply.

— No condom.

Her tone brooks no argument. You briefly consider protesting, but let’s be honest—what bloke in his right mind would turn down bareback with a bird this fit? Your brain and your cock are in full agreement. Smirking, you line up against her slit but hold back, teasing her by sliding along her folds.

— Please… I’m begging… she whimpers. You almost pity her—almost—before leaning close to her ear and growling:

— Beg harder.

— Please! I need you inside me—every fucking inch. Don’t torture me! I need it so bad… Ruin me, stretch my cunt to fit your shape, fuck!

— Hmm. Good girl.

You murmur—then thrust into her without warning. You don’t wait for her to adjust to your length, nor care if it’s pain or pleasure twisting her face. You set a brutal pace, pounding into her like a piston. Soon, the slap of skin, the creak of the bed, and the thud of the headboard threaten to bring the walls down. Her eyes roll back as she lets out a piercing moan.

— That’s what I want, fuck! Stretch and wreck this cunt! She’s all yours, you bastard! Fuck me!

Her screams climb as you pull out and slam back in. She’s babbling now, words crumbling into gasps and cries.

— M’brain’s turning to fucking muuuuuuush!

Her legs lock around you, heels digging into your arse. Grinning, you drive deeper—if not for the booze, you’d swear you could see the outline of your cock straining her belly. Her nails claw down your back, leaving red welts that sting like hell. You dip your head to suck a nipple, and the overload of sensation wrings a shattered gasp from her.

— Fuck, you’re so tight and wet, shit!

— Love my tight little cunt, don’t ya? — she pants, voice wrecked. — Wanna come inside, yeah?

You lot spent the rest of the night fucking like two rabbits in heat, going at it in every corner of your flat—spots you didn’t even know existed, positions you’d only seen in pornos. Even managed to smash your Tv — proper accidental-like, mind.

---

The woman was now on all fours, her raised arse flushed a bright crimson, marked by at least a good dozen slaps—the bruises nearly purpling by this point—as his cock pounded relentlessly into her cunt, driving with rough urgency. Their moans filled the room, echoing in a symphony of raw pleasure. Her eyes stayed shut tight, while his, sharp and hungry, fixed on the hypnotic slap of her arse cheeks against his shaft. Suddenly, her shoulders buckled, and she collapsed face-down onto the bed, arse lifted even higher, presenting herself wantonly for him to keep ploughing into her.

With a deliberate smirk, you slicked a finger with spit, paused for a beat, then guided it slowly to her backside, pushing it in without haste. She stiffened, a low, throaty groan escaping her.

— Oh, fuck, oh fuck! that’s new… Don’t you fucking stop! Today I’m your filthy whore—go on, spill your cum in this depraved little cunt! — she cried, voice trembling between submission and wild ecstasy.

---

She’d taken the reins, riding him with untameable fire, her hands—gripped by a near-feverish desperation—clutching his waist, steadfast and ravenous. Her body moved in a frantic rhythm, swinging between reckless rises and plunges, peppered with brief, calculated pauses where she’d twist and writhe along his length with a skill that left him gobsmacked. For a blink, his mind wandered, wondering if this bird might’ve been a dancer or summat, ’cause her movements dripped with near-choreographic precision, like a proper pro in the body arts.

His gob, though, was dead set on another job—mouthed at her tits, suckling and lapping with a hunger verging on proper primal. Clocking the sheer intensity of his bliss, she tossed out a remark dripping with cheek and sass:

— Oh, good boy! You’re like a greedy little bairn goin’ at me tits! Don’t fret, baby… Mommy’s got you!

---

— You’re moaning like a bitch in heat! My neighbours heard you. Got no shame, have ya?

The pair of you were drenched, the sound of water crashing down on your bodies in the shower doing sod-all to drown out the squelching, filthy noises you were both making. His hand fisted in her hair, twisting it into a messy plait—a proper half-arsed ponytail that screamed how rushed this all was. The water, pouring in a steady torrent, nearly managed to sober him up, but not enough to clock who she really was—not yet, anyway. Bit by bit, he noticed her legs were trembling, proper on the verge of buckling, so you grabbed her tight, spun her round to face you, and hoisted her up into your arms, settling her onto your lap.

Sharp as a tack, she got the message and shot back with a deep, blazing kiss, like she was trying to violate his mouth with pure, unrestrained passion.

---

Her legs, clasped round your neck with a languid fervour, while the curve of her back, taut as a bow, arched like a hillock bathed in twilight’s glow. The lady, whose voice had melted into husky sighs and broken whispers, had spent her strength on cries that once echoed off the chamber’s vaulted ceiling. You breathe deep, and your movements, once frantic, shift to a solemn, almost liturgical rhythm. She, cracking open her bleary eyes, stares at you with saucer-like pupils reflecting flames of unquenchable yearning.

—Fucking come inside me! Fill my womb, you bastard! Knock me up!

She pleads, voice tremulous as an autumn leaf, while your hips, now swaying to a sluggish tempo, trace slow, concentric circles in the humid ether. That gut-wrenching knot, known to lovers since time immemorial, twists your insides. Your brow grows heavy, cyclonic vertigo storms your mind, and the edenic ache of long-held restraint crests into inevitable release. With one final, desperate plunge, you drive into her like a ship into a tempest, and your spunk, in pulsing spurts, bursts forth.

As the blinding orgasm fades, more sober than pissed, the booze finally hits proper—leaving your eyelids leaden. You’ve just enough awareness left not to collapse atop her and crush her to death, but not nearly enough to stay awake.

---

I swear down, I’ve sat through this whole chapter at least six times 🥹🥹🥹.

Not gonna lie, I’m proper rubbish with all the smut stuff—honestly, this is me first proper crack at it, so go easy on me, yeah?

[othernightslikethis]

Just a reminder, drink water, lads! Ya don’t wanna get a kidney stone, trust me ^^

[othernightslikethis]

White Emperor

Ningning x Male Reader x Winter (aespa)

Not really a couple with three btw, maybe.

It’s normal for frustration to become an unrelenting shadow, dogging your every step, and there’s something exasperating about how others seem to sneer at that reality. Not that it should matter to you—at least, that was the illusion you clung to. Life, up until now, had been kind enough that you never had to worry too much. And perhaps that was the true crux of the problem.

Real Madrid represents the pinnacle of any footballer’s career, an undeniable testament to the greatness that so few ever reach. Even the most inattentive observer recognises this indisputable truth, for it is the greatest club in the world—a monument erected upon history and immortal glory. To feel indifferent to the privilege of donning the white shirt would be an affront to the very nature of the sport

“We’re loaning you out.”

The words from the club official struck like a shard of reality embedding itself in your soul, reverberating with the force of a deafening crash. You had never imagined such a sentence could wound you so deeply, and yet it did—devastatingly so. The truth crashed down upon you like a runaway car slamming into a wall—sudden, inescapable, and catastrophic. No longer useful to Real Madrid. No longer indispensable. Reduced to the status of a disposable piece, an obsolete cog in the machine, a mere remnant of a glory that no longer belonged to you. Disgust coursed through your veins like a biting chill; bile surged up your throat, thick and acrid, and you swallowed it so quickly you barely registered the bitter taste burning your windpipe. Your eyes, vacant and wandering, swept across the room until they landed on the imposing figure of president Florentino Pérez.

— Y-you can’t…? — you stammered, suffocated by desperation. — Surely not! There must something… I’ll work harder… You can’t… I—” The firm weight of a hand on your shoulder cut your plea short. Your eyes blinked, dispelling the mist of tears beginning to form, and when your vision finally cleared, you found yourself staring at the imposing figure of your agent. More than an agent, he was a mentor. More than a mentor, he was your father.

— Where are we going? His voice, deep and unwavering, sought no explanation—only a destination. There were no pointless questions, no futile protests. Only acceptance—not resigned, but tinged with something worse. A certain… disappointment. No, that wasn’t quite right. What resonated in his tone was not mere dissatisfaction. It was disillusionment. And in that moment, you knew—you had failed.

— London — came the emotionless response. — Your destination for the next twelve months is Tottenham Hotspur.

The sentence was passed. The judgment, final. The weight of exile settled upon your shoulders like an unappealable verdict, and all that remained was to press forward, even as each step became a merciless reminder of what you had lost.

Your transfer would be finalised within a week, and the urgency weighed on you like an inescapable burden. You needed to gather your belongings and organise the essential paperwork for the transaction, even though the club had already handled most of the bureaucratic procedures. Time was slipping through your fingers like fine sand, and each passing moment served as a reminder that your departure was imminent. It was on one of those nights, as you returned home, utterly drained by the relentless routine, that a heavy sigh escaped you before you collapsed onto your bed. Just then, your phone buzzed, momentarily cutting through the exhaustion that had taken hold of your body. With your vision blurred by fatigue, you hesitated for a brief moment, debating whether to answer the call or let it fade into oblivion. But that hesitation vanished the instant your eyes landed on the illuminated icon on the screen.

Soulmate❄️

A smile—subtle yet undeniable—curved your lips as you immediately recognised the person behind the notification. Kim Min-jeong, or rather, Winter. A name that evoked vivid memories of an indelible past, shaped by a friendship that had withstood the relentless passage of time. You had grown up together, sharing not only the carefree innocence of childhood but also the turmoil and discoveries of adolescence. Though she was two years older, that difference had never been a barrier between you; if anything, it only strengthened the bond you shared.

As a child, you had been a timid boy, always hesitant, your words stumbling on your tongue before they could be spoken. Winter, however, embraced your fragility without hesitation, becoming both your shield and your voice when yours failed you. You were the shy boy who hid behind her, and she, the fierce storm that pulled you fearlessly into the world.

Yet, as the years passed, as childhood gave way to adolescence and, eventually, adulthood, the feelings you harboured for her began to shift. The fraternal affection transformed into a silent admiration, which in turn grew into a massive crush. And before you could fully grasp what was happening in your own heart, you realised that friendship was no longer enough. You loved her, and you knew it with the certainty of someone recognising an undeniable truth

Perhaps she even knew it too.

But then, Winter chose a path that led her away from you. She embraced the fleeting, dazzling life of an idol, and you, in turn, felt your world waver under the weight of that decision. You understood that each of you had your own ambitions and responsibilities, but that didn’t stop your heart from shattering as you watched her leave. Fate, ever cruel and unyielding, pulled your paths apart. And still, you hid your pain beneath a mask of quiet acceptance.

You never openly confessed the feelings that had taken root in your chest, but neither did you make any real effort to conceal them. Small gestures gave away what your voice never dared to say—like the fact that her contact was saved as "Soulmate" or that your wallpaper was still a photo of the two of you, arms wrapped around each other. Yet she never seemed to notice. And if she did, she never gave any indication of reciprocation.

But perhaps none of that mattered anymore. Life’s twists and turns had led you down separate roads. She had followed the fleeting glow of the spotlight, and you, in pursuit of your own dreams, had left Korea behind—drifting further away from the only person who had ever made your heart waver between hope and heartbreak.

Sliding your finger across the screen, your eyes caught the slightly sloppy text—likely due to the late hour. She must have just woken up or something.

"I heard u gonna switch again."

The message was simple, and yet you grin like an idiot when you see it, your fingers moving before you know it.

"Yeah. Feels like I’m lettin’ everyone down lately."

"Oh. So sad. I'll call ya."

When the phone rang, you already knew it was her. As you answered, her voice sounded familiar, yet tinged with a tone that made you shudder.

— I thought the circumstances were considerably better.

You nearly let out a laugh—dry, laced with a bitterness that would linger within you for weeks on end.

— If only everything in life were that easy. Your voice takes on a sharper edge. — Do you already know where they’re sending me?

— Tottenham. I saw the rumours on social media. Good luck?

That was when, at last, you surrendered to disbelief and burst into laughter—a loud, sarcastic, scornful laugh, as if the whole situation were nothing but a cruel joke, a distorted delusion of reality. Were you truly being forced to abandon the club of your dreams… to join the less decorated side of London?

— You must be joking! Do you have any idea when they last won the English league? Abeoji was still crawling around stark naked, mumbling his first words!

For reasons beyond comprehension, her laughter dissipated some of the fire raging inside you. For a fleeting moment, you almost forgot how delightful that sound was.

— Someone sounds utterly disillusioned. You can always come back home. She singsongs while you raise an eyebrow, though your expression soon darkens.

— No. The deal’s already done, only my signature remains. And stepping foot in that league, oversaturated with mediocre players, would be the equivalent of signing my own downfall.

On the other end of the line, she hesitates, lost in thought. Only after a few moments does she dare break the silence.

— You really think you’re better than the Korean league, yet you can’t even make the Real Madrid bench? Hmmm. Naughty boy.

You shrug, though she can’t see it, and reply with the unshaken calm of someone who harbours no doubt.

— I don’t think I’m better. I know I am.