#<- translation: I’m too lazy to look

[driedupeyeballs]

NEED treyjade fic recs

[emily-mooon]

To make up for the fact that I didn’t do anything for them for Christmas, here’s another fake shoujo magazine chapter cover :]

pose ref ↓

HAHA ITS FROM ITAKISS!!!! Naoki and kotoko are nothing like the blorbs but I thought this pose worked for that scene (it’s apart of a much large page split into two images, but I decided to crop it cause the rest of it doesn’t matter tbh)

[robylovi]

ykw es puente, I deserve Klance as a treat regardless

[yaoi-hate-machine]

i love that i was just repeating “у тебя есть pocari sweat? пожалуйста??” over and over again for two whole minutes scrolling thru this store’s website

[carrion-whispers]

Maybe this has been mentioned before but I’ve never seen anyone talk about how Karlach has something etched into her horn.

[anglbunny]

NUDES

♡. choso unexpectantly sends you nudes, college!au, nudes

Your phone buzzes at exactly 12:47 AM.

Choso: u up?

You smirk.

You: always. why?

Choso: i wanna show u something.. don’t laugh.

You: now i’m definitely laughing

Before you can tease him again, another text comes through.

An image.

You pause.

It’s… his hand. Holding himself. Well, holding himself over his sweats.

No face. No caption. Just him — stretched in a pair of gray sweats, thick and obviously not soft, the outline straining where his hand’s trying to cover it.

And failing.

Because he’s huge. Even when he's covered.

Your jaw drops.

Before you can even react, he sends a message

Choso: fuck. i shouldn’t have.

Choso: sorry if that was weird

Choso: u looked rly good earlier and i couldn’t stop thinking abt it...

Your heart stutters.

That hoodie you wore in lecture today. The one that was a little too off-the-shoulder. He was staring the entire time.

You bite your lip, grinning like a devil.

You: …holy shit, choso

You: you’re seriously holding back on me like that?

Choso: haha

Choso: i thought it’d scare u off ngl

You: scare me off? choso, i’ve been wondering what it looked like for weeks

You: and now that i know? i want more.

There’s a pause.

And then—another pic.

Lower angle. This time without the sweats. His hand’s still there, but it’s not enough. He’s flushed pink at the tip, thick veins running up the side. Big enough that it looks almost unreal in his grip.

Your stomach flips.

Choso: now ur definitely gonna ghost me

You grin.

You: no, baby.

You: i’m gonna ride you.

Seen.

Typing…

Stopped.

Typing again.

Choso: i’m free tmr. just saying.

TL: @samm1e13 @syleepy @werfiedeii @mikemsmm @yanderebluelockfan @cyberheartrebel @arwawawa2 @valexqpt @snowsilver2000 @mitsurisupporter @meikstv @ravenbc @mihyas-dieehefrau

A/N: was too lazy to type this out in the messenger app

ꨄ︎Anglbunny | Do not copy, steal or translate my work and pngs. you'll be blocked.

Masterlist

[jiisoooo]

pls keep kpop lyrics korean so I don’t have to deal with cringy lyrics 😭

[fallenbratfiction]

Devoted - bucky barnes x f!reader

Husband! Bucky Barnes can’t take his eyes or his hands off of you. He has to make the biggest effort around the kids, and honestly, it’s all you’ve ever dreamed of.

A/N: Growing up with parents who you've never seen kissing, hugging, or saying "love you" to each other, yeah, it does something to you. I recommend you listen to like real people do while reading.

warnings: domestic fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, bucky being a dream husband, vulnerable talk, parental PDA and kids being grossed out (but funny), so so so wholesome.

masterlist faq

minors dni with this story or blog. you're responsible for what you do. do not copy, translate or claim this story as your own.

Hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed (and cried) writing this!

You grew up in a house where love was... quiet. If it was there at all, it never spoke. No kisses over coffee. No lingering glances. No hands held on road trips. “I love you” was said with the same flat tone as “dinner’s ready.” It taught you that love was restraint. Conditional. Measured.

No one yelled, but no one kissed. No one fought, but no one held hands. “I love you” was something you overheard in movies — not around the dinner table.

You grew up unsure if your parents loved each other, or just… merely existed beside one another. Tolerated each other. Did they love each other? You still don’t know. Maybe they didn’t, and maybe that’s what scared you the most.

Because it made you wonder if that was all love ever was.

And then you met Bucky Barnes.

And he rewrote everything.

When Bucky Barnes came into your life, it felt like getting hit with sunlight after decades in the dark.

He's unapologetically soft for you. Hands always reaching—brushing your hair back, pulling you close, squeezing your hip as he walks by. Your kids are so over it.

“Do you have to do that now?” your oldest groans as Bucky kisses your cheek in the middle of the grocery store. “Yes,” he answers simply. “Your mom’s hot.” You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm. Every single time.

It’s the little things Bucky does that undo you.

Like when you're driving the kids to school, and he insists on holding your hand — even when you're the one behind the wheel. His fingers slide between yours easily, resting on your thigh, warm and grounding. His thumb draws lazy circles against your skin as you maneuver turns, one hand on the wheel, one hand in his.

“You know this is wildly impractical,” you tease, eyes flicking over to him.

He grins, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, voice low and smug. “Don’t care. I gotta hold my girl.” “Can you not be in love for five minutes?” your son groans.

You and Bucky just laugh. He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles like some old-timey gentleman who also happens to be a menace. And still doesn’t let go.

Bucky, who hugs you from behind while you’re cooking and whispers in your ear like a menace "Skip dinner, let’s order in and make out on the couch."

Your daughter and son groan loudly from the couch, “OH MY GOD.” “I’m gonna pour bleach in my eyes!” Bucky laughs, holding you tighter with his metal arm snug around your waist, “Love you too, buddy.”

He kisses you while you're folding laundry. He dances with you in the kitchen just because the song is good. Tells you he loves you like it’s as natural as breathing — because for him, it is.

And yeah, sometimes he says dumb things like,

"Bucky, why is the car so hot?" He throws you a wink. “Cause you got in it.” A chorus of “Daaaaaad!” erupts from the backseat.

“Oh my god.” Your son gags. “I’m gonna be ill.” Bucky glances at them through the mirror, unfazed. “Good. Builds immunity.”

But under all the dramatics, they smile when they think you’re not looking. They giggle when he slow dances with you in the kitchen, or calls you doll like it’s sacred. They see it. They know it’s real. They know it’s safe.

You didn’t grow up with love like this — but you’re raising them with it. And that matters.

That night, after the kids are asleep and the house is finally quiet, you curl up beside him on the bed, wearing one of his old shirts and nothing else. The air is warm and soft-lit, and you’re sunk so deep into the quiet you almost don’t want to break it.

But you do.

“Can I tell you something kind of dumb?” you murmur.

“Doll, you could talk nonsense for hours and I’d still nod along like it’s gospel.”

You laugh, but it fades. “Sometimes I still wait for it to stop.”

He tilts his head, confused. “Stop?”

You bite your lip. “I grew up thinking love didn't exist or wasn't meant to be shown. That it had to be quiet. Conditional. Measured. So sometimes I still catch myself waiting for the moment it… ends. That you leave. That it all disappears.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment. Then he reaches out and touches your cheek like he’s holding something fragile and precious. Because he is.

“Doll… whoever taught you that love had to be small, they were so wrong. I need to love you like this. Big. Loud. Always. I need to hold your hand while we’re driving and kiss your neck while you're stirring the pasta.” He swallows hard. “I want to love you in a way you never have to question. Ever.”

Tears prick your eyes, and he pulls you into his lap, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, and your mouth.

You kiss him like you’re trying to press every word you haven’t said yet into his mouth. And he lets you—hands on your waist, grounding you, holding you like he’s scared you might vanish if he lets go.

When you finally pull back, just far enough to breathe, he’s looking at you like you hung the stars in the damn sky.

“I think about it a lot,” he says softly, voice rough, “how lucky I got.”

You blink, heart thudding. “Bucky…”

“No, listen.” He brushes your hair back, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “After everything I’ve seen—everything I’ve done—I didn’t think I’d get this. I thought my story ended in blood and silence. And then there you were. Warm, loud, bossy as hell—loving me without flinching.”

You shake your head, tears building. “You don’t have to thank me—”

“I do.” His voice breaks. “I have to thank you every damn day. For seeing me when I couldn’t. For staying when it was hard. For giving me this life. The kids. You. All of it.”

You don’t say anything at first. You just kiss him again, slow and deep, a promise pressed into skin.

And as his hands slide up your back, pulling you impossibly closer, you think— Yeah. You got lucky too.

You pull back eventually, breathless, heart full. And then you rise to your feet.

He looks up, dazed. “Where you goin’, sweetheart?”

You smirk, already halfway to the hallway. “Gotta make sure the door’s locked,” you call over your shoulder. “We don’t want to traumatize them.”

Bucky groans, laughing, throwing himself back against the pillows. “You’re killin’ me.”

“And I’ll bring you back to life, Barnes.” You wink, hovering over him, straddling his waist as his hands slide up, thumbs rubbing slow, hiking closer to the hem of your shirt.

You smirk, leaning over him, ready to take your place on top — but before you can, his hands slide around your waist. In one smooth motion, he flips you over, pinning you gently beneath him.

“Not so fast, doll,” he murmurs, grinning as he settles between your legs. “You always think you’re in charge.”

You arch a brow, breath hitching. “And you love it.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes dark and soft all at once. He leans down, brushing your hair back to kiss your neck — slow and deep, with a bite that makes you shiver.

“Let me take care of you tonight.”

You exhale a laugh, heart skipping. “You always wanna take care of me.”

He smiles against your skin, lips trailing lower, worship in every movement.

“Damn right I do.”

Because loving you isn’t a duty. It’s instinct. It’s devotion.

I am a mix of emotions! 🥹💕😫🤧 I really enjoyed writing husband! Bucky and I will definitely do it again!

I hope you enjoyed reading this, feel free to leave your opinion!

Reblogs, likes and comments are encouraged as they help this story grow! ✨✨✨

[shyoko]

✧ Making his silent girlfriend loud ✦༺⊹

This writing is my own; no copies, adaptations, or translations are allowed. I hope you like it. (English is not my first language.) 

✦ 2.8K words * Masterlist˚ Taglist✧ Requests “Open”₊‧ ✦𓂃 

enhypen x fem!reader ⚠️ cw: nsfw / +18, overstimulation, rough sex, oral (f), impact play, light bondage, dom!vibes, multiple orgasms, crying, degradation + praise, toys, etc. minors dni. read responsibly.

✧ Heeseung ----------

Heeseung had you naked, lying on your back, your body glistening with sweat, your legs spread wide and trembling. You’d already cum. Twice. But he wasn’t planning to stop.

"Shhh, I know, I know..." He whispered as his tongue slowly slid across your clit, once again. "But you said you were enjoying it… so why are you biting your lip now?"

His fingers kept you open, exposed, completely vulnerable, while his tongue moved in slow, precise circles—so exact that your body jolted with every pass.

"Still trying to hold back? Really?" His voice dropped, darker. "I’m wrecking myself just to make you feel everything… and you're still so fucking quiet."

He sucked on your clit harder, making your hips jerk off the mattress. A high, broken moan tore from your lips.

"That." "That’s what I wanted from the beginning."

Then… he intensified everything.

Two fingers slipped inside you, wet, expert. He started thrusting them in rhythm with his tongue, which never slowed, never eased, never gave you a second of rest.

Your body couldn’t take it.

You were panting, moaning loud, eyes brimming with tears, your legs trying to close on instinct.

But Heeseung held you open firmly. "No. None of that. Stay wide for me." "You’re gonna cum all over me, baby. You’re gonna give it to me, even if I leave you shaking for days."

He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head, pressing you down into the mattress as he kept sucking your clit hungrily, his fingers fucking you faster, deeper.

Your moans turned into screams. Your body arched, broke apart—you came hard, a brutal orgasm shaking you to your core… and it didn’t stop there.

Because he didn’t stop.

"Again. I’m not done with you." "You're gonna scream until your voice gives out."

You kept dripping, your body twitching, his mouth chasing every wave of pleasure, giving you more, forcing another orgasm. And another. And another.

Your voice was nothing but his name, repeated between sobs and whimpers. Your skin burned, your legs refused to move, and still, he kept going like it was the first time he touched you.

"That’s it. Fall apart for me, baby." "I want every part of your body to remember my name."

✧ Jay ----------

You were in his lap, completely naked on top of his clothed thigh, his pants still buttoned—fabric pressing rough against your burning skin. His thigh beneath you, solid, flexed, ready.

Jay had one hand on your lower back, guiding you in slow, lazy movements.

"You know what drives me crazy about you?" His deep voice brushed against your ear, warm and dark. "You’re always so quiet. So… contained."

His other hand slid up to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, heavy, commanding.

"You’re grinding on my thigh, naked, dripping wet… and not a single fucking sound has come out of you."

Your hips kept moving, seeking friction. Your lips parted, but no sound dared escape. The heat in your core was rising too fast to handle.

"Look at how much you’re soaking my pants." His tone was teasing, but full of lust. "And you’re still trying to keep it in. What do I have to do to make you give me everything, baby?"

He tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you down harder onto his thigh, making the fabric rub directly against your clit. You trembled.

"You wanna cum like this, pretty girl?"

You nodded desperately, eyes pleading, your nails digging into his shoulders.

But he shook his head, a dark smile spreading on his face.

"Then moan." "Moan for me. Tell me with your voice. I’m not letting you cum until I hear it."

Your entire body trembled. You were burning inside, but still, your throat refused to betray you.

Jay clicked his tongue. "Alright then." "None of this."

He slowly lifted his leg, pulling away the only thing you needed. The moan that left your mouth was raw, involuntary, broken.

"There it is." His smile widened. "So cute when you finally sound like what you are… a desperate little baby for me."

He slammed his leg back down under you, and the sudden contact made you cry out, loud, raw, your body giving in to the overwhelming pleasure.

"That’s it, baby. Now we’re talking." "Fall apart. Soak my thigh. Scream my name if you need to."

Your voice could no longer be contained. Each movement against his thigh tore out moans, whimpers, cries—his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

You came hard, thighs shaking, body arched in ecstasy.

Jay held you tight, murmuring into your ear:

"That’s what I like." "That voice is mine… and I want all of it tonight."

✧ Jake ----------

You were on top of him, riding him slow, his cock buried deep inside you. Your moans were barely audible, just soft breaths every now and then.

Jake’s hands were on your hips, guiding your rhythm gently, his bright gaze locked on yours.

"You okay, baby?" His voice was soft, sincere, brushing over your skin like a caress.

You nodded, biting your lip to hold in the sound that burned inside your throat. And he saw it. He knew.

"Oh… now I get it."

He sat up, your chests pressing together, his mouth brushing your ear.

"You’re trying to stay quiet." His tone shifted—lower, darker, filthy. "Why? Don’t you want me to hear how good I’m making you feel?"

His hand slid down your back, and suddenly—a sharp slap to your ass, firm, loud, precise.

Your body jolted. A soft moan slipped out before you could catch it.

Jake smiled.

"There it is. That sound… so fucking sexy."

He grabbed the back of your neck, pressing your forehead to his.

"Don’t hide it from me, yeah?" "I want every sound. Every moan. Every scream you’ve been swallowing."

His hips started moving under you. Now he was fucking up into you from below, deep, hard, relentless. His cock hit every spot that shattered you from the inside.

"C’mon, pretty girl. Make noise for me. Be good and let go."

Your nails dug into his shoulders. Your breath came in shaky pants. Moans started spilling from your lips, breaking the air.

"That’s it." "That’s what I want. For you to forget all your control."

He held you tighter, fucking up into you faster, until you could barely stay upright on him.

"You know what happens if you don’t moan, right?" "I’ll make you cum so many times, you’ll have no choice but to scream."

And he did.

You came uncontrollably, your voice shattered, body shaking, screaming his name like it was the only thing you knew.

Jake didn’t stop. He wrapped his arms around you, kissed your neck, and whispered:

"You’re my quiet girl… but only until I touch you."

✧ Sunghoon ----------

Your legs were trembling with every thrust, your body slick with sweat against the sheets as Sunghoon buried himself inside you with a precision that bordered on insanity.

The sound of sex filled the room—skin on skin, breathless panting… but your lips stayed closed.

And he noticed.

"Again?" His voice came low, laced with disappointment. "You’re really gonna keep hiding those moans from me?"

You couldn’t answer. You just clung to the sheets, jaw clenched, swallowing every sound threatening to break free.

"No."

He pulled out suddenly, leaving you empty and gasping from the abrupt loss. Before you could process it, his hand came down hard, straight to your clit—sharp, loud, deliberate. The shock was electric, a jolt that made you scream instantly.

"That’s what I want." His voice was dry. Dominant. "That trembling mouth. That body twisting. Don’t ever hide that from me again."

And without giving you time to breathe, he slammed back into you, harder, faster, like he was trying to break the silence with sheer, brutal pleasure.

Every thrust was full of purpose. Contained rage. Wild need.

"Your body begs me with every fucking moan you try to bury." "Don’t you get it? This doesn’t end until you stop thinking and start screaming."

His hips pounded into yours relentlessly, pelvis crashing right against your clit, his hand coming down again—another slap, sharp, filthy, cruel—and this time, the moan that escaped your lips was a desperate cry, shattered and loud.

"That’s it, baby. You’re starting to give in." "Your silence is gone. Now you’re mine with every sound you make."

Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, trying to escape the overwhelming sensation—but he spread them again, gripping them tight, thrusting even deeper.

"Don’t close them. I want to see you break for me."

And you did.

You came with a scream, your name turned into a silent cry, your body arching, trembling, sweating, and crying from sheer pleasure.

Sunghoon looked down at you, panting, eyes blazing.

"That’s what I like." "And if you ever try to stay quiet again… I’ll make you scream so hard you won’t be able to talk the next day."

✧ Sunoo ----------

You were naked on the bed, your back against soft sheets while Sunoo settled between your legs, still fully clothed. His eyes trailed down your body with adoration… and a dangerously sharp hunger.

His fingers traced slow paths along your abdomen, climbing up to your chest, stopping right at your nipples.

"You know what drives me insane about you?"

He brushed them with his fingertips, barely grazing, and still, a shiver rushed down your spine.

"You’re so fucking quiet… but your nipples give it all away." His voice was like sweet poison—gentle, smooth… lethal. "So hard for me. So sensitive. And you’re still pretending you’re in control."

Without warning, his mouth dropped to one nipple, warm tongue circling the exact spot that made your vision blur. He sucked slow and deep, while his other hand pinched the other one—firm, precise.

A stifled moan escaped you, but you still fought to keep it down.

"Still resisting?" He looked up at you from below, his mouth wet with sinful devotion. "You really think you can stay quiet while I ruin you from right here?"

He kept going—licking, sucking, lightly biting, playing with your nipples like they were his personal obsession. Meanwhile, his other hand traveled down between your legs.

One finger slid inside. Then two. Slow, steady. The rhythm was exact. Destructive. Addictive.

"You’re dripping, baby. All of this… just from how I suck your tits."

He bit down gently on one nipple, then harder, just enough to make you moan, your body jolting as his fingers picked up speed.

"There it is." "That voice. That sound that drives me crazy."

He returned to your chest, rougher now, tongue swirling, lips sucking until your skin was red and throbbing. Then he switched to the other side, not giving you a second to breathe.

"You’re gonna cum just from this, aren’t you?"

And you knew it. Your legs trembled, your stomach tightened, your moans came free and wild. Your nipples burned, overstimulated, lit up with every flick of his tongue.

"Scream my name." "Do it while your body breaks for me."

And you did.

You came with a raw cry, back arched, nipples aching, his fingers still buried inside you, his mouth still worshiping your chest.

Sunoo crawled up to kiss you, his tongue just as sweet and deep as the way he broke you, and whispered against your lips:

"My quiet little baby… not so quiet now, huh?"

✧ Jungwon ----------

You were sitting on his desk, the lights in his room off except for the soft glow of his lamp. Your underwear already on the floor, your legs spread apart by his steady hands, and him standing between them, unbuttoning his pants with a desperate calmness.

Jungwon still had his shirt on, open, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His eyes, dark, devoured you without touching you yet.

"Why do you always hold on, mm?"

His voice was a whisper laden with sweet menace as he stroked your thigh with his thumb.

“So pretty, so good...but so quiet.”

He slid the head of his cock across your pussy , gathering the wetness that awaited him. The contact made you let out a low, almost muted moan.

"This is for me, isn't it? All this dripping sweetness..."

He pushed you gently against the wood of the desk, your back arching reflexively.

“No, no, no.”

"Today you're not going to be quiet. Today you're going to scream."

And then, he buried himself in you. All at once. Slow, deep, without pause.

A choked gasp escaped you, but you still clung to the silence.

"Are you going to make me work for every fucking sound of yours?"

He grabbed your neck with gentle pressure, lifting your face to his.

"Perfect. I will."

His hips began to move. Rhythmic. Steady. Precise.

Each lunge went in deeper than the last, her eyes locked on you as your body began to surrender.

"That's it. You're starting to break, can you feel it?"

"Your body can no longer hide what it wants."

He squeezed your waist tighter, picking up the pace. Your mouth opened instinctively, letting out moans you didn't even know you could make.

"Like this. That's how I want you. I want you to let it all out. Every little noise, every gasp, every scream."

Your nails dug into his shoulders. Your legs trembled, your chest rose and fell hard.

"That's it, baby. Give it to me."

"Don't stop. Let go. I want to hear you beg me without words."

Your body exploded without warning. Your orgasm broke you with a choked cry, your name and his mingled in moans as you clung to him as if he was the only thing holding you.

But Jungwon didn't stop.

"See?"

"You're not so quiet when you're being well taken care of."

He pushed harder, deeper, faster. He was fucking you with a rhythm that no longer sought only pleasure-he sought to leave you scarred, toneless, broken with love and desire.

“And we're not done yet, beautiful.”

"I'm going to get every sound out of you that you've hidden since we met...and more."

✧ Ni-ki ----------

Your wrists were tied to the headboard with his belt, the firm leather biting into your skin every time you moved. Ni-ki was kneeling between your legs, still clothed, with that dangerous smile you knew so well.

“We can stay here all day, baby,” he murmured, his voice husky and his tone so low it made your skin bristle.

“This isn't over until you let out every sound you've been hiding.”

He picked up the small vibrator and turned it on. The buzz was like a promise in the air, and when he positioned it directly over your clit, a shuddering gasp escaped your lips.

But it wasn't enough. Not for him.

"That's it?"

He let out a soft laugh, laden with mockery, as his dark gaze bore into yours.

"Come on, baby. I know you can do better. Much better."

And then he lowered his head, and without giving you time to beg, his tongue came down on you with searing intensity.

Two fingers plunged inside you, precise, impatient, at the same pace as his mouth devoured your center with obsession. Every suction, every swirl of her tongue, every lunge of his fingers... everything was designed to break you.

And it did.

He was shaking you. He'd drag you to the edge.

And he wouldn't take his eyes off your face.

“Look at you...” he murmured between licks.

“You're a beautiful mess.”

You pulled at his belt hard, the leather straining tighter against your wrists. Your legs trembled, your voice threatening to come out, and he knew it. He wanted it. He demanded it.

His fingers found that exact spot that made you look white. A long moan escaped your throat before you could stop it.

“You're shaking, wet, moaning...”

“And you still dare to say you're not loud?”

He dropped the vibrator to the mattress carelessly, and brought one hand up to squeeze your cheeks, parting your lips with his fingers, forcing your mouth open.

“You're not going to hide another fucking sound.”

“I want to hear the whole of you.”

And you did.

The moans came out uncontrolled, raw, desperate. Your body arched, your hips sought more, your eyes rolled back as you cum on his fingers and tongue unable to stop yourself.

“Ni-ki... it's too much... Fuck!”

His name came out of you like a dirty prayer, repeated through tears of pleasure.

“You're so fucking beautiful when you can't stop screaming.”

Your voice sounded satisfied, lustful, as if you'd found your drug of choice.

You came hard, your body undone, dripping, still trapped in his fingers as he watched you from below as if worshipping you.

And when at last your muscles stopped trembling, he slowly climbed up, cupped your face with both hands, and left a soft kiss on your forehead, like a sweet punishment after so much destruction.

"You did so well for me, my pretty girl."

✦N/a: Sorry for leaving you for so long!! 😭 I love you all so much, I hope you liked it.

✦Taglist : @lezleeferguson-120 @nuki-riki @ijustwannareadstuff20 @vvenusoncasual @miellette @enhacolor @xxkatsusjinsux @somieverse @ourshin @han-to-my-minho @douqhnxtss

[inkieun]

You Poor Thing - Han Su-Gang x F!Reader

Being a foreign exchange student in a Korean high school isn’t just hard — it feels like a cruel social experiment. I barely keep up with the lessons and I laugh too late, answer wrong, mispronounce things so often I’ve stopped flinching when someone snorts. But none of that compares to Han Su-Gang.

cw : dark!su-gang (if that's possible) , noncon/dubcon, slapping, sexual harassment, hair pulling, gaslighting, bulling, blackmail, pictures taken without permission, breaking & entering, stalking and a bit angst.

word count : 10k (my first 10k fic & it took me a week to finish it)

This was requested.

The classroom door slams shut behind me, and thirty heads swivel like they’re synced, eyes slicing into me like scalpels. Every morning, it’s the same walking into this sterile, chalk-dusted hell with my back straight and jaw tight, pretending I don’t hear the whispers or see the smirks. Pretending I’m not completely drowning.

Being a foreign exchange student in a Korean high school isn’t just hard it feels like a cruel social experiment. I barely keep up with the lessons, get lost in half the conversations, always translating words in my head while everyone else is two steps ahead. I laugh too late, answer wrong, mispronounce things so often I’ve stopped flinching when someone snorts.

But none of that compares to Han Su-Gang.

That smug bastard.

From the day I transferred, he zeroed in on me like he was hunting something. Not with fists or open mockery  that’d be too easy. No. Su-Gang prefers a slower, sharper game. Smirks. Whispers. Brushing past me just a little too close in the hallway. That slow, lazy drawl when he says my name, like he's tasting it, and he knows exactly what it does to me.

“Yah,” his voice purrs behind me now low, teasing. “Why so stiff today?”

I don’t need to look. I can smell him cologne sharp and expensive and feel the heat of his body as he moves closer. His presence wraps around me like static before I even turn.

I don’t turn.

I keep my eyes locked on the blackboard, pretending I understand a single thing scrawled across it. Pretending I don’t feel his breath brush my ear as he leans in, close enough to cross lines no one else dares to.

“You get lost again on the way to class?” he murmurs. “Or just hoping someone would come find you?”

My fingers tighten around my pen until it creaks.

He laughs softly in a mock-innocent. “aigoo, don’t look so tense. I’m just being friendly.”

Friendly. Right.

Han Su-Gang doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

He drops back down into the seat behind me, just like he always does, and taps the back of my chair with his shoe. Light. Deliberate. A signal. A warning. Or maybe just a reminder.

That I’m not invisible here.

Not when I’m Su-Gang’s favorite target.

And the day hasn’t even started yet. 

Throughout class, he keeps playing with my hair.

It starts subtle  a light tug on a loose strand when the teacher isn’t looking, like he’s testing how close he can get before I react. Fingers brushing the ends, slow and deliberate, until I can’t focus on a single word being written on the board. My scalp tingles, nerves stretched thin. I grit my teeth and ignore him. Pretend I don’t feel it. Pretend I’m not about two seconds away from snapping.

He’s behind me, so I can’t see his face  but I feel it. The smirk. The quiet satisfaction in every tiny invasion. No one else seems to notice. Or maybe they do, and they’re just too smart to get involved.

I sit perfectly still, heart pounding under my uniform shirt, jaw locked so tight it aches. If I move, he wins. If I say anything, he gets what he wants. I just need to survive until the bell.

And then, finally, it rings and I’m on my feet before the last echo dies. My bag's already slung over my shoulder, my heart pounding with the relief of escape. I just need to get out of this room and away from his stare, his voice, his everything.

“Oh? Where you going? Running away like a scared little bitch?”

Su-Gang’s voice slices down the hallway just as I turn the corner. Like he didn’t make the last hour unbearable. My pulse kicks up again, thudding in my ears. I keep walking. Fast. I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.

I’m already late for my next class  Mrs. So’s.

A new teacher. Young. Fresh out of university or something. I haven’t even spoken to her yet, and now I’m about to barge in late on her first day seeing me. Perfect. Just perfect.

I reach the door and shove it open, breath still uneven. Everyone inside turns toward me like I’ve interrupted a sermon. I drop my gaze immediately and mumble, “Sorry.” My voice is barely above a whisper. Mrs. So nods politely, says nothing, and gestures for me to take a seat.

I head straight to the back. Far corner. I sit down, still feeling the heat in my face, still trying to calm the rush in my chest. But less than a minute later, the classroom door bursts open like it’s been kicked in.

Su-Gang strolls in.

And he’s not alone. His little entourage files in behind him, laughing like they own the place. One of them bumps into a desk on purpose. Another whistles, obnoxious and loud. It’s a whole show.

Mrs. So straightens up behind her desk. “Excuse me. You’re late. What do you think you’re doing?” Su-Gang doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. He just keeps walking, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose and cocky like nothing in this room not even the teacher matters. His eyes flick lazily across the students until they find me.

And lock. My stomach knots.

“We got a little held up,” he says smoothly, mouth curling into that too-slick smile. “Sorry we missed your big debut, seonsaengnim.”

A few students laugh under their breath. Mrs. So opens her mouth, probably ready to call him out but then she hesitates. Just like the other teachers. Just like everyone else. One look at Su-Gang and suddenly nobody wants to push.

“Take your seat,” she says finally, voice clipped.

He does.

And as he moves past desks, his eyes never leave me. Not for a second. Like I’m some unfinished thought he plans to come back to.

He drops into the seat one row over, diagonal from mine. Close enough to see everything. Close enough that I can feel it again that pressure. Like a spider watching a fly settle into its web. The corner of his mouth twitches, and I can’t tell if he’s smiling or sizing me up.

Probably both. I shift in my chair and glance away, heart pounding so loud it’s hard to hear Mrs. So start the lesson. I feel his gaze crawling along my skin, patient, hungry, like he knows he has all the time in the world.

And worst of all? No one else seems to notice.

About halfway through the lesson, something lands on my desk.

A folded piece of paper.

I don’t need to look to know who it’s from. I feel his eyes on me before I even touch it, like a heat source pressed against my side. I hesitate for a second. Then I unfold it under the desk, keeping it hidden behind my textbook.

"Detention room. After school. You better be there."

Nothing else. No smiley face. No signature. Just instructions, written in a sharp, aggressive scrawl. My throat tightens. I stare at the words. My skin feels clammy. My fingers twitch like they want to tear the note in half, but I don’t. Not while he’s watching.

So I do the only thing I can.

I nod. Just once. Subtle. Barely a movement. And that makes him smile.

The rest of the class passes in a haze. I pretend to listen, nod at the right moments, even force myself to write something down. But I’m not really here. My mind’s racing too fast. I keep thinking about the way he looked at me earlier. Like he was already imagining something I haven’t agreed to. Like he was building a scene in his head, and I didn’t even have a say in it.

When the bell rings, I stand up fast and slip out with the crowd before he can corner me. I don’t look back. I don’t go to the detention room. I don’t even pretend to head that way.

Instead, I make a sharp turn down the back hallway, heart hammering. Past the supply closets. Past the broken lockers no one uses. Toward the back exit with the crooked fire door that barely latches. I push it open. It groans like it hasn’t moved in weeks.

Outside.

I don’t stop. I don’t check my phone. I don’t breathe until I’m three blocks from the school and halfway down a side street that leads to the convenient store. I think I made it. I think I actually got away.

But what I don’t know. What I don’t see is Su-Gang standing at the second-floor window above the back lot. Watching. He saw me slip out. He watched the whole thing. His smile is gone.

Replaced by something flat and cold. His hands rest on the windowsill, fingers tapping slowly. Rhythmically. Like he’s counting seconds or imagining someone’s neck. He stays like that for a long time, even after I’m out of sight.

When one of his friends finally finds him, laughs, asks, “Yo, she stood you up or what?” Su-Gang doesn’t turn around. He just mutters, voice low and terrifyingly calm, “She thinks she’s clever.” Then silence. A long beat.

And then, quietly

“I’ll show her what clever looks like.” 

The next morning, I walk through the front gates like nothing happened. Like I didn’t run. Like I didn’t leave him standing there with a note and a plan and no one to play his little game with.

I keep my back straight. Shoulders loose. Head held just high enough to seem unbothered. My heart’s still thudding a little too fast, but I’ve trained my face into something blank. Unreadable. I even fake a yawn, just for show. If I look scared, I lose. And I can’t lose.

The halls are already crowded. Noise bouncing off the lockers. Shoes squeaking. Teachers barking half-hearted warnings about morning assembly. I focus on the stairs ahead, textbook clutched to my chest like a shield.

I almost believe I’ve pulled it off. That maybe, just maybe, he’ll let it go. Then I feel it.

A hand slams into the back of my head, fingers curling tight into my hair, yanking it back so hard my knees nearly buckle. The scream gets caught in my throat. The hallway tilts as I’m dragged backward, spine arching, the world spinning in a blur of color and confusion. People stop. Some gasp. Some just stare.

But no one moves.

“Think you’re smart?” Su-Gang snarls above me, voice right at my ear, rough and wild and nothing like the lazy, teasing tone he always uses. “You think you can run from me?”

His hand twists deeper into my hair, roots screaming. My scalp burns, eyes watering. My hands shoot up to grab his wrist, but his grip is iron.

He jerks me sideways, pulling me into the middle of the hallway. I stumble after him, dragged like a puppet, books scattering to the floor. Everyone’s frozen, too stunned to even blink.

My shoes skid uselessly on the polished tile.

“Su-Gang, what the hell!” someone calls out  a teacher maybe  but it’s distant, foggy, like it’s coming through water. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t look back. He pulls me past classroom doors, past staring students, past lockers slamming shut.

“Was it funny?” he growls, low and vicious. “Running like that? You think that was clever? You think I wouldn’t see you?”

I can’t even speak. My scalp is on fire, my breath short and sharp. “Let me go,” I manage through clenched teeth, but it comes out weak. Pathetic. And he laughs.

That soft, familiar laugh except now it’s twisted. Unhinged. “I told you to come,” he hisses. “I asked nicely. But you want to act like I’m some joke?”

His grip tightens. My neck jolts back.

A classroom door swings open down the hall. Another teacher steps out, voice raised in alarm, but I don’t catch the words. Su-Gang finally slows, turns slightly, still holding me by the hair. And smiles.

Right at the teacher. Polite. Then says, smooth as ice, “Just having a talk. She doesn’t mind.” The teacher hesitates. Looks at me. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Su-Gang leans in. “You say one word,” he whispers, lips brushing my ear, “and I’ll make sure you really have something to run from next time.” The teacher backs off. Just like that.

He lets go of my hair like he’s finished playing with a toy he’s grown bored of. My knees nearly give out, but I catch myself, heart pounding so hard I can hear it behind my ears.

He doesn't even look at me when he says, “Follow me.” Just two words. But they hit like a blade. I don’t move

Students linger around him, watching with amusement, like they’re waiting to see if I’ll disobey. No one laughs, though. Not now. The air feels wrong. Dense.

He turns his head slightly, just enough for me to see the edge of his smirk. There’s no threat in his voice. There doesn’t have to be. We both know what happens if I say no. So I follow. Up the stairs. Out of sight.

Through the metal door that groans open at the top of the building and closes behind us with a thick, final thud. The rooftop stretches out around us, windless and empty. Concrete walls on all sides. The city below hums, oblivious. The sky is pale, sun bleeding through the clouds, too bright and too cold at once.

His friends are already here. Lounging. Laughing. Scrolling through their phones like this is just another break between classes. And I’m just standing there. Stiff. Out of place. Out of air.

Su-Gang sits on a ledge like he owns the building. He pulls a lighter from his pocket, flicks it on and off, even though there’s nothing to light. Just for the sound. The flash. The rhythm.

He doesn’t look at me for a while. Then he does. His eyes drag over me, slow and invasive. I cross my arms. Big mistake.

He tilts his head and finally says, “Unbutton your shirt.”

I stared at him like he grown two heads. The rooftop drops silent. He stares at me, waiting.

There’s no smirk now. Just that cold patience. Like he’s giving me a test he already knows I’ll fail. “I’m not—” My voice catches. “I’m not doing that.”

His tongue clicks. Then he stands. Slowly. Like he’s tired of repeating himself.

“I said,” he murmurs, “unbutton your shirt.” I take a step back.

One of the others stands too. Just the sound of his shoes scraping the ground makes my spine lock. I glance at the rooftop door behind me. It’s so far.

Su-Gang walks toward me, and I can’t help it  I flinch. His expression twists with delight. Something ugly. “You’re scared again,” he says, voice soft like a lover’s. “I like you best like this.”

He stops right in front of me. Reaches out. His fingers skim the first button of my shirt. I slap his hand away without thinking. Silence. His friends shift. One lets out a low whistle. But no one steps in.

His smile doesn’t fade, but something behind it changes. His eyes narrow. Like he’s finally decided I’m not playing the part he wants. Then his hand moves.

Fast.

A crack slices through the air before I even register what’s happening.

Pain explodes across my cheek. My head snaps to the side. My breath catches. My vision blurs for a second, white-hot and stunned.

The sound of it echoes, not just in my ears but deep inside me, like the world just tilted wrong. I don’t fall, but I stagger, one foot dragging against the rooftop concrete. My hand flies to my face, clutching the sting. My skin throbs under my palm, pulsing where his knuckles landed. Warm. Humiliated. Tears well up immediately.

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to hold them back, jaw trembling with the effort not to break. Not in front of him. He just watches me. Detached. Like he’s studying his own reflection.

His smile returns, slow and sharp, like the sting on my cheek isn’t even real to him. “Maybe now,” he says softly, voice thick with something darker than anger, “you’ll listen when I tell you to do something.” Then his eyes flickersomething glinting behind them.

Excitement.

“You’ve got a little fight in you today,” he murmurs, stepping closer, gaze dragging over me. “Good. That makes it more fun.”I can’t breathe.

This isn’t just teasing anymore. This is a game I never agreed to play and I already know how it ends. Badly for me. 

Su-Gang doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks down at me, hand returning to the first button on my shirt. And then He starts to unbutton them. One. Two.

My whole body is stilled, blood screaming in my ears. I feel the cool air touch my skin, inch by inch, and all I can do is stare at the concrete behind him and try not to collapse. He leans in, breath hot on my cheek. “You know,” he murmurs, “if you wanted attention, you could’ve just asked. Acting like you’re so shy, but look at you.”

Three.

His fingers brush the fabric. Slow. Calculated. “Underneath all that pretending,” he says, “I bet you like being watched. I bet you're getting off on this, aren't you?” My hands shake. My nails dig into my palms. I don’t cry. I won’t. But then he reaches the last button. And just as his fingers graze it—

The rooftop door slams open.

“Han Su-Gang!”

The voice cuts through the air like a bullet. He pauses. We both turn.

Mrs. So storms across the rooftop, her heels loud and sharp against the concrete. Her face is pale with fury. Her eyes aren’t wide with fear  they’re narrowed with rage. Su-Gang’s hand drops casually from my shirt.

I clutch the fabric, step back, hunch in on myself like I can disappear. Mrs. So stops just a few feet from us. The wind is louder now. Or maybe it’s just the blood rushing through my head. “What the hell are you doing?” she demands, voice rising. “What do you think this is?”

Su-Gang just smiles. That empty, shark-eyed smile. “Teacher,” he says smoothly. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“You had her cornered. You had your hands on her shirt—”

He shrugs, all fake innocence. “She came up here on her own. Ask her.” His friends shift awkwardly behind him, but no one speaks.

Mrs. So doesn’t buy a second of it. “You think you can get away with everything because you’re rich and no one’s ever held you accountable?”

Su-Gang’s smile slips slightly. “You’re not special,” she spits. “You’re just a coward who picks on people weaker than you.”

The rooftop is dead silent. I stare at her…this stranger who just walked into hell without hesitation. I feel my knees buckle. She sees it.

“Come here,” she says to me, gentle now. “Come stand behind me.”

I do. I move like a ghost and stand behind her like she’s a wall between me and something feral. Su-Gang’s voice comes low, mocking. “Getting involved, huh? Bad idea.”

She doesn’t flinch. “You want to hit me?” she says, eyes locked with his. “Go ahead. You think I’m scared of someone like you?” His hand clenches once. Then he turns away. But something in his smile before he walks off—too slow, too deliberate—tells me this isn’t over.

Not even close. 

I don’t remember getting back inside. One second, I’m on the rooftop with Su-Gang’s breath still hot in my ear. The next, I’m sitting on a chair in an empty classroom, the door closed, the windows dim with late-afternoon light.

My face still stings. Every heartbeat pulses in the bruise spreading under my skin. Mrs. So sits in the chair across from me, hands folded tightly in her lap. She’s silent for a long time. Watching me. Not like she’s waiting for me to speak like she’s trying to decide if she should.

I keep my eyes on the floor. The tile is cracked near the edge of my shoe. I focus on that. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” she finally asks, voice low, careful. I shake my head. I want to. I need to. But the words stay trapped in my throat. Like if I say them out loud, it’ll make everything real again.

She doesn’t push. “I saw enough,” she says. “You don’t have to explain it to me.” I blink hard. My throat burns. She exhales, rubbing her thumb against her palm like she’s working something out.

“That boy… Han Su-Gang,” she says. “He’s not just acting out. He’s dangerous.”

That word. Dangerous. No one’s said it before. Not out loud.  She looks at me then. Really looks. Her eyes are softer now. But there’s steel under them. “Has he done this before?” she asks. “Or something worse?”

I nod. Barely. She swallows. Her expression tightens. “I need to report this,” she says. “He can’t keep doing this to you. Or anyone.” Panic spikes in my chest. “No.” The word slips out before I can stop it. My voice sounds too loud in the still room. “Please don’t.”

She frowns. “Why?”

I can’t explain it. Not properly. Not the looks in the hallways. The silence of the other teachers. The way Su-Gang moves through the school like he’s already untouchable. Like the building bends around him. She sees my hesitation and her voice softens again. “I’m not asking you to stand in front of everyone,” she says. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’ll handle it. I’ll keep your name out of it.”

I want to believe her. But I can still feel the ghost of his fingers at my throat. Still hear the way he said my name like it was already his. “He’ll come after me again,” I whisper. She doesn’t lie to me. She just says, “Then he’ll have to go through me first.”

I try to get through the rest of the day like it didn’t happen. Like he didn’t drag me by the hair throughout the hallway. Like I didn’t see something dead behind his eyes when I said no.

Su-Gang doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the day. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even breathe in my direction. And somehow, that’s worse. The silence isn’t peace. It’s a setup.

I skip lunch again. My stomach’s empty, but my nerves are too twisted to eat. I spend the break in the art room alone, pretending to look at student drawings while my brain replays every second on that rooftop in perfect detail.

I don’t go straight home after school. I take the long way  side roads and alleys, avoiding the main streets, just in case. By the time I duck into the convenience store, the sun’s already sinking. The fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead. The warm, artificial air hits me like a blanket.

Normal. Safe. Or close enough. I grab a ramen cup and a drink. Something to pretend I’m okay. Something to keep my hands busy.

I sit by the window in the front corner and peel back the lid. Steam curls up. I wrap my hands around the cup and try to breathe. Outside, the street looks dull, quiet. Almost peaceful.

Until the glass fogs. Not from the ramen. But from A breath.

I was transfixed, unable to move.

A slow, deliberate smiley face forms on the glass right in front of me. Drawn with a fingertip. Then a second line. A heart. And behind the smiley face, Su-Gang’s reflection appears.

Smiling, his tongue slid out slowly, tracing his lips like he was savoring a taste no one else knew. His smile that didn’t reach his eyes that only made your skin crawl.

He exhales again. The glass fogs deeper. The heart glows faint in the low light. He’s not even trying to hide that it’s him. The bell above the door jingles. He steps inside. But he’s not alone. Two of his friends follow, laughing at something he said before the door even shut.  He doesn’t grab snacks. Doesn’t say hi to the clerk. He walks straight back and drops into the chair across from mine like we’re meeting for coffee.

“You always run here after school?” he asks. “I was curious.”

I look down fast, pretending I couldn’t hear him. Pretending I can make him disappear by not reacting. 

He looks at me like he’s trying to decide what he wants to do with me. Then, without a word, he grabs my wrist. “Come here,” he says, voice low and too casual. I try to pull back, but he’s already moving. In one motion pulls me into his lap.  

I gasp. 

He wraps one arm around my waist, the other resting across my thigh, holding me there like I belong to him. My hands go stiff, hovering in the air, unsure whether to fight or freeze.

“Relax,” he says, brushing his cheek against mine. “I missed you.”

He presses a kiss to my cheek. Lingering. Like he’s daring me to scream. “You’re soft,” he murmurs near my ear. “I could get used to this.” I want to throw up. I want to disappear. I finally jerk, trying to stand.

His grip tightens.

He chuckles softly. “Don’t be like that. I came here to talk.”

“Let me go,” I whisper. “No,” he says, simply. “Not until you answer a question.” He shifts, letting me face him in his lap, his hands locked on my hips. His eyes narrow slightly. “What did you tell Mrs. So?” My stomach drops. “I—nothing,” I say.

He tilts his head, mouth curling slightly. “You sure?” he asks. “Because if I find out you’ve been running your mouth…” His smile vanishes. “…I’ll make sure you regret it.”

His hand slides slowly up my back, resting between my shoulder blades, just enough to make my whole body go rigid. “You wouldn’t want me to get upset,” he says. “Not when we’re just starting to get along.”

“I didn’t say anything,” I repeat, this time louder, trying to keep my voice steady.

He studies my face like he’s trying to peel it open.

Then, slowly, he smiles again. “Good girl.”

The bell rings.

Another customer walks in. Su-Gang finally loosens his grip, easing me off his lap like he’s letting me go because he chooses to, not because I asked. He stands, straightens his shirt, and leans down to whisper in my ear one last time.

“You’re lucky I like you. Anyone else would’ve already been dead.” Then he walks out. Leaving me there. Shaking. Humiliated. Half of my ramen spilled on the table. I sit there, chest heaving, hands trembling, the taste of his breath still on my skin.

And I know—This is possession.

And he’s just getting started. 

It takes me seven days to say something. Not because I’m unsure, or confused, or trying to convince myself it wasn’t as bad as it felt—it was���but because I already know how these things go. I know the shape of silence. I know the sound of disbelief.

Still, on the seventh day, I stay behind after class. I wait until the room empties out, until Mrs. So is gathering her papers and glancing at the clock like she has somewhere else to be. I tell her everything.

Slowly, carefully, like walking barefoot through glass. The rooftop. The convenience store. The way he touched me. The way he looked at me. The way he follows me, like a shadow with a mouth and hands. She listens. Her expression hardens, just a flicker, like a spark trying to catch flame. She says it’s wrong.

That it’s serious. That she’ll go to the principal and take it from here. That I’ve done the right thing.

The next morning I get called to the office. It’s too bright in there, sterile and quiet in a way that feels rehearsed. The principal doesn’t meet my eyes. He speaks in that calm, measured tone that sounds like it was written for a press release. Han Su-Gang is a respected student. His family supports the school. There’s no evidence of misconduct. I should be careful, he says. Careful with words, careful with accusations. I sit there, hands locked in my lap, trying to breathe evenly, trying not to fall apart in front of him. Because I already know what’s happening. It’s not justice.

And when I step out into the hall, he’s there. Su-Gang. Leaning against the opposite wall, phone in hand, like he’s been waiting for the verdict he knew would come. His eyes flick up and land on mine. He smiles. A small, smug thing, like he’s already won. Like he never doubted it.

After that, the story spreads—warped, twisted, gutted of the truth. Apparently I came on to him. Apparently I made it up. That I wanted his attention, then got bitter when I couldn’t handle it. Some girls laugh. Others look through me. No one asks what really happened. Not one. Even the teachers seem to look past me now, like I’ve become something inconvenient. A problem that won't go away. 

And Su-Gang? He doesn’t even bother hiding anymore. He waits for me after school, half a block down, just far enough to say he wasn’t following. He sits outside stores I duck into. He shows up on streets I don’t remember telling anyone I walk down. Sometimes I take random turns, double back, change my route. It doesn’t matter. He’s always nearby. Close enough to see me flinch. Far enough that I can’t scream without sounding crazy.

At night, I stop turning on music. I keep my curtains closed. I check the lock on my window twice, then again. The smallest sound makes my heart race. A knock, a phone buzz, footsteps in the stairwell. I don’t sleep. Not really. I just lie there, listening, waiting for something to happen. Something worse.

I try again. I tell a different teacher. She gives me that look—soft eyes, tight smile—that says she believes me and still won’t do a thing. I go to the school counselor. She asks if maybe I’ve misunderstood, if maybe he’s just struggling to express himself. I try a friend. She pulls away mid-sentence, says her parents know his family, says she doesn’t want to get involved.

And slowly, the air changes. People stop looking at me. Or they only look to see if I’ll break. Every hallway feels longer now. Every classroom colder. And the worst part isn’t the fear—not even the moments when I feel his eyes on me and know I’m not imagining it. 

I was so stressed out that I didn’t even notice my apartment door was open. I came inside, took off my shoes out of habit, then headed straight to the kitchen. I opened the fridge to grab a bottle of water, and when I turned around, Su-Gang was standing right behind me—with that terrifying smile and the deranged look in his eyes. The sight of him hit me like a weight, pressing down on my chest, stealing the air from my lungs.

I don’t scream. I can’t. My voice dies in my throat before it even forms. My fingers go limp and the bottle of water slips from my hand, hitting the floor with a soft thud that sounds too loud in the silence between us. He doesn’t flinch. He just watches me.

I stagger back, my spine hitting the edge of the counter, but I don’t feel it. I’m too focused on him. On the way his pupils look too wide. On the twitch in his jaw. On that smile—too calm, too pleased, like this moment is everything he’s been waiting for.

“Cozy,” he says finally, looking around my apartment like he’s at an open house. His voice is soft, amused. Like this is funny. Like I’m funny. “Smells like you.”

"Did you miss me?" he asks, voice light, almost playful. But there's something in it like broken glass hidden in sugar.

I say nothing. I can’t. My tongue is dry, glued to the roof of my mouth. My limbs won’t listen to me. All I can do is stand there, shaking, stupidly barefoot, defenseless.

“I was going to wait outside,” he goes on, stepping closer, slow and casual, like we’re sharing a joke. “But I got bored. You took too long.”

He’s between me and the door now.

He tilts his head, eyes flicking over me in that slow, devouring way that makes my skin crawl. “I thought we could talk. Just us. No interruptions this time.”

“What do you want?” I finally manage to whisper. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds small. Weak. And I hate that he hears it that way.

His smile grows. “You know what I want.”

He moves again, and instinctively I reach for something—anything—my phone, a knife, I don’t even know. But his hand is suddenly on my wrist, fast and hard, and I cry out without meaning to. He squeezes, just enough to make his point.

“Don’t,” he says quietly. “I’m being nice right now.”

My knees threaten to give. He’s too close. I can smell the familiar, expensive cologne he always wears. I can feel the heat of him, radiating off his body like an open flame. It’s worse up close—worse than anything in the hallway or the rooftop or the store. Because now there’s no one else. No distant teacher. No student who might glance over. No fluorescent lights. Just me and him. 

He steps closer

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he says, tilting his head slightly, like he’s studying a bug under glass. “After everything we’ve been through.”

“I told you to leave me alone,” I whisper, but it comes out too thin. Too fragile.

He laughs softly, shaking his head like I’m the one being ridiculous. “You don’t get it, do you? I didn’t come here to hurt you,” he says, taking another step forward. “I came here because I care.”

His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, like he’s about to touch me again. I flinch before he even makes contact. His smile widens.

"You’re so tense,” he murmurs, his voice dropping, more breath than sound. “It’s kind of cute." My stomach twists.

He’s too close now. The counter's at my back. The doorway's blocked. My apartment feels smaller than it ever has. Like the walls are leaning in, like the lights are dimming even though nothing’s changed.

"Don’t do this," I manage, my voice breaking. "Please."

"Do what?" he says, mock-offended. "I’m not doing anything. I’m just talking to you. Spending time together. Isn’t that what you wanted?"

I shake my head. “No.”

His expression darkens just slightly. Like the mask slips for a second and something uglier pushes through.

"Then why’d you talk to Mrs. So?"

My breath catches.

"You think I wouldn’t find out?"

I don't answer.

“I told you not to say anything,” he whispers, and this time, the calm is gone. His voice has teeth now. “You lied to my face. That’s not smart.”

He leans in until I can feel his breath on my cheek.

“I could hurt you,” he says softly, almost lovingly. “Right now. And no one would stop me. No one would care.”

He says it like a fact. Not a threat. Like he’s just stating the weather. Like he’s tested the world already and knows exactly how far it will bend for him.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

His fingers trail down from my forehead, slow, possessive, knuckles grazing the side of my face like I’m something he’s already unwrapped. His thumb brushes the corner of my lip.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds, almost sadly. “I just want you to stop making me the bad guy.”

He leans in again, lips hovering just beside my ear.

“You don’t tell anyone else about this. About me. Not your little teacher friend. Not your friends—if you still have any.” He chuckles softly.

“I won’t,” I whisper, too fast, too automatic, and I hate the way it sounds. I hate how small it makes me feel. But I say it anyway, because I have to. Because I’m not sure what happens if I don’t.

His breath is hot on my neck. His hand settles just above my hip.

“You’re learning,” he says, and he almost sounds proud. Like I’ve done something right. Like this is praise.

Then his mouth grazes my cheek. Not quite a kiss. Not quite anything. Just heat and skin and intent.

“I could stay,” he says. “We could spend the night together.”

The terror pulses so deep in my chest I think I might be sick. I shake my head before I even realize I’m doing it.

“No?” he says, still smiling. Still soft.

Then, without warning, he grabs my wrist and yanks me down the hallway toward my bedroom. I stumble, trying to resist, but his grip is iron. My mind races—how many times has he been here before? 

When we reach the bedroom, he shoves me onto the bed. The mattress groans under the sudden weight as I scramble backward, pushing myself toward the headboard, trying to put any distance I can between us.

My hands shake. My breathing is shallow. He just stands there, watching me, that same twisted smile never leaving his face. There’s something in his eyes—something cold and frayed—that makes my skin crawl. I want to scream, to fight, to disappear.

But all I can do is stare back, Then he turns to the door. Clicks it shut. And locks it. That sound—the soft, final click—is a bang to my senses. My breath shatters. He leans his back against the door, watching me with all the patience in the world. Like a lion who knows the cage is locked. “You’re trembling,” he says sweetly, voice thick with something tender and terrible. “Is it fear? Or excitement?” I don’t answer. That’s when he moves. Not like a man. Like a predator.

His hand curls around my ankle, delicate and unhurried, as though he’s holding a teacup, not a girl trembling in her own bed. And then—with a cruel sort of grace—he pulls. I gasp, dragged down the mattress like a doll. My back hits the sheets, my legs falling open just enough to make shame twist low in my gut.

He crawls over me slowly, his tie hanging like a leash between us, brushing my chest. Still smiling. Still soft. Still wearing that goddamn blazer like this is a lecture hall and not my bedroom—like he didn’t just take me from the hallway like a prize he’s been waiting to unwrap. “You looked so pretty just now. All wide-eyed.” 

His fingers brush my thigh. Featherlight. A lover’s touch in a nightmare. “No?” he echoes when I shake my head, soft as mist. Tilting his head like a confused child. “Then why didn’t you run?” He leans closer. His breath fans over my throat. “Because deep down, little slut,” His hand traces  around my face tenderly. “you wanted me to.”

A low whimper catches in my throat. He shushes me instantly, kissing the corner of my mouth. “None of that, now,” he whispers, velvet-laced. “No tears, no begging.” His other hand trails down, catching the hem of my shirt. “And now,” he says, voice rising with something honeyed and unhinged, “you’ll give me everything else.” 

He watches me for a moment longer, head tilted, gaze dragging over my body like a match waiting to be struck. Then, without a word, he moves—fast, precise. He flips me onto my stomach before I can react, the sudden shift knocking the breath from my lungs. I try to twist, to push up, but his hand presses gently between my shoulder blades. 

“Shhh,” he breathes, already loosening the tie from around his neck with the kind of slow, deliberate care that makes my pulse scatter. “You’ll like this part.” The fabric is warm from his skin, and it slips around my wrists like a secret. He binds me with practiced ease—neatly, reverently—as if he’s done this in his head a thousand times. Maybe he has. When the knot pulls tight behind my back, a gasp slips from me. 

“There,” he whispers, lips brushing my ear as his fingers stroke my hair. “You look like a present… all wrapped up, just for me.” His voice is low, close, too tender to be sane. He presses a kiss just below my ear—then bites. Sharp enough to make me flinch. His hand slides beneath me, under my stomach, and with one slow, possessive push, he lifts my hips. My body responds before I do, knees parting, cheek pressed into the sheets. 

I hate how natural it feels. I hate how warm his palm is as he settles me in place like I’m a thing to be arranged. “Look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as he sits back on his heels behind me. “Perfect little shape. Up like you want to be taken.” I squeeze my eyes shut, but it only makes his words sharper. “Such a good girl, staying still,” he croons. “Back arched, thighs soft, hands tied and trembling. You don’t even know how beautiful you are like this.” There’s a pause. Then a small click. My heart skips. 

“Mmm,” he hums, pleased, as he lifts his phone and takes the photo. “Don’t worry, baby… just for me. Something to look at when I miss you.” He drags two fingers up my inner thigh, achingly slow. “When I’m alone and hungry and need to remember who belongs to me.” His breath ghosts down my spine. “My little present. My quiet, messy, obedient whore.” His fingers curl around my hip. “You’re going to stay just like this for me. Pretty. Remembering that this is what you craved.” Another soft kiss behind my ear. Another picture. Another piece of me surrendered. 

His fingers trail down, slow and teasing, barely grazing the backs of my thighs as he settles behind me. Not quite touching—just hovering. Just enough to make my nerves coil tighter with every breath. “So quiet,” he murmurs, as if he’s speaking to the air between us. “But your body’s already telling me everything.” His fingers finally make contact—light, maddening—drawing invisible lines over my skin like he’s sketching me from memory. 

He runs a knuckle just under the curve of my backside, then down, barely brushing the spot that makes my breath catch. “Tense,” he whispers, almost delighted. “Are you scared I’ll like how you taste?” I shake my head, a futile denial buried in the pillow. He laughs softly behind me, the sound honeyed and intimate. “Liar.” Then, without warning, he reaches under the hem of my skirt and slowly—achingly slowly—pushes it up. 

The fabric gathers at my waist, baring me to the cool air and his ravenous gaze. “Look at this,” he breathes, palm smoothing over the swell of my exposed ass. “So warm… so soft.” I try to close my legs, but he stops me with a firm hand and a sickly sweet murmur: “Ah-ah. Don’t ruin the view, sweetheart.” 

Then his fingers find the edge of my underwear and tug it down. Not off. Just far enough. Just enough to humiliate. “I want it in the way,” he says, voice low and molten. “I want you to feel how barely undone you are.” And then—then I feel him lean in. The first touch of his mouth is like silk over fire. Gentle like he’s worshiping rather than devouring.

 A single, slow stroke of his tongue that makes my entire body clench. “Su-Gang,” I gasp, voice trembling, “stop—” But he only hums softly against me, the vibration melting into my skin. “You don’t mean that,” he says, voice muffled, dreamy. “You’re already shaking. Already dripping. You’re mine, baby… and this is how I take care of what’s mine.” His hands slide up to my hips, holding me in place, and then he buries his face between my thighs like I’m something holy.

He eats like he’s savoring a secret, like he has all the time in the world. And I’m trying so hard not to make a sound, trying to stay silent—to resist. But every stroke of his tongue makes it harder. Every soft moan he breathes into me makes it worse. “Still pretending you don’t want it?” he murmurs, licking slow and deep, voice soaked in affection and filth. “Go ahead, baby. Lie to me with your mouth. Your body’s already told the truth.” 

He doesn’t rush. His mouth lingers like he’s sipping from something delicate, something rare—tongue sliding in lazy, tender patterns that have nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with ownership. “Mmm,” he hums again, breath hot and sticky against me.

 “You taste like berries.” His tongue flicks, slow and deliberate, then retreats just enough to let the cool air kiss my skin. I squirm, breath shallow, legs trembling. He chuckles, warm and terrifying. “Sensitive,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of my thigh. “Are you always this easy to fall apart? Or is it just me?” My fingers clench behind my back, wrists straining against the tie. 

I want to move, want to bury my face deeper into the pillow and hide. But he doesn’t let up. Doesn’t give me room to run. “You keep trying to deny it,” he says, brushing his lips just above where I need him. “But I think you like it when I play with you. When I talk to you like you’re already mine.” His voice lowers into a dreamy lilt. 

 He presses a kiss to the spot just above my entrance, maddeningly soft. “And this?” Another kiss, lower now, warmer. “This is mine now.” Then he dips his tongue in again—shallow, teasing—just enough to make my hips jolt. He groans like he’s the one being ruined. “God, you're so sweet,” he whispers. “I could stay here all night, baby. Just like this. Tied up. Spread out.” He grins against me, licks again, slower. 

“Bet you’re so confused right now, huh? Poor thing… shaking like you don’t love it, arching like you do.” His thumb brushes the base of my spine, gentle, reassuring, like we’re sharing something soft instead of something sick. “Don’t worry,” he coos. “I’m not mad at you for pretending. I think it’s cute.” Another kiss. A playful nip. “But I see through you, sweetheart. I always do.” He pulls back just enough to blow warm air against me, making my legs quake. “And when I’m done? You’ll never be able to lie to me again.” 

The moment it hits me, I can’t stop it. It shatters through my body like silk torn from the inside out—sudden, deep, humiliating in how good it feels. I choke on a gasp, back arching, toes curling, hands still bound and helpless behind me. And he just moans into me, like my climax is something he can taste, something he’s earned. 

My legs twitch, my breath stutters, and I want to close them, to pull away from the pressure of his mouth, but he doesn’t let me. He keeps licking—soft, languid strokes that make me flinch with every pass. “There she is,” he whispers, kissing between my thighs like I’ve just told him a secret. “So pretty when you break.” I whimper, the sound muffled by the sheets, but he only smiles, sitting back slowly, lazily. He gazes down at me like I’m artwork he’s just finished painting—half-naked, trembling, used.

 “God, look at you,” he breathes. “I should take another picture.” His tone is teasing now, light and slow, high off my reaction. His hands don’t leave me—one stays curved over the swell of my ass, the other trails down, fingertips gliding between my thighs again, drawing lazy circles that make my hips twitch. “Sensitive?” he murmurs, mock-concerned. “You can’t be done already, baby. Not when I’ve barely started.” He leans over me, chest pressing against my back, lips brushing my ear again. “You feel that? How soft you are now? How open?” A soft laugh. “You gave me that. And now I get to enjoy it.” 

His hand slips lower, fingers teasing where I’m still slick, still pulsing. “Don’t worry,” he croons, “I won’t make you come again. Not yet.” He kisses the shell of my ear, then whispers with syrup-thick sweetness, “I just like the way you flinch when I touch you. Like your body knows who it belongs to.” Then he shifts behind me, breath hitching with a new note of pleasure. I don’t have to look to know—he’s rubbing himself.

 I can hear it in the way his breath slows. I can feel it in the way his hand moves against me—not hard, not fast—just enough to keep me open, helpless, and aware. “This is my favorite part,” he sighs, voice rougher now. “When you’ve already come, and you’re too tired to lie. When I can just watch you… and imagine all the other ways I’m going to keep you like this.” He groans softly behind me. “You’re going to let me, aren’t you?” A kiss to my shoulder. Another warm touch between my legs. “You won’t say no. Not when you already said yes with your whole body.” 

And now, here I am — tied, trembling, still slick from his mouth and raw from my own climax, waiting like prey that wanted to be hunted.

I hear it behind me: the soft slide of a belt, the slow zip of a fly, the crinkle of tension easing from his spine. A sharp, wet sound follows — spit, thick and obscene, catching in his palm before a slow, rhythmic stroke begins. I don’t have to look. I feel it in the air. He’s getting ready to take me.

A slow inhale behind me. A reverent exhale.

Then, Su-Gang speaks.

“You know…” His voice is silk dipped in poison, calm and unbothered. “You really shouldn’t look this pretty when you’re trying not to cry.”

His words make my toes curl.

He leans forward, pressing the weight of his cock to my entrance — not pushing in yet. Just settling there. Heavy.

“I could paint a picture of you like this,” he whispers. “Tied up. Split open. Waiting for me like a gift you already know belongs to me.” A slow thrust of his hips — not enough to enter, just enough to make me feel the slick drag along my folds. His cock nudges, teases.

“Beg,” he says, softly. “Or don’t. Either way, I’m going to take what I want.”

And then — with a single, deep push — he slides inside.

My mouth opens in a silent cry. It’s too much, too slow, too perfect. The stretch is hot and aching, every inch making me feel smaller beneath him.

He stills once he’s buried to the hilt.

“Feel that?” he breathes, mouth grazing my ear. “That stretch… that ache…” A slow pull out. A cruelly gentle thrust back in. “That’s mine.”

One of his hands cups the base of my spine, a barely-there pressure to keep me still — not forceful. Final. The other strokes down my side, fingers trailing like he’s reading braille in my bones. His voice remains maddeningly calm, like we’re discussing poetry instead of being split open on his cock.

His rhythm is slow but deliberate now — hips grinding in and out with a possessive control. “Don’t give me that little whimper like you don’t want it.”

I can feel him smiling against my skin.

“You think I didn’t see this coming?” he continues, cock dragging slow, deep strokes that make my back arch without meaning to. “You in that tiny skirt. That quiet way you watched me in class. You wanted this — to be ruined like something fragile and sweet. You just needed someone willing to break you the right way.”

He thrusts harder, once. My breath stutters.

“And that’s me, baby.”

His blazer brushes my bare back. The tie digging into my wrist, holding me still as he starts to fuck me in earnest — deep, smooth strokes, like he’s carving his name into my body with every pass.

“Listen to yourself,” he whispers, biting gently at my shoulder. “That sound in your throat? That’s not fear. That’s submission.”

His thrusts slow again, cruel and controlled. His fingers brush between my thighs, finding the slickness he left behind with his mouth.

“You’re soaked. Dripping like your body knows who it belongs to.”

He rolls his hips in a long, punishing grind. My knees shake.

“Bet you thought you could hide it,” he breathes, voice low and smooth. “But I see everything. Every twitch. Every gasp. Every time you push back just enough to make me think you don’t need this.”

Another thrust — hard. Deep.

“You do.”

He leans forward again, breath warm against my cheek.

“You’re mine now,” he says, a final whisper before he sets a new rhythm. “And after this, you’ll never be able to pretend otherwise.”

His fingers slip between my thighs again—slick, slow, precise—and I choke on a sob. The tension coils tight in my belly, unbearable. He circles that spot with maddening gentleness as he thrusts harder again, forcing my body to surrender to the rhythm he sets.

“Say it,” he murmurs, biting at my shoulder. “Say who you belong to.”

I shake my head at first—pure instinct—and he laughs, low and cruel. The rhythm falters just long enough to make me whimper at the loss. Then he slams back into me and I scream, gasping, because it’s too much and still not enough.

“Say it.”

My knees buckle. His arm catches my waist and holds me up, tight against his chest. “You,” I gasp. “Yours. I’m—yours.”

His grip tightens. The tie digs in. His thrusts become ragged, brutal, as though the words snapped something in both of us. I cry out again, body shaking, every nerve lit, raw and burning with that final edge.

Then—I shatter.

Clenching around him, shuddering as the orgasm crashes over me, white-hot and consuming. He doesn’t stop. He growls something low and inhuman against my neck and thrusts one last time, deep, buried to the hilt, and goes still with a strangled moan.

His breath is hot and uneven on my shoulder. He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t untie me. Just leans there, breathing me in, cock still throbbing inside as if claiming every last inch.

“You’ll remember this,” he says softly, voice thick with triumph. “Every time you pretend you’re still the good girl.” He presses a kiss to the nape of my neck, almost tender.

“And you’ll know better.”

He stays buried inside me for a long moment, like he owns the silence as much as he owns my body. His chest rises and falls against my back, breath slowing, the weight of him on my back. Then, without a word, he shifts — a deliberate pull of his hips that makes me gasp again as he withdraws, slow and unhurried.

The absence is as much a statement as everything that came before.

I can feel the wet heat between my thighs, dripping down, and I know he sees it too as he stands behind me, fixing his belt with calm, practiced fingers. The quiet click of metal feels obscene in the hush of the room.

“You’re a mess,” he murmurs, amused.

The sound of fabric rustling tells me he’s smoothing his shirt, straightening his blazer. Like none of this shook him. Like he does this all the time. Like he’s already decided this wasn’t a moment — it was a routine.

Then his fingers return to me — to the knot behind my wrists. He undoes it slowly, letting the tie free and it fall away. My arms drop forward, sore and tingling from tension, and I draw a shaky breath.

But before I can move, he’s already guiding me—turning me, tilting my body until I’m on my back, sprawled across the bed like something ruined and displayed.

He leans over me, eyes scanning every inch of my flushed skin, from the marks on my thighs to the dazed, wet look in my eyes. His phone is suddenly in his hand. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “Perfect.”

The click of the phone is soft, almost delicate. He takes one photo. Just one.

“To add to my collection,” he says, smiling.

My breath stutters again. I feel exposed. Under that gaze.

He leans in, phone still in his hand, and catches my face between his fingers — not rough, not cruel, but firm. His thumb strokes my cheek, smearing whatever remnants of tears or sweat are still there, like he’s savoring the aftermath just as much as the act itself. Then he kisses me.

Not rushed. Not hungry. Like I’m his. Slow, and deep, and possessive.

When he finally pulls back, I’m gasping all over again — not from what he did to my body, but from how completely he’s taken over my body.

He smiles down at me, brushing hair away from my face, like he already knows what I’m thinking. “You’re mine,” he murmurs, voice low. “And this? This was just the beginning.”

He straightens, adjusts his cuffs, and starts toward the door—unhurried, composed, as if what he just did to me was nothing more than a casual conversation. At the threshold, he pauses and looks back one last time. His gaze drags over me, bare and breathless in my own bed, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. Like he’s proud of what he’s leaving behind.

Then he turns and disappears into the hallway.

The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I’m alone. The only sound left is my own breathing and the faint, lingering echo of everything he did. Of everything I let him do.

In my own room. My world. And now it doesn’t feel like mine at all.

My bed’s a mess — sheets twisted, pillows half on the floor, the air still thick with sweat and something darker. The scent of him clings to everything. My wrists burn faintly from the tie, my thighs ache with every shift, and my lips are still swollen from the way he kissed me like he owned me. But it’s the silence afterward that feels the cruelest. No soft word. No reassurance. Just… gone.

Like I was a scene to be acted out. A need to be used up. I lie there on the bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling, letting the heat fade from my skin until I’m just cold. Empty. Slowly, I pull the sheets up over me. Just to hide.

I wake to the alarm’s buzz, head pounding.

For a second I forget why I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. Then I shift… and the soreness between my thighs reminds me. My stomach knots. I force myself up, push through the routine like a ghost — shower, brush, dress. But nothing scrubs him off.

I dress more conservatively than usual, as if fabric could protect me now. As if he didn’t already take everything he wanted. I glance around my room, still disheveled, sheets half-stained with sweat and spit and…My phone buzzes.

Unknown Number

Attached image: Me. Last night. Face dazed. Wrists red. Legs parted. On this bed. My bed. My world invaded and taken. 

Below it:

“Can’t wait to do this again.”

I don’t breathe. The panic starts slow a cold pulse in the back of my throat. I check the number. No name. No clue. But I know. I know. Then — another message, like the first wasn’t enough.

Unknown Number:

“If you tell Mrs. So anything… I’ll ruin what little life you have left.”

I drop the phone. My knees go weak and I sink onto the edge of the bed, hands trembling, stomach twisting in knots. The image still burns behind my eyes — not just the photo, but the memory. The sound of his voice. The way he’d said “mine”.

And now… I can't even scream. Because he made sure I wouldn’t.

School feels different now. Like every hallway is longer, every wall closer, every door hiding something I can’t unsee. I walk with my head down, hands cold, shoulders stiff with the weight of pretending nothing happened. But I feel it with every step. The ache in my thighs. The raw burn around my wrists. The phantom pressure of him still inside me.

I can’t forget.

I move through the morning on autopilot, nodding when I’m spoken to, laughing at things I don’t hear. No one notices. No one ever does. But behind my eyes, everything’s trembling. And beneath my clothes, I’m still wearing last night like a bruise.

I see the back of him first — blazer perfect, hair neat, the same tie he used to bind me now looped neatly around his collar like it doesn’t remember. He’s surrounded by a few guys. Joking. Relaxed. Like he didn’t tear me open the night before and leave me in my own bed like a discarded thing. 

I slip into the classroom early and sink into my seat. My hands won’t stop shaking. I stare at the blackboard. I pretend I’m just tired.

Mr.Kim claps his hands once. “Partner project time! Random draw, no trading, so don’t ask.”

The names come fast. A blur.

Then—my name.

“...and Su-Gang,” he says cheerfully. “You two will work together on the bonding unit. Chemistry of connection. Perfect, right?”

There’s light laughter. It cuts through me like a knife. I feel him before I see him—again. The shift in the air. The scrape of a chair pulled beside mine. The warmth of his presence before he even sits. He doesn’t speak right away. Just lets the silence stretch until I almost convince myself I imagined it.

Then he leans in, breath brushing my ear.

“Told you this was just the beginning.”

I don’t blink. I don’t turn. I just stare at my notebook, empty and waiting, while my pulse pounds in my ears.

I nod when Mr.Kim asks if we’re clear on the assignment. I write the due date like it matters. He’s close enough that his knee brushes mine—close enough to remind me I didn’t dream any of it. He’s in my school. In my class. Now assigned to me like some sick joke.

And I realize, right then, with cold clarity: I can’t get rid of him.

He’s not some ghost that will fade. He’s a presence now. Permanent. Invited into my world. My space, my silence, my life—all slowly coiling around him like a noose. After class, I don’t speak. I don’t look at him. I just walk. One foot in front of the other, trying not to run. I turn my phone off. I don’t want to see what else he’s sent.

When I get home, I lock my door and sit on the bed, still unmade from last night. The sheets are crumpled, the pillows still on the floor, the air still holding the memory of his breath, his hands, his voice whispering mine. The room feels smaller now.

I stare at the floor for a long time.

I just sit there, listening to the silence, and realize it doesn’t feel like safety anymore.

It feels like nothing.

And inside me, something hollow grows deeper.

fin

© 2025 mymelllllinda

[l13]

cw: nsfw 18+, MDNI, fever sex, f!reader, lazy writing, not proofread

DEAN is half-lidded, can barely keep his eyes open. You're starting to get worried so you press your palm down against his chest to move away from him, but he grabs your waist, pulling you back down on his cock. “No, no, no, don't stop, don't y'dare stop,”

You whine, “But Dean- you're burning up.” and he really was. You could tell by touching his pecs, the skin too warm under your fingertips, and you could also tell by his pulsing cock inside of you. The hot sensation spreading through your cunt, the warmth traveling up to your belly.

Dean hisses, “It's this pussy- h my God- so warm baby, could stay inside you forever-”

He pushes you skin tight against him with a hand on the small of your back, his arms then circling around your frame as he holds you close, his breath fanning against your lips as he moans lowly

Holding his cheek in your palm, your eyes dance across his face as his head tilts back, eyes rolling from the feeling of your cold hand against him.

“Just like that honey, fuck yourself onto me c'mon. Want y'to cum all over me.” he was mumbling, his words barely coherent, yet his hips never stopped snapping up against you, chasing your hot cunt.

“Jesus, Dean-” you whimper against his lips as you roll your hips in circles, making sure he stays snug inside you, your clit rubbing against his pubic bone making your thighs shake “m gonna cum” you cry out, and he groans, giving you open mouth kisses, his thoughts too fuzzy to even kiss you properly.

Your walls clamp down on him, and he moans, “Yess, yeah that's it- fuck- squeezin' me so damn tight sweetheart-” his cock now gliding easier in and out of your puffy pussy with the help of your wetness

Despite the aftershocks, your body twitching, and your thighs begging you to take a break, you keep going. Now, sloppily fucking yourself down on his warm cock, as you egg him on, “Come on baby, cum for me. I want it s'bad,”

His cheeks are flushed, mouth hanging open n' eyes crossed as he stares into nothing, “Yes yes yes, oh please- please make me cum- i'll do anything just please-”

His voice cracks as he begs you, his hands grabbing onto your thighs, nails digging into your skin as he follows the movements of your hips, feeling the coil in his belly slowly unfold.

You place your hands behind you on his thighs, leaning back as you keep your relentless pace and he groans pathetically, sitting up to moan against your tits as he cums, snapping his hips up against you roughly to make sure he’s as deep as he can go, feeling his cum and your slick messing up the inside of his thick thighs.

You’re panting hard as you slow down, thighs still twitching every now and then as you run your fingers through his hair, murmuring praises against his temple, lips warming up quickly since he was still burning up.

“You okay? you ask, and he nods against your shoulder, moaning huskily when he gives another slow roll up against you, “Dean let's go have a look at you, I’m getting worried baby-”

“Wait.” he snaps his half lidded eyes up to yours, a tear running down his cheek as he grins lazily, “Wanna go again. Please?”

2024 © l13 | Do not steal, copy, edit, translate or re-post any of my works.

[lazysoulwriter]

hands on. - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: soft smut, boob obsession, mild dirty talk, possessiveness, established relationship, spicy fluff.

---

It started subtly, like everything with Pedro. Soft hands lingering on your chest while cuddling. His head nuzzled between your breasts when you lay on the couch together. You thought it was just comfort, at first. Familiarity.

But no. It was intentional. It was very, very intentional.

“Again?” you giggled one night when he crawled into bed and immediately pulled your shirt down just enough to kiss the tops of your breasts.

He grinned, lazy and boyish, hand sliding underneath to cup you fully. “Missed them,” he mumbled against your skin, voice already thick with sleep. “Missed you too, but them? They’re so soft. Can’t help myself.”

And he couldn’t. At home, he had zero self-control. Every time you walked past, he'd grope. Hug you from behind with a dramatic sigh just to sneak in a squeeze. Sometimes he didn’t even look up from whatever he was doing — just reached out instinctively and tugged you onto his lap, burying his face against your chest like he was charging his soul.

You rolled your eyes every time. But you also never pushed him away.

“Pedro,” you warned once, when his fingers slipped under the hem of your crop top in the kitchen. “I’m literally making dinner.”

“You’re stirring soup. Your hands are busy. Mine aren’t.” You gave him a look. He smiled, shameless. “Multitasking.”

And when he was really in a mood?

He'd just ask for them. Bold as hell.

“Can I see them?”

You blinked. “Right now?” “It’s been hours.” “It’s been two.” “Exactly.”

You gave in. He always made it worth it.

Like tonight — after a long day, both of you in bed, your oversized shirt practically falling off your shoulder. He was already shirtless, already looking at you like he was starving.

“C’mere,” he murmured, reaching for you.

You climbed into his lap, straddling his thighs, his hands finding your hips first, then sliding up, under your shirt, no hesitation. He cupped your breasts like they belonged to him, thumbs grazing over your nipples until they peaked, even through the cotton.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he muttered. “They’re my favorite. I think about them all the time.”

You laughed breathlessly, grinding against him just a little, enough to hear the catch in his voice.

“You’re obsessed.”

“Damn right.” He leaned in and kissed between them, then up to your collarbone, your jaw, your lips. “I’m allowed. They’re mine.”

“Mmm,” you hummed against his mouth. “Then touch them like they are.”

He did. Slow at first — reverent. Then firmer. Rougher. Your shirt pushed up, his lips finding your nipple as he sucked gently, groaning when your hips rocked again.

“Pedro—”

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Just lemme love on you.”

So you let him.

You always did.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512

[syrecjh]

── .✦🌼Not All of It Was the Quirk

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

(Sec req in which the reader is hit with a love quirk and it makes her really lovey dovey towards their friend katsuki)

You and Katsuki Bakugo have always been close.

Not the loud, attention-drawing kind of close — but the quiet, steady, always-there kind. You were the storm’s eye to his thundercloud. A strange, magnetic balance of fury and stillness. He barked; you blinked. He scowled; you shrugged. You spoke in glances, breathed in silences.

It worked.

And it was safe.

He knew how to read your pauses.

You knew how to translate the gritted vowels between his teeth.

You’d been this way since the early days of U.A. Kirishima used to joke that you and Bakugo shared a language no one else understood — that if anyone were to finally humanize Bakugo, it would be you. You just rolled your eyes at that. Bakugo rolled his eyes harder. But neither of you denied it.

So maybe that’s why this hurts so good.

Because the mission was supposed to be routine. Just a clean sweep, a villain with minor psychic disruptions. Easy. Until the bastard smirked and released a shimmer — pink, weightless, almost beautiful.

The quirk was called Emberglow.

“Emotion amplifier,” they said later. “Temporarily intensifies any hidden or repressed feeling. Especially love.”

You barely remember being hit. One second you were chasing the target, heart pounding from adrenaline. The next, your knees buckled — not from pain, but because you turned your head and saw him.

Katsuki.

Your best friend.

Katsuki, with the ash-blond hair and the sun-burnt temper. Katsuki, who peeled your oranges but grumbled the whole time. Who memorized your coffee order and barked at you to hydrate. Who stood outside your door during storms, pretending he “just happened to be passing by.”

The same Katsuki who now looked at you, brow furrowed, and asked, “You good?”

You blinked.

And your brain? Went stupid.

It hits harder back at HQ. The BakuSquad is gathered in the common room, sharing snacks, debriefing, joking. You’re still in hero gear, flushed and dazed, smile lazy and lovesick.

And then you're beside him. Way too close. Practically climbing into his lap.

“Hey, Bakugou,” you purr.

The room freezes.

Your voice doesn’t even sound like yours — it’s dipped in honey, dreamlike, a shade too slow. Your hand grazes his bicep. “Have I ever told you how pretty your hands are?”

Bakugo tenses. “The fuck?”

“No, like—seriously,” you coo, fingers tracing him like you’ve known his skin forever. “You have the most kissable knuckles. Rough. Strong. Hero hands.”

You giggle. Loudly.

Mina gasps like she’s watching a live drama. Kaminari’s jaw is on the floor. Kirishima has stopped breathing entirely.

And Bakugo? He’s gone stiff as a statue. “What the hell’s wrong with her?”

You tilt your head, grin sly. “Nothing, Katsu. I’m just finally saying what I’ve always thought.”

You never call him Katsu. Ever.

That alone nearly kills him.

“Katsu,” you sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder, “you’re so hot. It’s honestly distracting. I don’t know how I haven’t jumped you before.”

“Jump—?!” he chokes. “You’re not actin’ like yourself, dumbass.”

But you’re not done.

You reach up and twirl a strand of his hair between your fingers. “You always smell good. Like… explosions and cinnamon. I like it. I like you.”

He yanks his head back like you just threatened his life. “Okay, seriously. What the fuck kinda quirk was that!?”

“Love amplifier,” Sero mutters, half-laughing, half-afraid. “Guess it brings out all the hidden feelings. Looks like someone’s been hiding a lot.”

Bakugo stares at you like you’ve just kicked him in the heart.

Because this isn’t a crush. This isn’t flirt-for-fun. This is confession dressed in candyfloss.

You shift even closer. Hands now smoothing down his forearm like it belongs to you. “Have I told you how good your ass looks in those pants?”

He jerks back so fast it’s a miracle the couch doesn’t explode.

“I—okay—someone do something before I let her kiss me back!”

And that’s what undoes him.

Because he wants to.

God help him, he wants to.

Not because of the quirk.

But because every word dripping from your sugar-sweet lips sounds too real.

He’s been biting back this hunger for years. Watching your eyes crinkle when you laugh. Knowing your silence better than anyone knows your voice. Feeling something warm curl in his chest every time you pick sleep out of your lashes and smile like he’s the first thing you see.

So now? With you slumped beside him, warm and love-drunk, babbling truths you’ve locked away — he can’t even breathe.

“I’m just being honest,” you whisper again, voice soft now, like it’s meant only for him. “I really like you. I always have.”

He exhales sharply. Like it hurts.

And then, gently, like holding fire in his hands, he shifts you off of him.

Not far.

Just enough.

“Not like this,” he mutters, brushing your hair back, heart pounding. “You’re not gonna remember this right. You’re not in control.”

You frown. “But I meant it.”

“I know,” he says, eyes fierce. “That’s why I’m waiting.”

—

The quirk fades by nightfall.

You wake with a headache and a mouth full of regret, blanket tucked around you, a glass of water at your side. Bakugo is gone. But on the table, you find a note in his unmistakable scrawl:

> “You said some dumbass things today.”

> “Not all of it was dumb.”

> “Call me tomorrow.”

And just below that:

> “For the record…

> …you smell like peaches and ink. I like it too.”

[avis-writeshq]

Hi! Can I request track one? :)

Spencer Reid being so shy to ask Fem! Reader out so Morgan flirts with them to push him to do it?:(

pairing: early seasons!spencer reid x bau!fem!reader genre: friends to lovers warnings: not proof read :( a/n: thank you for requesting lovely <3 wc: 700

Spencer isn’t entirely sure why he’s so upset. He’s got his lips drawn to a pout and his eyes are set on the computer in front of him. He chalks it up to the fact that his contact lenses have been drying out. That must be it.

“Stare any harder and you’ll break the screen.”

You’re giggling at his unhappiness, but he doesn’t feel an ounce of annoyance. In moments you’re placing a steaming cup of tea onto his desk with a tiny pitcher of milk, before swiping a few of his files off his pile. 

“You don’t–”

“Hush, Spencer. You probably have filled more overtime hours in the past week than I have in the last four years. Let me take these off of you, okay?” You smile at him before leaning down to murmur into his ear, “They’re probably Morgan’s anyway, so don’t worry about it.”

Spencer flushes, his cheeks warming to a pretty pink at your closeness and he can smell your vanilla perfume. Every thought in his brain vanishes and he’s pretty sure that he won’t be able to think for the next hour or so. His mouth opens and closes like a broken hinge and you walk away to sit at your own desk. 

“When’s the wedding?” Derek asks through a snicker, reaching a hand out and ruffling Spencer’s already unkempt hair. 

“Wh– stop,” Spencer manages weakly, pushing his bangs out of the way and huffing. “Keep your voice down.”

“Didn’t you say that you wanted to ask her to see that Russian film festival or something?” Derek asks, unrelenting. He gestures to the two tickets poking out of one of Spencer’s book. “You already bought them?”

“I won them,” he corrects, scowling. “Stop laughing!”

“Dude, you have to ask her out,” Derek tries again. “Kid, I’m serious. A girl like that isn’t going to wait around forever.”

Spencer’s annoyance is quick to dissipate into flusteredness, and he avoids his friend’s gaze. “She shouldn’t have to.”

“Come on, don’t beat yourself up. Just go talk to her.”

His efforts are in vain as Spencer huffs again and turns back to his paperwork. Morgan shrugs, flexing his arms. It’s far too early to be dealing with Spencer’s shyness and pining. Morgan watches as he sneaks yet another look in your direction, and it takes a lot in him to not throw the two of you together. Emily keeps reminding him to be patient. Penelope keeps informing him that ‘they’ll get together in their own time’. Hotch would spare him a stern look. 

They’re not in the room, though.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

Morgan’s call out is enough for you to raise your head and for Spencer’s face to morph into look of genuine betrayal. He’s frantically moving his hand across his neck as a very obvious sign to cut it out. Morgan pays him no mind.

“What’s up?” You ask brightly, finishing your sentence before turning to look at him. “Did you need something?”

“You’re looking particularly gorgeous today, you know that?” Derek wears a lazy smirk as he looks at you up and down, and you only manage to laugh.

“Ha ha.” You roll your eyes, glancing briefly at Spencer who could have been mistaken for a cherry. “What are you playing at, Morgan?”

The man claps his hands together, rubbing his palms. “Are you free tomorrow night? I’ve got a bottle of wine that has our names on it.”

Spencer looks aghast. He recalls the information on the tickets he had won, and– tomorrow night. That’s when the film festival is happening. 

“She doesn’t drink,” Spencer butts in before you can respond, snatching the tickets from the inside of his book and getting up from his seat to make his way over to you. “I was um– I’ve got these tickets for a film festival tomorrow. It’s in Russian, but I can whisper the translations to you so you understand. You don’t– you don’t have to go. I know it might not be your thing–”

“I’d love to go, Spence.” You smile at him, plucking one of the tickets from his hands. “A whole evening with you? Who wouldn’t enjoy that? Sorry, Derek.”

Derek raises his hands in surrender, and when you aren’t looking, shoots Spencer a thumbs up. Penelope would be proud. 

reblogs are always appreciated !

events page

[anglbunny]

NOT UNTIL YOU SAY IT

smut mdni, shy!reader, power play, he won't give in until you say what you want

He’s hovering over you, all muscle and heat and maddening patience.

You’re on your back, half-naked, body arching every time his fingertips so much as graze your skin.

But that’s all he does. Ghosting touches. The faintest brush of knuckles along your inner thigh. A palm on your stomach, pressing you down when your hips jerk up, chasing friction.

And still—he hasn’t touched you where you want it.

“Such a pretty mess,” he murmurs, dragging his nose along your neck, voice laced with amusement. “Look at you. Squirming. Whining. But still not saying it.”

You gasp when his fingers skim just above your waistband. Then retreat. Again.

“Please,” you whisper, throat dry.

He hums. “Please what?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Embarrassed. So damn turned on it hurts. But still too proud. Too shy to give him the words he’s dying to hear.

“I can’t,” you mumble.

He tsks.

“Oh, sweetheart…” he leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice silk and smoke. “I know exactly what you want. I can feel it, smell it—fuck, I could taste it if you let me.”

His teeth graze your earlobe. “But I’m not doing shit until you say it.”

You whimper, thighs trembling. He’s still stroking your skin — lazy, unhurried — like he has all the time in the world to drag this out. Like he enjoys it more when you’re shaking.

“Just say it,” he murmurs, dipping lower, lips ghosting your hip bone. “Say what you want. Say what this pretty pussy needs.”

You cover your face with both hands. It’s too much.

“Baby,” he warns, voice suddenly harder, “Use your words.”

“I want—” your voice breaks. Heat floods your face. “I want your mouth.”

He stills.

“Where?”

You shake your head, but he doesn’t move.

“Where?” he repeats, cruelly soft.

You bite your lip so hard it hurts. And finally—you break.

“I want your mouth on my pussy. Please.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—chaos.

His mouth crashes between your thighs like he’s starved, tongue hot and wicked, fingers digging into your hips like punishment and reward. And when you moan? When your legs try to close around his head?

He only grips harder.

“That’s my girl,” he growls into your cunt. “See what happens when you ask nicely?”

You don’t remember what you say after that. You just remember coming harder than you ever have — and his smirk when he looks up, lips wet, eyes burning.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

TL: @samm1e13 @demiitria @syleepy @chaoslibra @bontenxo @pinkymangacaps @riinniies @samthesimp1 @sapphireluv @s4turnx1 @nevvynev @cookiesandcreammy @rinniebinniebay @ravenbc @kamelika @luvsymai @werfiedeii @mikemsmm @silverwings920 @cyberheartrebel @arwawawa2 @yanderebluelockfan @valexqpt @bigclownshoes @rinniewinnie787 @satorella @mitsurisupporter @meikstv @mihyas-dieehefrau @ravenbc @shezuannn @greekyoghurtwithberries @laslowchan

A/n: my sleep schedule is so fucked

ꨄ︎Anglbunny | Do not copy, steal or translate my work and pngs. you'll be blocked.

[Masterlist]

[satellite-evans]

Monaco, baby!

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: In all the noise of Monaco, Lando chooses the quiet with you—and that’s how he wants to remember the win.

Word count: 1.7k+

Warnings: fluff

A/N:

Baby won in Monaco, so so so proud of him🥹

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The sky over Monaco blushed in hues of peach and lavender, the last hints of sun sliding into the sea. The harbor sparkled with life: music from deck parties floated over the water, champagne corks echoed like distant fireworks, and yachts were lit up like they were hosting royalty — which, in some ways, they were.

But on your boat, things were still.

There was only the sound of the water gently tapping the hull, the hum of a low engine in the distance, and Lando's soft breathing beside you.

You sat cross-legged on the cushioned deck, a hoodie that clearly wasn't yours draped over your shoulders, sipping slowly from a tall glass. Lando was stretched out in front of you, his head resting on a rolled-up towel, hair still damp from jumping into the water an hour ago — fully clothed, naturally. He claimed it was "tradition." You knew he just liked to make a splash.

You tilted your head toward him, eyes lingering on the familiar curve of his jaw. “You do realize you're supposed to be partying right now, right?”

His eyes flicked open, already smiling. “And I am.”

You raised a brow, teasing. “No offense, but this is, like, aggressively tame for someone who just won a Grand Prix in Monaco. I thought I'd be chasing you through three nightclubs and trying to stop you from dancing on tables.”

“You have stopped me from dancing on tables before,” he pointed out, grinning.

“I didn’t stop you. I just... strongly discouraged it after the second tequila shot.”

“Same thing.”

You chuckled and nudged his leg with your foot. He caught your ankle without looking, gently tugging you closer until your legs were draped over his lap. He held you there with a loose hand, warm and familiar on your shin.

“Be honest,” you said after a pause, studying him, “why aren’t you out there? Partying with your friends? I told you I wouldn't mind. This is your moment, baby.”

Lando glanced toward the horizon. The city's lights shimmered like a distant carnival, wild and unreachable from here.

He was quiet for a second longer than expected — just long enough for your heart to skip in that way it sometimes did, even after all this time.

Then he sighed, fingers tracing slow, lazy lines against your leg, like he was sketching a thought he hadn’t quite figured out how to say out loud.

“You wanna know the truth?” he asked, not looking at you at first, voice low and a little rough around the edges — like it had been waiting a while to be said.

You nodded, your own breath catching a little in your chest.

Lando shifted, sitting up slightly and propping himself on one elbow.

“After everything — the podium, the press, the noise — there’s always this moment,” he began, eyes on the water now, “where it all starts to feel... hollow. Like I’m watching my own life from the outside. Everyone’s shouting and smiling and toasting and I’m just... standing there in the middle of it, smiling too, but feeling like none of it is actually touching me. Like I’m made of glass, and it’s all just bouncing off.”

He paused, his jaw tightening just slightly — not in anger, but in effort. Like he was trying to find the exact words that matched the feeling.

“And all I want in that moment,” he continued, “is to find something real to hold onto. Something that reminds me I’m not just the guy in the suit or the name on the board. I want to feel human again. I want to find the quiet in the noise of it all.”

You blinked, your heart thudding harder now, and your throat suddenly became too small. “And you chose me?”

That got him to look at you.

He reached over, brushing a knuckle gently down your cheek. The touch was maddening in its tenderness, his eyes locked on yours with a kind of quiet intensity that made the rest of the world fall away.

“I always choose you.”

There was no hesitation, no embellishment — just those four words, spoken like a vow. Like something etched into him long before tonight.

Your heart clenched, painfully and sweetly all at once. It was such a simple thing to say, but he said it like it was everything. Like it cost him nothing and meant everything.

Lando leaned back again, settling beside you, gaze turning upward. The sky was darker now, scattered with stars that seemed to blink just for the two of you.

“I love racing — you know that,” he said after a beat. “I love the team, the speed, the madness of it all. Hell, I even love the stupid glitter confetti they shoot in my face on the podium. But after all of that? After the chaos and the champagne and the million people telling me how amazing it all is?”

He exhaled, long and slow, like he was letting go of something.

“I don’t want to chase the next party. Not anymore, I guess. I want this. You. A hoodie that’s two sizes too big for you. That weird drink you made me earlier that tastes like fizzy herbs and regret.”

You scoffed, nudging his leg. “It’s called a spritz, thank you very much.”

“It’s called weird,” he teased, lips quirking into a smile — but then it faded again into something gentler, quieter. “But it’s us. And I’d rather celebrate like this, with the one person who sees me when the helmet comes off. When the spotlight fades. When it’s just me.”

You didn’t respond right away. You didn’t need to. The weight of his words settled between you, heavy but warm — like a blanket pulled up around both of your shoulders. Like a truth neither of you had said aloud quite like this before, even if you’d both always known.

“You’re getting mushy on me,” you said eventually, trying for lightness, though your voice was thick with affection and something deeper, more vulnerable.

Lando sat up, pulled you into his lap without warning, wrapping his arms around your waist. His chin came to rest over your shoulder, and he let out a low, contented hum like this — being here, holding you — was the only thing grounding him to the earth.

“I’ve been with you for what, four years now?” he murmured, lips brushing against your hair. “You know I’m legally allowed to get mushy.”

“You’re also legally required to keep being annoying at least once a day,” you countered, resting your hand over his forearm, thumb tracing idle circles into his skin.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, a grin audible in his voice. “I have a quota. Wouldn’t want to break my streak.”

You smiled, eyes slipping closed as you leaned back into him.

“Hey,” he murmured after a long stretch of quiet, his voice barely above the hush of the water against the hull. His nose brushed the curve of your neck as he shifted, and you felt him smile against your skin. “Do you remember that first night in Monaco? You stayed in the paddock with me until, like, 2 a.m., going over race data — and you weren’t even working that day.”

You laughed softly, the memory blooming in your chest like a light switched on in a room you hadn’t entered in a while.

“Of course I remember,” you said, tilting your head slightly to rest against his. “You kept making dumb jokes about how DRS stood for ‘Don’t Ruin Sunday.’”

He pulled back just enough to give you a grin, smug and unapologetic. “Solid joke. Still stands.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was too much fondness in your voice to make it stick. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But I knew that night. I didn’t say it — didn’t even really let myself think it out loud — but I knew. If I could choose anyone to be around when the noise faded… it’d be you.”

That made your breath hitch, just a little. The kind of shift you only noticed because everything else was so still.

You turned to look at him, slowly, like you didn’t want to break the spell of the moment. The lights from the city shimmered behind him, casting golden flecks over the water, catching in the soft brown of his eyes and making them look like they were lit from within.

“I knew too,” you said simply.

There was no grand declaration needed. No crescendo. Just truth — quiet and solid between you.

He leaned in, pressing a slow, certain kiss to your lips — not a post-race high, not a public display, not the kind of kiss that belonged on magazine covers or in fan edits. Just him. Just you. Loving each other in a way that didn’t need witnesses. A kiss that said I’m here. I’ve always been here.

When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours for a second, like he wanted to remember this exact expression on your face, this exact breath between you.

Then he smiled — that soft, crooked smile that only ever really showed up when he wasn’t performing for anyone else.

“Next year, I’ll win again,” he said with quiet confidence, like it wasn’t even a question.

“Oh?” you teased, eyebrows raised. “Already planning it?”

“Yep,” he said, the grin widening just enough to show he wasn’t entirely kidding. “And I’ll be right back here. With you. Same boat. Same weird drink. Same hoodie that you’re never giving back.”

You smirked, pulling the oversized hoodie tighter around yourself, inhaling faint traces of his cologne still lingering in the fabric. “Damn right I’m not.”

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating through his chest where it pressed against your back. One of his hands found yours, lacing your fingers together — his thumb tracing gentle patterns along your knuckles like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

And just like that, the city kept spinning. The champagne still flowed, the music pulsed across the water, and somewhere out there, a thousand flashbulbs were going off in celebration.

But none of it mattered.

Not when he looked at you like this — like you were the calm in his storm, the stillness after the flag dropped, the only thing in the world that didn’t blur when he was moving too fast.

This — you — were the win that mattered.

And he’d never stop choosing you.