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leriexoxo · 24 hours ago

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The Things We Never Said

Hyunjin x Reader

Tags: 18+ (minors DNI), heavy emotional angst, rejection, heartbreak, sexual content (soft & rough, mirror sex, aftercare, etc.), swearing, crying, pining, miscommunication, Slow burn, angst, friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 9k

Summary: You’d been in love with Hyunjin for years, always stuck somewhere between friendship and almost. When you finally confessed, he rejected you—and then tried to pretend nothing happened. You did your best to move on, even let someone else in… until Hyunjin realized too late that he loved you too. Now he’s at your door in the rain, desperate for a second chance—and you don’t know if your heart is ready to break all over again.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

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You met Hyunjin the summer after high school ended.

He was loud. That was the first thing you noticed. He laughed with his whole chest, talked with his hands, and never seemed to run out of things to say, even when no one was listening. You’d been dragged to a bonfire by your childhood friend, Jiyeon, and suddenly there he was—sitting cross-legged in the grass with his hair tied up and his head tilted back as he tried to balance a beer can on his forehead.

You didn’t say much to him that night. But he noticed you. You knew, because he kept trying to make you laugh.

He succeeded, a little. And then again. And again.

And by the end of the night, when Jiyeon shouted, “We’re getting ramen after this, let’s go!” and you instinctively began to gather your things, Hyunjin turned to you and said, “You’re coming too, right?”

It wasn’t even a question, not really. Just a smile. A light in his voice.

And somehow, without even realizing it, you became part of the group.

He was the kind of person who pulled people in without trying. Messy and ridiculous and disarmingly soft around the edges. He made the quiet ones talk. Made the serious ones laugh. And you—he made you feel like maybe it wasn’t so bad, being seen.

You became friends slowly. Not all at once, not in that immediate, magnetic way some people describe. It was more like… a comfort you grew used to. Like warm socks in winter. Like the sound of the microwave at 2am.

You sat next to him at game nights. He always offered you the last slice of pizza, even when he obviously wanted it. He texted you the dumbest memes at 3am. Brought you coffee without asking what you liked. He just guessed. He was right.

He remembered things you didn’t expect anyone to remember—your cousin’s name, your pet peeves, the exact date you said you were dreading a dentist appointment.

You never let yourself overthink it.

He was like that with everyone.

It didn’t mean anything.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But then came the long drives.

The ones where you sat shotgun, feet on the dash, window cracked open, his playlist humming low between the silence. The ones where he’d ask questions like, “Do you think people always know when they’re falling for someone?” with a weird little smile, and you’d pretend it didn’t send your heart into overdrive.

You didn’t know when it happened. When liking him stopped being a quiet crush and became a permanent ache under your ribs.

But by the time you realized it, it was already too late.

It didn’t happen all at once, but looking back, you could see the moment things started to shift.

It was a Wednesday. Rainy. One of those days where everything felt half-slow and half-noisy, like the world couldn’t decide if it wanted to rest or scream. You had been late to dinner—group dinner, as usual. Everyone had already ordered. Someone had stolen your usual seat.

Without missing a beat, Hyunjin scooted over, patted the bench beside him, and said, “Sit here.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d done something like that. It wasn’t even that significant. But when you sat, when your knee pressed against his, and he didn’t move an inch—you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

His shoulder bumped yours every time he laughed. You felt it in your bones.

And when he leaned down to whisper something only meant for you—something stupid and irrelevant about the waiter’s mustache—you laughed too loudly, too quickly, just to distract yourself from how warm his breath felt against your cheek.

Jiyeon gave you a look. The kind that said oh.

You didn’t want to talk about it.

From then on, everything became sharp-edged.

Every car ride. Every lazy afternoon curled on his couch. Every group hangout that ended with the two of you lingering after everyone else left.

You stopped seeing your friends. You started seeing him.

You memorized the way his fingers looked when he was focused—thumb tucked under his chin, brows drawn. The way he fidgeted when he was nervous, like during that open mic night when his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing. The way he whispered your name when you drifted off during late movies, like it meant more than just waking you up.

You knew it didn’t. Not to him.

But it was starting to mean everything to you.

You tried to tell yourself it would pass.

You tried to flirt with someone else at Jiyeon’s party—a guy who was sweet and cute and definitely into you. But then you caught Hyunjin watching from the kitchen, eyebrows slightly furrowed, his cup clutched too tightly in his hand.

Later that night, when the guy asked for your number, you hesitated.

And Hyunjin—who hadn’t spoken a word about it—offered to walk you home.

You let him. Of course you did.

And as you walked side by side in silence, your jacket tucked beneath his arm like a second thought, you wondered what it would be like to reach over. To grab his hand. To say it out loud, right then.

But you didn’t.

Because you were still scared of the answer.

⸻

The moment came two weeks later.

Another rooftop, another night, another group hangout gone late. Everyone had gone back downstairs. Only you and Hyunjin remained, curled under a blanket, half-drunk, half-exhausted, watching the city blink in soft, slow pulses.

You felt full and empty all at once.

And then he said, “You’ve been quiet lately. Like… inside-your-head quiet.”

You blinked. “Have I?”

He nodded. “Yeah. You do that when something’s eating you.”

You laughed softly. “That obvious, huh?”

“To me, yeah.”

And just like that, the words pushed up your throat like they’d been waiting.

“I like you.”

It came out too fast. Too raw. You didn’t look at him when you said it. You stared at the skyline like it could save you.

He went still beside you.

You felt it. The pause. The absence.

Then—

“…Don’t.”

Silence. Loud silence.

Your heart crumpled in real time.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say it,” he said softly. “Please.”

You turned then. Looked him in the face.

He wasn’t angry. Wasn’t mocking you. Just… heartbroken in a way that made no sense.

“I didn’t want this to change anything,” he whispered.

You laughed once. Just a breath. Just enough to keep from crying.

“Well,” you said. “Too late for that.”

—

You didn’t cry that night.

Not when he reached for your hand and you pulled away.

Not when you stood up too fast and nearly tripped over the blanket.

Not when he said your name like he didn’t know how to say anything else. Like it could still fix it.

You just left.

You went down the stairs and out the door and didn’t stop walking until the city swallowed the rooftop behind you. And when you got home, you showered like you were trying to wash it off. The rooftop, the night, the words. Him.

You climbed into bed in a pair of socks that didn’t match and stared at the ceiling until your eyes stopped burning.

And even then, you didn’t cry.

You just hurt.

You thought maybe he’d give you space.

That he’d let the silence stretch between you until it thinned into distance—polite, painful, but necessary. That was what people did when they didn’t feel the same, wasn’t it? They stepped back. Gave you room to breathe. To grieve.

But Hyunjin didn’t.

The very next morning, he texted you like nothing happened.

hyunjin:

“u up?”

hyunjin:

“wanna get coffee before you go to class?”

hyunjin:

“or not. either way i hope you slept okay.”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you wanted to be dramatic—but because you didn’t know how to be normal around him anymore.

Because nothing felt normal.

That weekend, you saw him again—against your better judgment. Jiyeon had begged you to come to their little movie night, the usual group, just “lowkey and chill.” She’d even promised to make your favorite dumplings.

You told yourself you could handle it.

You were wrong.

He looked up the second you walked in. Said your name with that same soft inflection, like the last three days hadn’t shattered you. Like your confession had been a dream and not a detonation.

You sat on the far end of the couch. He noticed. Didn’t say anything.

Halfway through the movie, he leaned over the armrest and whispered, “You okay?”

You didn’t turn.

You didn’t answer.

You just smiled at the TV screen and hoped no one could see how tightly your hands were clenched in your lap.

⸻

You tried to pull away.

Not just from Hyunjin—but from everything. The group chat, the hangouts, the drop-by visits. You skipped brunches. You started sitting in new spots during class. You made yourself busy with things that didn’t include him.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

But instead of leaving you alone, he chased harder.

He started showing up in ways he never had before. More texts. More “hey, haven’t seen you in a while” messages in the group. Random pictures sent to you privately—funny signs, cats that looked like yours, memes he used to tag you in without asking.

He still made you coffee sometimes. Left it at your door with a note that said nothing more than “You still like oat milk, right?”

It broke you.

Not because he was cruel. But because he was still kind. Because his version of “normal” made it impossible for you to move on.

⸻

Jiyeon called you one night after another canceled invite.

“You okay?”

You paused. Then, “Yeah. Just been tired.”

“You and Hyunjin haven’t talked.”

“I know.”

There was a quiet moment.

Then she said, softly, “You know he thinks everything’s fine, right? That he didn’t break anything.”

You didn’t know how to answer that.

So you didn’t.

—

You made it twelve days.

Twelve days of answering texts with forced emojis.

Twelve days of dodging hangouts, rerouting your walk to class, pretending you weren’t constantly bracing for the next time he’d show up.

You were holding yourself together with duct tape and denial—and Hyunjin kept peeling it off with every well-meaning smile, every gesture that used to feel like comfort and now felt like cruelty.

So when Jiyeon’s birthday rolled around, you told yourself you could survive it.

One night. One dinner. You could smile for a few hours, eat some cake, laugh at a few jokes, and go home.

But then he sat next to you. And that was the beginning of the end.

He didn’t even hesitate.

Walked in with that warm, open energy that had once made you feel safe and now just made your heart twist the wrong way. He saw you across the table, grinned like nothing was wrong, and dropped into the empty seat beside you like it belonged to him.

“Hey,” he said, nudging your shoulder. “You look nice.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You forced a tight smile. “Thanks.”

He tilted his head. “Haven’t seen you all week. You ghosted me again.”

Again.

Like it was a joke. Like it was cute.

You blinked down at your plate. Your heart was pounding. He kept going.

“You still mad at me?” he teased gently. “Come on. I know I’m annoying, but I’m not that bad.”

You laughed. Not because it was funny.

Because something inside you snapped.

You stood up.

He blinked at you, confused, one hand reaching slightly like he thought you might fall. “Wait—”

“I need some air.”

You didn’t look at him as you walked out.

The street was quiet. Cold. A relief.

You leaned against the wall of the restaurant and closed your eyes, willing yourself not to cry. Not here. Not now. Not because of him.

But then the door creaked open behind you, and you knew.

Of course he followed.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Did I… did I do something?”

You turned, finally. Looked him in the face.

And you couldn’t do it anymore.

“I told you I liked you,” you said, voice cracking. “And you rejected me. Which—I get it, okay? That’s fine. You didn’t owe me anything.”

“…I never meant to—”

“But then you kept showing up,” you went on, too fast now, too full. “You kept texting, kept smiling, kept acting like nothing changed. Like it didn’t wreck me to be around you.”

He went still.

“I needed space, Hyunjin. I needed time. But you—you just kept being you. And that made it worse.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he said finally.

“You could’ve let me go.”

The silence between you was unbearable.

You took a step back.

“I’m not mad at you,” you whispered. “But I can’t be your friend right now. I’m sorry.”

And then you left him standing there, under the soft glow of the restaurant lights, with nothing but the echo of your voice and the pieces you hadn’t been able to hold onto anymore.

—

He didn’t text the next day.

Or the one after.

For the first time in weeks, your phone stayed silent—no morning messages, no dumb inside jokes, no pictures of dogs in sunglasses or bad street poetry. You thought it would feel like relief.

It didn’t. It felt like absence.

Like a door finally closing after weeks of creaking on its hinges.

And part of you wanted to pry it open again—just to make sure he was still there. Still existing in the same world, breathing the same air. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

You had meant what you said.

You couldn’t be his friend. Not like this.

The group chat slowed without you.

Or maybe you just stopped checking. Muted it. Let the messages pile up without opening them. Jiyeon texted once or twice—“are you okay?” and “you don’t have to explain, just letting you know I’m here”—but even she understood.

You weren’t ready to talk. Not about it. Not about him.

You weren’t even sure what about him meant anymore.

It had been easier when you were just friends. Easier to joke, to sit close, to share blankets and drinks and late-night walks without wondering if it meant something.

Now you couldn’t look at your favorite coffee shop without remembering how he used to order your drink before you got there.

Couldn’t listen to certain songs without hearing the way he hummed under his breath when he thought you weren’t listening.

Couldn’t step onto the rooftop without your chest tightening like it was still holding the echo of your confession.

⸻

Hyunjin didn’t come looking for you.

Not at first.

You heard from Jiyeon that he was “laying low.” That he’d been quieter, less involved, skipping a few hangouts here and there. He wasn’t himself, she said.

You wanted to tell her neither were you.

But what good would it do?

The damage was already done. And unlike him, you couldn’t keep pretending you hadn’t bled for it.

One week later, you ran into him.

Not dramatically—not on a rainy street or in a dark hallway—but in line at the grocery store, both of you clutching baskets filled with microwave meals and snacks you didn’t need.

You saw him before he saw you.

And for a moment, you thought about leaving your cart and walking out.

But he turned.

He blinked. Paused. Said your name like a question.

“Hey.”

You swallowed. “Hey.”

It was awful.

Awkward in a way that made your skin itch. He reached up and scratched the back of his neck, looked down at your basket like it was easier than looking at your face.

“How’ve you been?” he asked.

You could’ve lied. You should’ve.

But you shrugged. “I’ve been better.”

Something in his face twisted.

“I miss you,” he said quietly. No preamble. No smile.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t trust yourself to.

Because hearing it didn’t fix anything.

It didn’t pull the broken pieces back together or rewrite the moment on the rooftop or un-crack the parts of you that had already started healing from the silence.

All it did was ache.

Even after that quiet moment at the grocery store, even after his eyes followed you all the way to the exit like he still had something left to say. You didn’t reach out.

Because missing you wasn’t the same as wanting you.

And you were done trying to read between lines he wasn’t brave enough to cross.

So, you made yourself move on.

Not out of spite, but out of survival.

You said yes to more invitations, even if it meant sitting in circles he’d never touched. You started spending time with people who didn’t already know your story—or worse, the part where your story had ended.

You met a boy named Minho through your literature elective. He made snide comments about every poem you read in class, and sometimes he offered you half of his protein bar even when you didn’t ask.

He was safe. He didn’t look at you like he remembered every time your heart had cracked open.

He didn’t remind you of anything.

You went for coffee once. Then again. He made you laugh.

It didn’t make your heart race.

But it made the ache dull.

And that was enough.

⸻

Jiyeon noticed the change in you before you did.

“You’re glowing,” she teased one night as the two of you walked home from a dinner that didn’t include Hyunjin for the first time in months.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious,” she grinned. “It’s like… you’re coming back to life a little.”

You smiled softly. You didn’t say it, but you felt it too.

The quiet felt less suffocating.

Your chest didn’t tighten every time you heard his name.

You weren’t happy—not all the way. But you weren’t drowning anymore.

That was something.

You saw Hyunjin again two weeks later. Unplanned. At a gallery opening hosted by a mutual friend.

He was standing by the window with a drink in hand, talking to someone you didn’t recognize.

He looked… different.

Tired, maybe. Older somehow. Like he’d finally started carrying the weight you’d been dragging alone.

You tried not to look at him. Tried harder not to feel anything. But the moment he saw you—really saw you—his whole body shifted.

He excused himself from the conversation and made his way over before you had time to turn.

“Hey.”

You stared at him for a long beat. “Hey.”

“I heard about your reading,” he said, a little breathless. “Jiyeon said you’re submitting that short story to the contest next month.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Thought I’d give it a shot.”

His smile was proud, but his eyes were careful. “That’s… really cool. You always talked about writing more.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Because yeah, you did.

And he used to be the person you shared your rough drafts with.

You sipped your drink.

He hesitated. Then, “Can we talk?”

You blinked. “We are talking.”

“No, I mean… actually talk. About everything. About what I did—or didn’t do. I know I hurt you.”

You exhaled through your nose. “You didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” he said. “But I did anyway.”

He paused.

“I didn’t say what you needed to hear that night. Not because I didn’t care, but because I panicked. I thought if I said it wrong, I’d lose you completely.”

You laughed, bitter. “Newsflash.”

“I know,” he said again. Quiet. “I didn’t know how to be honest with you without breaking something. And then I broke it anyway.”

There was a beat of silence between you.

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

And for the first time, you saw guilt.

Not just regret. Not just nostalgia.

Real guilt. Like he finally understood what it meant to be the one who got to walk away clean.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve let you go when you asked me to. I should’ve respected the space you needed. I thought staying close meant I still mattered to you.”

“You did,” you whispered. “But it hurt too much.”

“I get that now.”

You nodded.

“I’m not asking to fix things,” he added. “Not tonight. Maybe not ever. But I wanted you to know—I see it. Everything I ignored. And I’m sorry.”

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t reach for him, didn’t tell him it was okay.

Because it wasn’t. Not really.

But hearing it? It helped.

—

You kept seeing Minho.

Not often. Not seriously. But enough.

Enough to make people start asking. Enough to let the idea hang in the air—like a question you were never quite ready to answer.

He was calm where Hyunjin had been chaotic.

Confident without being loud.

Sharp-tongued, but thoughtful when it counted.

You didn’t burn for him, not in the way you had for Hyunjin.

But that was the point, wasn’t it?

Minho made it easy to breathe. Easy to exist without constantly trying to guess what came next.

And for a while, that was enough.

You started smiling again. Real ones.

You stopped checking your phone for messages that never came.

Stopped wondering what Hyunjin was doing on a Friday night or who he was laughing with or if he ever thought about the rooftop and the way you’d looked at him like you had something left to lose.

You stopped bleeding, even if you still bruised.

And when Minho asked if you wanted to get dinner—just the two of you this time—you said yes.

Because you wanted to try.

Even if your heart still twitched at the sound of someone else’s name.

⸻

You didn’t mean for Hyunjin to find out about Minho that way.

But the world was small, and the friend group smaller.

He saw you across the quad one day—Minho beside you, walking close, laughing low at something you said. You didn’t notice Hyunjin sitting on the low wall by the fountain, earbuds in but music off, eyes catching on you like a hook in water.

You didn’t see the way he stilled.

Didn’t see the way his jaw clenched when Minho leaned in to adjust the strap of your bag.

Didn’t hear the breath he held until it burned.

But later that night, you got a message.

[10:03 PM] Hyunjin: so it’s real? you and him?

You stared at it for a long time.

Your fingers hovered over the screen. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.

[10:09 PM] You: I’m trying to move on.

No reply came.

Not that night. Not the next day.

But Jiyeon texted you the morning after: Did something happen with Hyunjin? He was weird today. Like really weird.

You didn’t answer.

Because you knew exactly what happened.

—

Hyunjin didn’t understand it.

Not at first.

He thought the ache in his chest was guilt. Maybe even jealousy in the shallow way—like possessiveness, like territorial instinct. The kind of pang you feel when someone you used to be close with starts laughing a little too freely without you.

But it wasn’t that.

It was something deeper. Wilder.

More like grief.

Because you weren’t just someone anymore.

You weren’t even his almost.

You were someone else’s maybe.

And that was what shattered him.

Because when you left, he missed the way you looked at him. Missed your laugh, your stupid overthinking texts, the way you always brought him snacks when he forgot to eat. He missed your presence.

But now—now he missed your possibility.

Now he missed what he never let himself want.

He started spiraling quietly.

He didn’t bring you up. Not to anyone. Not even Jiyeon.

But he was short-tempered, restless. Said no to hangouts, stayed up too late doing nothing, stared at half-written texts he never sent.

He kept seeing you in crowded rooms—never alone, always glowing a little too much beside someone else.

Minho touched you gently. Laughed easily. Didn’t flinch when your arm brushed his.

And Hyunjin hated it.

Because Minho hadn’t hesitated.

Minho didn’t push you away and then regret it after.

Minho got to hold the part of you that Hyunjin threw away out of fear.

It took him two weeks to admit it to himself.

Not just the feelings. But the failure.

He hadn’t been confused. He’d been a coward.

He let you fall while he stood on the edge, too afraid to jump.

And now someone else was learning all the soft, sacred pieces of you he never deserved.

—

You weren’t expecting anyone that night.

It was raining. The kind of rain that didn’t come with thunder—just a quiet, steady fall that wrapped the city in soft gray noise. You had a hoodie on, socks mismatched, fingers curled around a mug of tea gone cold on your desk.

Your phone lit up twice—one from Minho, one from Jiyeon—but you didn’t open either.

Some nights were like this. Still on the surface, but storming underneath.

You didn’t think anything of the knock at your door.

Just a neighbor, maybe. A package. Maybe Jiyeon needing to vent.

But when you opened it—

Your whole body froze.

There he was.

Hyunjin.

Soaked to the bone, hood pushed back, hair dripping onto the collar of his jacket. His eyes looked darker than usual—not angry, not cold.

Just… raw.

Like he hadn’t slept.

Like he hadn’t smiled in days.

You couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t even move.

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

His voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges.

“Just—can you let me talk? Please.”

You stepped back.

Barely. A breath of space.

And he took it like it was a lifeline.

He stood in your entryway dripping water onto your rug, shivering slightly, looking around like it was all unfamiliar.

But you both knew it wasn’t.

“You’re still drinking that chamomile stuff,” he murmured, eyes catching the mug on your desk. “I always hated the way it smelled.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t tell him you started drinking it more after he stopped texting you.

Didn’t tell him Minho liked it. Said it suited you.

Hyunjin swallowed. “I’ve been an idiot.”

You crossed your arms.

“I don’t mean the usual kind of idiot,” he added quickly. “I mean… the kind who gets handed something rare—something real—and is too scared to hold onto it.”

Your throat tightened.

“I told myself I didn’t want to risk losing you,” he went on. “But I lost you anyway, didn’t I?”

You said nothing.

Because the pain was still there. The crack. The weight. The memory of the rooftop and the way his silence felt like your own body turning against you.

“I saw you with Minho,” he admitted, eyes searching yours now. “And it hurt. God, it fucking hurt. Not because he did anything wrong—he didn’t. He’s good to you. I could see it. That’s what scared me.”

You looked down.

He took a step closer.

“Because I realized I didn’t want you to move on,” he whispered. “Not from me.”

A breath caught in your chest.

“I wanted to be the one who made you laugh like that. The one who made you feel seen. But I gave that up, didn’t I? I gave it up because I was too much of a coward to admit I loved you.”

The silence rang loud.

Too loud.

You blinked, voice breaking. “Loved?”

His face crumpled—gently, like he was unraveling all at once.

“Love,” he corrected. “I love you. Present tense.”

A pause.

And then, softer:

“I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t expect you to take me back. But if there’s even a piece of you that still feels something… I had to come. I had to try. Because if I lose you forever without telling you how I feel, I won’t survive it.”

You stared at him. At the boy who once shattered your heart and then stood there hoping you’d pretend it never happened.

Only now, he wasn’t asking you to pretend.

He was asking you to believe him.

To believe this mattered. To believe you mattered.

Even after everything.

You stood there trembling.

His words echoed through the room, too loud and too soft all at once. You hadn’t meant to cry, but the tears were already sliding down your face—slow, silent, uninvited. You didn’t even try to stop them.

You didn’t know what to say.

Because you had wanted this. You had dreamed of this.

And now that it was here, it didn’t feel real.

Your fingers clenched at your sides.

You still loved him. God, you loved him so much it hurt.

That was the problem. That had always been the problem.

You had never stopped.

You turned away before he could see your face break completely. Your voice came out thin.

“Your clothes are soaked. You’re gonna get sick.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

You went to your drawer and pulled out a hoodie—his, ironically, one he’d left at your place months ago and probably forgotten. You hadn’t. You wore it once when the world felt especially heavy.

You walked back and handed it to him, not meeting his eyes.

“There’s towels in the bathroom,” you mumbled. “You can dry off in there.”

He hesitated. Then nodded, quiet. “Thanks.”

You didn’t say anything else.

—

The rain got heavier.

It pounded against your windows, against the balcony outside your room. The whole apartment felt suspended in that stormy cocoon—like time had been paused by the sky itself.

You stood by your bed, arms around yourself, chest aching.

How many times had you imagined this moment?

How many times had you told yourself it would never come?

And now he was here.

In your bathroom. Wearing the hoodie you used to cry in. Telling you he loved you.

Your knees nearly buckled under the weight of it.

When he stepped out again, hair damp but drying, hoodie slung over his frame like it still belonged to him, he looked… softer.

Not small. Just real.

Your gaze lifted. Locked with his.

Neither of you spoke.

But something shifted.

In the stretch of silence. In the sound of the storm. In the space between your heart and his.

And then, he moved.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right. Like he wanted to give you every chance to step back.

You didn’t. You didn’t move an inch.

Not even when he reached out, thumb brushing just under your eye to catch a tear you hadn’t noticed was still falling.

“Still hurts?” he whispered.

You nodded. A breath.

“Me too.”

Then—

His hand slid to your jaw, gentle, reverent.

And he kissed you.

It wasn’t hungry or desperate.

It was slow. Careful. Terrified.

Like he was asking.

Please. Let me back in.

And you— You let him.

Because your heart had never been Minho’s.

Because you never stopped waiting for this.

For Hyunjin.

For this kiss.

For him.

His lips moved like he was afraid to touch you fully.

Not because he didn’t want to—because he did, you could feel it, the trembling in his fingers, the way his breath stuttered against your cheek—but because he was terrified of breaking you again.

And maybe he already had.

Maybe you were already in pieces, just standing there, letting him kiss you.

But your hands found his hoodie, your fingers curling tight into the fabric at his chest, and you tilted your head into him, letting the kiss deepen. Just slightly. Just enough.

He gasped when you kissed back.

A sound so full of relief, you nearly choked on it.

His arms came around you in a rush then, like he’d been holding back every instinct for weeks and couldn’t anymore—like he was suddenly starving and you were the only thing that could fill him.

You clung to him just as desperately.

It was messy. It was soaked in heartbreak. It tasted like too much and not enough.

He kissed you like he was scared this would be the last time.

And maybe it would be, if you didn’t speak now.

You broke the kiss with a trembling breath, forehead pressed to his, his hands still cradling your face.

Your voice cracked.

“I waited for you.”

His whole body stilled.

“I waited, and you didn’t come.”

“God,” he whispered, eyes squeezing shut. “I know.”

You were crying again. Quiet. Angry at yourself for still loving him. Angry at him for giving you this only after you’d shattered trying to forget.

“I couldn’t even look at Minho without thinking of you,” you said. “I tried. I wanted to move on. But you—” your voice broke, “you were everywhere.”

Hyunjin’s eyes opened. Bloodshot. Glistening.

“You should hate me,” he said. “I hate me.”

“Then why didn’t you just say yes?” you asked, choking on it. “On that rooftop. Why did you make me beg for a rejection?”

“I was scared,” he confessed, so broken it hurt to hear. “You were real. You were everything. I didn’t know how to be the person who deserved you.”

“Then why now?” you whispered. “Why come back?”

He brushed his thumb over your cheek again, voice shaking.

“Because I couldn’t breathe without you. I thought I could live with letting you go, but I couldn’t. I tried. I tried so hard. But seeing you with him—” he swallowed hard—“I lost my mind. Not because of jealousy. Because I knew he could give you what I threw away.”

You didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

You leaned into him, both of you trembling.

And then his mouth was on yours again—more desperate this time, more raw, like the floodgates had broken and neither of you knew how to stop.

His hands cupped your face, then tangled in your hair.

Yours slid under the hoodie, fingers curling into his shirt like he’d disappear if you didn’t hold on tight enough.

It wasn’t about sex.

It wasn’t even about comfort.

It was grief.

It was love.

It was apology.

And it was need.

You kissed like you were trying to put all the broken pieces back in each other.

And for a moment, maybe you did.

—

The next morning, the world was hushed.

Golden light streamed through the blinds, soft and warm, like the universe was trying to offer you a gentle landing after the storm.

Hyunjin was still asleep on your couch, one arm draped over his eyes, the borrowed hoodie rising and falling with each breath. He looked peaceful. Tired. Like someone who had cried himself to sleep in someone else’s arms.

Because he had.

And you… you were wide awake.

Your heart felt like a tender bruise. Not aching in the same sharp way it used to, but sore with memory. With love. With everything you still hadn’t unpacked.

And there was still one thing you had to do.

You sat in the café before Minho arrived, nursing a coffee you barely touched. Your hands were cold, even with the cup between them.

He spotted you from the door, gave you a soft, tired smile.

He already knew.

Minho sat down across from you like it wasn’t the end of something. He didn’t even make you start.

“You let him in.”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He nodded slowly, then looked out the window for a long moment.

“I figured it would happen,” he said, tone light, but not careless. “He had that look in his eyes when he saw us. Like someone waking up too late.”

“I never tried to use you,” you whispered. “I promise. I just… didn’t want to keep bleeding over him forever.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched. Comfortable. Sad.

“I liked you,” he said. “A lot. Still do, in a way. But I could never get to the place he had in you. You looked at me and I always saw him sitting behind your eyes.”

Tears welled again. You didn’t want to cry—not for this. Not for hurting someone who didn’t deserve it.

But Minho smiled.

“I’m not mad. Heartbreak’s messy. And I’d rather lose like this than keep you with me when your heart’s still somewhere else.”

You blinked, stunned.

“You’re kind of perfect,” you muttered, wiping a tear.

Minho grinned. “Don’t forget it.”

And just like that, he stood, patted your head, and said goodbye.

⸻

Hyunjin waited until you were ready.

For a week, he gave you space. Checked in gently. No pressure. Just warmth. Just patience.

And then— He asked if he could take you out. On a real date.

You stared at the message for a long time before smiling.

Yes.

It was an easy answer.

He took you to the planetarium.

It was quiet, empty enough that your footsteps echoed as you walked side by side into the main observatory dome. The room was dark, filled with a slow-spinning map of the stars across the curved ceiling. Everything glowed faintly blue and silver.

You stood there in the dark, hand brushing against his.

He turned to you with a soft smile. “When I was a kid, I used to think people became stars when they died.”

You looked at him, heart full.

“I think people are stars,” you said. “We just don’t always shine the same.”

He stared at you, eyes wide, something fragile flickering behind them.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered.

You reached for his hand fully this time. “So are you.”

He kissed you under a sky of constellations, hand on your waist, lips soft and sure. There was no rush, no storm.

Just you. And him.

And something whole blooming between you.

You didn’t say it out loud that night, but you felt it so deeply it poured out of you anyway—through your smile, your kiss, your laughter, your joy.

You were smitten.

So in love it made your chest ache in the best way.

He looked at you like he was seeing the stars for the first time.

And for the first time in a long time…

You felt complete.

—

The special moments started small.

A look that lingered too long.

A touch that lasted a heartbeat more than it should.

A silence that simmered.

You noticed it the second time he kissed you.

The night after the planetarium, when he walked you home again and kissed you outside your door like he wasn’t ready to let go yet. You had your hands tangled in the front of his coat, half on your tiptoes, the warmth of his breath brushing against your lips even after the kiss ended.

You’d pulled away first. Barely.

And he’d looked at you like that—like his control was fraying.

“I should go,” he murmured, but he didn’t move.

Your fingers had clenched tighter in his coat.

So close. So warm. So real.

“Yeah,” you breathed, your voice too soft, too unsure. “Probably.”

He kissed you again anyway. Deeper this time.

It kept happening.

Little moments that crackled with heat.

Moments that made your skin tingle and your thoughts spiral.

He’d tuck your hair behind your ear and let his fingers trail just a little too long against your jaw.

You’d lie on your couch watching a movie and realize his thumb was drawing slow circles into the back of your hand without even thinking about it.

He’d lean in to whisper something and you’d feel his breath on your neck, and your body would ache.

You never said it.

But he felt it too.

You could see it in the way his jaw tightened when you wore shorts around him. The way he looked away fast, and then looked back, like he couldn’t stop himself. The way his fingers would twitch in his lap like they were remembering the shape of your hips.

Neither of you pushed it.

It was careful. Respectful.

But it burned.

⸻

One night, you ended up at his place after dinner. Nothing dramatic. Just takeout, music, the glow of his living room lamp.

You were in one of his hoodies again. Legs folded on his couch.

He was beside you, thigh pressed to yours, half-laughing at a story you told about Minho getting kicked out of a bookstore for sneezing too dramatically.

And then the laughter faded.

And there was quiet.

And you were looking at each other.

His smile softened. Melted.

“I love you,” he said suddenly.

You blinked.

“I know,” you whispered, heart stuttering.

He reached for you, one hand brushing your knee, then your hip, then your waist. His fingers curled there like they belonged.

“I think about you all the time,” he murmured. “Not just like this. I mean… everything. I think about waking up beside you. Cooking with you. Fighting over what movie to watch. I think about what it would be like to make love to someone I actually care about.”

Your breath caught.

You could feel your pulse in your throat.

“And I think about touching you,” he added, voice barely above a whisper. “More than I should. Sometimes it drives me crazy.”

You swallowed hard. “Hyunjin…”

His forehead dropped to yours, breath hot against your lips.

“I don’t wanna rush you. I don’t want to fuck this up. But… if you ever want me, really want me—”

“I do,” you whispered. “I do.”

He kissed you again.

And this time, it wasn’t soft.

It was hot and aching and honest.

A kiss that shook the air out of your lungs, that made you whimper into his mouth.

A kiss that told you he had been waiting.

His hand slid under the hem of your hoodie—slow, careful, worshipful. You felt his palm press against the bare skin of your lower back, and your entire body lit up.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, legs shifting to straddle him without thinking.

You needed him.

Not just physically.

Fully.

And for the first time, you saw it in his eyes—how much he needed you too.

His breath trembled against your lips as he kissed you, deeper now—slow and searching, like he was committing you to memory.

You straddled his lap, knees tucked against the couch cushions, hoodie sliding up your thighs as his hands gripped your waist like he’d dreamt of this a thousand times and still couldn’t believe it was real.

Your hips tilted into him and god, he groaned—low, guttural, like the sound had been ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he whispered against your mouth.

You kissed him harder, dizzy with how much you wanted him. With how long you’d ached for this exact feeling—his hands on you, his mouth devouring you like he was starving.

“I’ve wanted this,” you breathed, forehead pressed to his. “Hyunjin, I’ve wanted you so bad—”

He surged up, catching your lips again, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other slid under your hoodie—warm palm pressing flat against your bare back. His touch burned, delicate and firm at once, like he didn’t know whether to cherish you or ruin you.

Maybe both.

You rolled your hips into him again and he lost it—his grip on you tightening, his mouth trailing fire down your jaw to your throat.

“Let me take you to my bed,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Please. I need to see you—all of you.”

You nodded, breathless. “Take me.”

You barely made it to the room.

He kissed you the whole way there, backing you into the doorway, pulling your hoodie over your head and moaning when he saw you weren’t wearing anything underneath.

“Holy shit, baby…”

His hands roamed, reverent, worshipful—fingers trembling slightly as he cupped your breasts, kissed your collarbone, trailed down your ribs like he wanted to map every inch of you.

You undressed him too, slow and needy. Shirt first. Then pants. You couldn’t stop touching him—his lean lines, the muscles under smooth skin, the way his breath caught when your hands slid below his waistband.

And when you finally reached the bed, he laid you down so gently, like you were something precious. Then he hovered over you, eyes locked to yours, full of heat and vulnerability.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice cracked. “So fucking beautiful.”

You pulled him down into another kiss, and then—

His hand slipped between your thighs.

He touched you slowly at first, lips brushing your cheek as his fingers slid through your folds, testing, teasing—until your hips bucked and you whimpered his name.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered. “You’ve been like this for me all night, haven’t you?”

“Longer,” you gasped. “Weeks. Months.”

He cursed under his breath and slipped two fingers inside you, curling just right, dragging moans out of you before you could stop them.

“Hyunjin, please—”

He kissed your temple. “I got you.”

And then he was lining up, breathing hard, pushing in slow.

Your back arched.

He filled you completely.

Deep and thick and hot and perfect.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Only feel.

He groaned into your neck, holding himself still for a second while your body adjusted.

“You’re so tight,” he rasped. “Fuck—so warm. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“Move,” you begged. “Please, Hyunjin—”

And he did.

He fucked you like a man unraveling.

Deep strokes, slow at first—but with every sound you made, every time you gasped his name or dug your nails into his back—he got rougher. Desperate. Unhinged.

“Been dreaming about this,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. “Fantasizing about being inside you, hearing you moan for me—mine, baby, you’re mine—”

“Yes,” you choked out. “I’m yours. God, I’m yours.”

That snapped something in him.

He grabbed your thighs, threw them over his shoulders, and started pounding.

You cried out—head tilted back, fingers clawing at the sheets, the rhythm obscene, filthy, delicious.

“You take me so well,” he groaned, driving in harder. “Look at you, fucking trembling—this is what we were meant for.”

You were gone. Ruined. Drenched in sweat and tears and love.

It was everything.

The heartbreak. The longing. The second chance. All of it crashed into this moment—two people finding each other again in the most primal, vulnerable way.

And when you came, you screamed.

Tears streaming, thighs shaking, sobbing his name.

He followed seconds later, moaning into your mouth as he spilled inside you, his body curling around yours, trembling.

⸻

After, he didn’t move for a long time.

He just held you. Tight. Like you were the center of his universe.

“You okay?” he whispered, brushing hair from your face.

You nodded, still breathless. “I think you just ruined me for anyone else.”

He smiled—soft, shy, proud.

“Good,” he murmured, kissing your forehead. “Because I’m not letting you go again.”

You’d barely caught your breath.

Still tangled in the sheets, your chest rising and falling with each slow inhale, skin flushed and sticky with sweat. Hyunjin was quiet beside you—his fingers tracing lazy lines over your bare back, lips pressing soft, reverent kisses to your shoulder, your temple, your jaw.

“I should clean you up,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and hoarse and wrecked from all the moaning.

You smiled, dazed. “I’m not sure I can stand.”

His laugh was quiet. Tender. “Then I’ll carry you.”

And he did—arms under your thighs and back, cradling you to his chest like you were fragile. Like he wanted to take care of every part of you.

The bathroom was warm. Dim. Steamy from the shower he turned on.

You sat on the counter while he grabbed a warm towel, gently wiping between your legs with a tenderness that made you melt all over again. His hair was a mess, his chest peppered with bite marks, but his eyes never left yours—soft and so full of something it made your chest ache.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded, cupping his cheek. “I’m more than okay.”

He leaned into your touch, lips brushing your palm—and that’s when it changed.

His hand slid to your thigh, slow and deliberate.

His eyes flicked down. Then up. Then to the mirror behind you.

“Look at you,” he said softly. “You’re fucking glowing.”

You felt it, too.

The heat between your legs rising again.

The tension sparking all over your body.

“Hyunjin…”

He didn’t kiss you this time. Not at first.

He turned you around.

Gently. Slowly. Until your palms were pressed flat against the cool marble counter, your back arched just slightly, and your eyes locked to his through the reflection.

He stood behind you, hands running down your arms, then your sides, then gripping your hips from behind.

The mirror caught everything.

Your parted lips. Your flushed skin. The way your thighs clenched at the way he looked at you.

“You’re so fucking sexy like this,” he murmured into your ear, grinding against your ass with a low groan. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You whimpered. “Then show me.”

And he did.

You felt him again—hard, hot, thick—pressing into your entrance, slow and unbearable, until he was buried deep inside you once more.

Your mouth dropped open. His hands gripped your hips tighter.

And the mirror made it so much worse.

You could see the way his brows furrowed, the way his lip curled when he pulled back and slammed in again—your body jolting forward, your eyes fluttering shut as your moan echoed off the tile walls.

“Open your eyes,” he growled, fucking into you harder now. “Watch.”

And when you did—

You saw it all.

The way his body curved into yours.

The way your tits bounced with every thrust.

The way his jaw clenched, desperate, possessive, lost in you.

“You look so good like this,” he groaned. “Letting me fuck you in front of a mirror like a filthy little angel.”

You moaned. “Hyunjin—fuck—”

He reached around to grab your throat, just enough pressure to tilt your chin up—forcing you to hold the eye contact, to see the mess he was making of you.

“You love this,” he hissed. “Being ruined like this. Being mine.”

“I do,” you gasped. “I love you—Hyunjin, I love you so much—”

That shattered him.

He bent over you, caged you in with his arms, and pounded harder—deeper—his teeth scraping against your neck, his moans falling ragged against your ear.

“I love you too,” he choked. “I’m so in love with you—fuck, baby, I can’t hold back—”

Your body clenched. Your thighs trembled.

And when you came this time, you saw yourself unravel.

You watched the moment your face broke apart in the mirror—watched Hyunjin’s eyes lock to yours as he fucked you through it, whispering your name like a prayer as he came inside you again, deep and pulsing and perfect.

You collapsed against the counter, boneless and spent. He held you up, breathing hard, his chest pressed to your back as he kissed your shoulder softly.

“You wreck me,” he whispered.

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut.

“Good,” you breathed. “Because I’m not done wrecking you either.”

After the second round, your body was jelly.

Warm, aching, full of him—so full of him you could still feel the echo of his thrusts hours later.

Hyunjin carried you back to bed, wet towel slung over his shoulder, your skin freshly cleaned but your cheeks still flushed, your lips swollen from all the kissing. He tucked you into the sheets like you were sacred, brushing damp strands of hair from your face, placing the gentlest kiss to your forehead.

You curled into his chest, and for the first time in forever, your body truly relaxed.

“Did I hurt you?” he whispered, stroking your spine with featherlight fingers.

You shook your head, half-asleep. “You made me feel everything.”

His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer until you were tangled up in him again, your cheek pressed over his heartbeat.

He nuzzled into your hair. “Thinking back, I was so scared you wouldn’t let me in.”

“I almost didn’t,” you murmured, drowsy. “You really fucked up, Hyunjin.”

“I know,” he said, his voice low with guilt. “I was a coward. I thought pushing you away would protect me from messing it up, but I ended up hurting you worse. Hurting myself too.”

You shifted just enough to look up at him. His eyes were soft and open now. No walls. No distance.

“I never stopped loving you,” you said quietly.

His lips parted. “Even when I broke your heart?”

“Especially then,” you whispered.

The weight of that landed hard between you—and then he was kissing you again. Soft and slow, all emotion. No rush, no hunger this time. Just pure devotion. You moaned into it, wrapping your arms around his neck as he hovered over you, chest to chest, lips to lips.

He kissed your nose. Your eyelids. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth. He worshipped every inch like he was making up for lost time.

“You’re my everything,” he murmured. “I never want to be without you again.”

“Then don’t be,” you said. “I’m yours. Always.”

⸻

Spring came slowly that year.

The trees bloomed in soft pinks and pale greens, and everything felt like it was waking up again. You too.

It had been three months since that rainy night. Three months since Hyunjin stood in your doorway with his heart on his sleeve and yours clenched in his hands. Since you let him in—into your apartment, your bed, your life.

And now?

You were his.

Not in the possessive way he used to fear, but in the gentle, deliberate way that felt real. Solid. Like something that had been growing quietly beneath the surface all along, just waiting for the right season to bloom.

“Here,” Hyunjin said, setting a cup of tea on your desk as you buried yourself in editing your thesis. “Made it just the way you like it.”

You blinked up at him, smiling. “You’re spoiling me.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “You deserve it.”

He meant it. Every word. You could see it in his eyes now—no hesitation, no deflection. Just warmth. Confidence. Love.

Sometimes, you caught him staring when he thought you wouldn’t notice. His chin resting on his hand, gaze soft and open. Like he still couldn’t believe you were here, his. Like he was trying to memorize your face a hundred different ways.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you teased one night, sprawled on his couch with popcorn in your lap and your feet in his.

“Because I’m in love with you,” he said simply. “Still not over it.”

⸻

Your friend group got used to the change quickly.

Jiyeon called you “disgustingly cute” with a fake gag, but kept smiling after. Minho never said much—just gave Hyunjin a knowing look whenever they passed by each other and nodded once, like they had an understanding. No bad blood. Just quiet grace.

And the sex?

Still toe-curling. Still addictive.

But now it came with pillow talk. Inside jokes. Morning kisses and shared playlists. Him dancing you around the kitchen with pancake batter on your nose, hands on your hips, forehead against yours.

It came with safety. Intimacy. The kind of closeness that felt earned.

You’d been through every version of heartache with Hyunjin.

And now you were building every version of healing.

⸻

He took you on a picnic for your six-month anniversary.

Cherry blossoms in full bloom, a checkered blanket under the trees, his sketchbook in his lap as he tried to draw you mid-laugh—messy and imperfect, but so full of love.

“You know,” he said, glancing over the top of the page, “I used to be scared I’d ruin us if I ever crossed the line.”

You reached for his hand. “And now?”

He smiled. “Now I’m scared I’ll never be able to love anyone the way I love you.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his. Soft. Sure. Smitten.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because you’ll never have to.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Guys 🥹 I think I fell in love with Hyunjin all over again!!! And lord knows I TESTED myself with the amount of fluff a d emotions in this lmao.. anyway guys, we are hitting 1k soon and I’m so excited! 😭❤️ its been 3 months of writing back to back and there’s already so many fics in the masterlist! Thanks for all the support, love you guys!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @sagestarlight @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @universeyuto @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki

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rhyrhy · 19 hours ago

Text

Something Like Sin

Older!Farmhand! Abby x perv!farmers daughter R

CONTAINS: rough draft for a fic idea I had. MDNI. Religious guilt, impure thoughts, short.

She does it on purpose. You swear she does.

The lift of her shirt to swipe sweat from her forehead. Being sure you’re in her line of sight while she works. The small touches when passing by.

How could one woman weaken your resolve so much?

How, after a long day of doing nothing but giving your wet dreams more fuel, could she step into the main house and “report back”?

Listing everything she took care of—

That wobbly fence your belt loop always seemed to catch on. The left tire on your daddy’s truck that made that god-awful squeak when started in the early morning.

Everything but the small flicker of amusement she’d get when she caught your stare—or even just felt it.

The grumbling of your father’s “Sounds good, thanks again, Abbigail,” seeming more frequent than before.

Didn’t she fix that fence last week?

The only relief was writing it out.

The dark green journal that stayed tucked in the back pocket of worn jeans. Pages of thoughts, frustrations, fantasies.

And hidden in the back pages— Not passwords to the Wi-Fi, or the lockbox— Your feelings. The real ones. About her. Starting innocently from last summer, when she filled in for her father.

Jerry did honest work. Only lived a few roads down—he was the first person you called when things went belly-up. But he’s older now. Knees don’t work as well. So naturally, she came.

Quiet. Worked quickly. Efficient. Good hands are always welcome on the hundreds of acres your family owned.

Months of torture.

Farmhands came and went—but not her. She—Abbigail—always came back.

In your dreams.

And in the back pages of that journal.

June 5th, 2025

“She said she liked the top I was wearing last night. The one I swore I’d never wear again because of how tight it felt across my chest. But her eyes—they lingered. Just for a second. Long enough to make me feel bare. I didn’t sleep after that.”

God, you prayed she never read that one. But what was a girl like you calling on Him for? Impurities like that didn’t deserve His protection.

Sinners only thrive when hidden in the comfort of shadows.

When the sun greets the sky, the mask takes its place— In the form of the farmer’s daughter.

She made supper every evening, brought water to those helping hands, leaned into her daddy’s kisses on the forehead.

So busy being the golden girl, you—so worn—you didn’t notice that your back pocket was empty as you entered the house. Sleeping peacefully in your mattress. Farm dog Gracie barking occasionally when cars passed in the distance.

All while the green spine cracked open—

By fingers that didn’t hold the pen that stained the pages. With an ease, nothing rushed—like it had been done millions of times.

The pages flipped until their heart’s content.

Those same eyes watched you the next morning, messy hair falling as you lifted from your bed. In full view of the bay window warming the room.

The new day dances around you. Smiles and “you’re welcome”s, as usual. Until a voice sent panic striking through you like lightning.

“Not doodling in those pages of yours this mornin’?” your father said as you reached the bottom of the stairs, still slightly sleep-ridden.

No caffeine could wake someone faster. Your hand flew to your pockets. Eyes widening as the words stuck in your throat.

Where is it? Why didn’t I double-check last night? Did someone else find it? Your mind raced.

“Oh sweetheart, relax—you probably left it in your room,” your mother called out from the kitchen

Before they could say another word, the screen door flew open. Your boots crunched the gravel, bolting for the barn. You’d been there last night, writing to your heart’s content. Dreams of the future. Leaving the fields behind one day. Sending postcards to Momma with different cities attached.

But those weren’t the ones you were worried about.

A heaving chest and shaky fingers reached for the rusted latch. Greeted by moos, and Gracie sleeping near the ladder. Eyes searched the wooden floors, hands and knees warming as you looked.

And looked.

Where the hell is it? The furrow in your eyebrow deepened as did the pit in your stomach.

“You alright?” a voice called out a few feet away.

Your body jerked, a small gasp leaving you. Not expecting anyone else to be here. So early anyhow. Slowly lifting your head, trailing up the woman who almost seemed to have appeared.

Heavy boots, dark-washed jeans. That thick brown belt, silver buckle. A white beater lifted just enough to see that blonde happy trail that made your thighs squeeze together.

“Jesus, you scared me—yeah, I’m alright.”

You glanced to the woman with a quirked eyebrow at your position. Realizing how ridiculous you must’ve looked, you pushed to your feet. Hands dusting off your knees.

“Good morning, Ms. Anderson.” You stood slightly awkwardly, with a small head nod.

“I always tell you that just Abby is fine.” She smiled. “But good mornin’” The silence stretched out. Abby cleared her throat and spoke once more. “What are you looking for… in here?”

“Nothing, I just… thought I lost something in here. And now that I’ve checked… I’ll be on my way.” You gave a small smile, shifting to turn on your heels. Unable to hold that eye contact any longer.

“You sure?” “Because I found this—“ short fingers grazed something as she turned, reaching behind her. “on the floor.”

There it was. Thank God. Maybe He was listening.

“Oh! Thank you—little squirrel brain of mine sometimes.” A joke you forced out.

She huffed at the attempt and hummed “Don’t mention it.”

Your fingers brushed as you went to take it from her. Your heart rammed against your ribs. Pausing when she lifted it again slightly like she’d changed her mind. Eyes flickered to her face, meeting hers. Your hand now left with nothing as she teased it backwards. Only you heard her say—

“The way she moves—like she knows time will wait for her.” You froze. Your breath caught. Abby only tilted her head “That’s pretty, y’know? Like poetry.”

Oh, how sweet, you thought. Yet, Your heart pounded louder. How far did she read?

“Thank you…It’s nothing really. Just something I do when I’m bored.” You barely managed the words. They sounded distant, hollow in your mouth—like they belonged to someone else. Your hand closed around the journal like a secret you couldn’t bury fast enough. And then you turned. Quick. Too quick. Boots scraping against the barn floor. already vowing to be more careful next time.

That was a close one. Just leave, get this book of sin from her. Wanting to throw lighter fluid on it even. However, before you could make your escape she continued, the words burning in the light—

“Her eyes lingered. Just for a second. Long enough to make me feel bare.” Then with a small chuckle “That’s the line, ain’t it?”

Her silky voice cut through the air behind you, amusement wrapped around every word. You stopped cold. Turned slowly. “Didn’t sleep after that, huh?”

“What—what did you—” you stammered. “Oh lord—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for you to read—”

She cut you off with a soft laugh, stepping closer. “It’s alright, really”

“That’s a filthy little thought for a girl who says good morning like a church bell.” Her eyes flicked to the journal still clutched in your guilty hands.

“What else keeps you up at night, sweetheart?”

#abby anderson #abby anderson smut #older abby #abby anderson the last of us 2 #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson x female reader #abby tlou #rhysdrabbles #cowgirl abby #abby x fem!reader #x reader #abby anderson tlou2 #abby x reader #abby the last of us #abby anderson x reader #lgbtq #abby x you #abby smut

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joelsrose · 10 hours ago

Text

Dark Matter

i haven't written reed before but here we go! i hope yall enjoy xx

warnings: fingering, age gap? (reader is mid 20's), cheating (sorry sue), power-dynamic, semi-public

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

You walked into the lab the same way you always did—quietly, carefully, your notebook hugged to your chest like a shield, pages dog-eared and smudged with graphite, filled with half-solved equations, theoretical scribbles, and tiny margin doodles of molecules and stars.

The click of your heeled boots echoed off the cold, polished floor, a sound that somehow felt too loud in the stillness of the room. The air inside was always a little too cold, like the whole space was suspended in a vacuum—untouched by the warmth of human hands—but you liked it that way. It made you feel sharp, focused. Like anything could happen here. Like everything already had.

It had been exactly seven days since you started your internship under Mr. Richards—or Reed, as he’d insisted you call him on the very first day, his tone polite but firm, eyes flickering to yours with something unreadable when you stammered out “Dr. Richards” instead. The man was brilliant. Obviously. He was also deeply intimidating in the way only truly intelligent people could be—effortlessly so, like he didn’t notice the way the rest of the world bent around his mind.

He wasn’t cruel, not at all, but there was something about him that made your pulse skip whenever he turned to you with a question, something about the way he spoke in low, thoughtful tones, his hands always busy with some piece of machinery or scribbling formulas on the glass board like his thoughts couldn’t be contained by paper.

You’d been selected from a pool of thousands—won the LUMINA International Science Initiative, a fellowship that granted a single spot, once a year, to shadow one of the world’s leading innovators.

You never expected to get it. You’d submitted your proposal last-minute, half-convinced it was too ambitious, too naive. But something about it must’ve caught their attention—maybe your hypothesis on temporal field distortions, maybe the way you phrased it like a love letter to curiosity itself. Either way, it landed you here, standing just inside the threshold of the Baxter Building’s most secured lab, wearing your best skirt and your favorite boots, heart thudding in your chest like a metronome gone mad.

You adjusted your grip on your notebook and cleared your throat softly, the sound swallowed by the lab’s cavernous quiet. “Morning,” you offered, voice smaller than you meant, eyes sweeping the room for him—half-hoping he wasn’t here yet, half-hoping he was.

From behind one of the massive monitors, you heard the gentle clink of metal, followed by a low voice.

“You’re early.”

You turned and there he was, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collarbone peeking where his lab coat had come undone. His hair was tousled, like he’d been up for hours already, running his hands through it between equations. There was graphite smudged on his wrist, and a faint streak of oil down one thumb, and somehow that made him look even more untouchable. He glanced over his shoulder at you, then down at your notebook.

“More scribbles?” he asked, one corner of his mouth lifting—not quite a smile, but close enough to make your chest flutter.

You nodded, holding it out. “A few questions from last night. I kept thinking about the energy dispersion curve in the 5-D field model, and—well. It didn’t make sense that it plateaued. Not at those values.”

He took the notebook, flipping through the pages like he was reading a novel written in his own handwriting, then looked up at you with a sliver of something warmer in his gaze.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I think you might be the first person to ever challenge that curve. Everyone else just accepted it.”

You blinked. “Oh. I—didn’t mean to be... disrespectful or anything.”

“You weren’t.” He looked back at the page, his brow furrowing like he was genuinely considering your notes. “You’re just... asking the right questions.”

And the way he said that—asking the right questions—it made your cheeks heat, made your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag like you were suddenly fifteen again, flustered and awkward and unsure of what to say next, even though you were here because you belonged here, even though you were brilliant in your own quiet way.

He glanced at you again, slower this time, eyes scanning your face like he was watching a theory unfold in real time, and said, “Let’s run it. See if you’re right.” Just like that, like it was nothing, like it didn’t mean the world.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

Hours passed, though you barely noticed them. What started as a single equation quickly unraveled into an entire evening of hypotheses and recalibrations, the two of you moving around each other in this strange, quiet rhythm—typing, adjusting, scribbling, calculating, retrying, failing, fixing, retrying again.

The room had fallen into that kind of sacred stillness where every noise felt sharper—the whir of machines, the scratch of pencils, the occasional creak of the stool beneath you. Every time a result came back wrong, you’d lean in beside him and try again. Every time it came back right, your shoulders would touch, just barely, and you’d both say nothing.

And then it happened again—casual, effortless—Reed stretched.

This time, to grab his phone from across the room without moving from his chair, his arm extending impossibly far and elegant, fingers curling around the device with that same practiced ease, like it was just another part of his body responding to his mind. You watched it happen with that same quiet awe you always did, eyes following the length of his arm as it retracted, as he settled back into himself like it hadn’t been strange at all, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t even the stretch itself, not really—it was the nonchalance, the way he didn’t even think about it. But you did. You thought about it too much.

You were still thinking about it when he glanced at his screen, a quiet frown flickering across his face.

“It’s eight already,” he murmured, thumbing through a text. “We’ve been here all day.”

You blinked, surprised by the time, and then watched as his expression shifted—something soft and faintly guilty tugging at the edge of his mouth as he read whatever had been sent to him.

“Sue made dinner,” he said after a beat, sighing, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand like he hadn’t sat down for a proper meal in days. “Guess I should…”

He trailed off as he stood, the chair sliding back with a scrape, and something in your chest twisted—tight and unexpected. Not sharp enough to hurt, but deep enough to notice.

You weren’t sure if it was jealousy, exactly, but there was something inside you that ached a little at the thought of him leaving. At the thought of him sitting across from someone else, in a warm apartment somewhere above the city, eating food someone else had made for him, laughing over things that had nothing to do with lab results or radiation curves or the way your hands always trembled just slightly when he got too close.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he glanced back at you with one brow arched, curious, amused, his coat slung half over his arm and a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Something wrong?” he asked, voice low and too steady, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it.

“No,” you said quickly, too quickly, the word tripping over itself on your tongue. “No, nothing.”

He looked at you for a long second, long enough that your skin prickled under the weight of it, his eyes steady and a little too knowing, like he could see past your flustered expression and straight into the chaos of your thoughts. Then—he chuckled, soft and brief, like the sound had slipped out before he could stop it, low and warm and close enough to make your pulse stutter.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, not in disapproval, but something more bemused—like he found you endlessly curious and had all the time in the world to figure you out.

You ducked your head, the heat rising in your cheeks again, blooming in a flush that you tried to suppress with a tight little smile, your fingers worrying the corner of your notebook as though it could ground you, steady you, hide the fact that your heart was now pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.

Then his voice came again, low and coaxing, that soft velvet drawl of someone deeply used to being the smartest man in the room—“Come on,” he said, “what’s going on in that brilliant mind?”

And you should’ve lied. You should’ve laughed it off, said something safe, something neutral, something clever and unassuming and appropriately scientific. But your brain had been wandering all week—had been drifting there over and over again, uninvited, unwelcome, inappropriate, gnawing at the edges of your curiosity in the quiet moments between experiments.

You’d tried not to think about it, tried not to let your gaze linger when he stretched, tried not to imagine what else could stretch, how far, how much, how deeply.

And somehow—somehow—it slipped out of your mouth before your brain had a chance to intercept it, just a whisper of a thought spoken aloud, soft and breathless and too curious to be innocent.

“Does everything stretch?”

The silence that followed was instant and absolute.

You heard it in the way the machines kept humming but your breath caught.

You felt it in the way Reed’s eyes snapped to yours, too quickly, like he wasn’t expecting that.

And you saw it—oh, you saw it—in the way he froze, the way the lines at the corners of his mouth shifted, lips parting slightly like he was about to speak but couldn’t quite remember how.

Your eyes widened almost immediately, your whole body locking in mortified horror, hands flying up to your face as if that could undo what you’d just said, as if that could pull the words back into your throat and shove them into the void where they belonged.

“Oh my God—I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that, I swear—I swear, it was just—I was talking about your arm, I mean your body—not your—oh God, not your body body, I meant your abilities, like biologically—scientifically—I’m so sorry—”

You were rambling now, barely breathing between the words, voice growing higher and faster with every sentence, and he was still just looking at you, still absolutely silent, like you’d short-circuited him and he was trying not to let it show. His expression hadn’t changed much—but his eyes were different now, darker maybe, or maybe just sharper, like a wire had pulled taut somewhere beneath his usually-calm exterior.

Then—finally—he blinked.

And his mouth twitched.

Not a smirk. Not quite. But close. Very, very close.

“Everything?” he echoed softly, voice rough around the edges like it had dropped an octave without permission.

You wanted to melt through the floor.

“Forget I said anything,” you mumbled, practically squeaked, your hands halfway up your face now, notebook clutched uselessly against your chest like a shield made of paper and shame.

But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just looked at you for another long moment, like he was tucking the question away in some private drawer of his mind, like he was considering it—you—carefully.

And then he said, his voice quiet and unreadable. “Some things stretch more than others.”

He said it with the same offhand ease he might’ve used to mention the weather or the results of an equation, as if the words weren’t heavy with meaning, as if they didn’t land like a struck tuning fork in the center of your chest and hum there, low and electric. And then—just like that—he glanced at the time again, slipped his phone into the inside pocket of his coat, his fingers moving with quiet efficiency, and looked toward the door without even a flicker of hesitation in his expression.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, voice smooth and calm, like it had all been nothing—your question, his answer, the unbearable silence that followed—like he hadn’t just reduced you to a trembling, wide-eyed mess with five words and a look you couldn’t quite decipher.

And then he turned and walked out, his footsteps steady and unhurried, as though the entire moment hadn’t happened, as though he hadn’t noticed the way your breath had caught or your lips had parted slightly or the way your fingers had curled around your notebook like you were holding onto it for dear life. The door eased shut behind him with a soft, final click, and the silence that followed felt far too loud, as if the air itself had been holding its breath and now didn’t know what to do with the tension left behind.

You stood there for a moment, completely still, eyes fixed on the door like he might come back—might say something, might clarify or laugh or admit that yes, that had been what you thought it was, that you weren’t imagining the way his gaze had sharpened, the subtle shift in his voice, the pause before he’d answered like he was trying to decide how honest he wanted to be.

But the door stayed shut. The lab was quiet. And your face was burning.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

The next morning, you thought about quitting.

No—worse—you thought about being removed, escorted out of the lab with quiet, professional shame, the faculty committee shaking their heads at the girl who couldn’t keep her thoughts scientific. You’d spent the entire night twisted in sheets and mortification, staring at the ceiling of your tiny dorm room with cheeks that wouldn’t stop burning and hands that kept curling into fists against your pillow, your mind looping the same sentence over and over like a taunt.

Does everything stretch?

It had sounded so much worse in hindsight. In your head, it was a purely biological question—curiosity, theoretical, relevant. But the moment it left your lips, soft and shy and tilted with unintended suggestion, you’d felt the way it landed. The way his eyes had flickered. The way his voice had dropped just a hair lower. The way he’d looked at you after.

And then he walked out like it was nothing.

Which somehow made it worse.

So when you walked into the lab that morning, notebook clutched to your chest like a shield, heart crawling up the back of your throat with every step, you were fully prepared for disaster—for tension, awkwardness, maybe even polite dismissal. But he was already there, of course he was—leaning over one of the central consoles with his sleeves rolled, hair still rumpled from sleep, lips pursed slightly in thought as he ran through some new readout, a mug half-full of black coffee resting near his elbow.

And when he glanced up at you?

Everything was... fine.

He offered you a brief, familiar nod, the same one he always did, and then gestured to a screen without so much as a hint of discomfort, as if the night before had been a dream, as if you hadn’t asked the most humiliating question of your life and then spiraled into a dimension of shame he probably discovered himself.

You blinked, stunned by the ease of it, by the way he moved through the morning without even a trace of tension, without a single flinch. It was—professional. Cordial. Kind.

And strangely, that grounded you.

The day unfolded slowly, then steadily—small victories, clarified hypotheses, new data sets—and your body slowly began to relax into the rhythm you’d started to love, the silent teamwork of minds that trusted each other. And even though he hadn’t said anything beyond the work, even though the stretch of time passed with nothing but research and updates, you caught yourself looking again—watching the way his hands moved, the way he’d lean into the screen, the way he thought so deeply with his whole body, and the way you were beginning to understand him in ways that had nothing to do with science.

It wasn’t until late afternoon, when the sun outside had dipped low enough to cast long gold shadows across the lab floor, that he finally spoke without referencing an equation.

“Sue was asking about you,” he said casually, eyes still on his screen, voice calm as if he didn’t know he’d just sent your stomach tumbling.

You blinked, startled. “Oh?”

He nodded once, the motion subtle. “Think I’ve been talking too much about how smart you are.”

Your breath caught in your throat and then returned all at once in a rush of heat to your face. You looked away, your lips parting slightly as your blush bloomed across your cheeks, creeping down your neck, the words lingering like sunlight on your skin.

“She wants to meet you,” he continued, finally glancing over at you with that steady, unreadable gaze that always made you feel a little exposed, a little unsteady.

“Really?” you asked, blinking up at him, your voice too soft, too unsure. “I—I mean, I’d be honored.”

He chuckled, quiet and amused, and God, it made your heart stutter.

“Tonight?” he asked, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Your lips parted again. “Tonight?” you echoed, because your brain was clearly still catching up.

He tilted his head, expression flickering with something close to amusement. “Unless you’re busy,” he said smoothly. “Or unless you were planning on camping out here all night again, trying to crack the wavefield inversion curve without sleeping or eating—because that does sound like you.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, the sound escaping like a sigh, soft and a little breathless, and he smiled—genuine and rare, the kind that made your knees feel unsteady and your chest warm.

You shook your head, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. “No,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not busy.”

“Good,” he said, his smile deepening just slightly. “I’ll see you for dinner then.”

And with that, he turned back to his screen, the moment slipping away like mist, but the warmth of it stayed, curling low and steady in your chest.

You were going to dinner. With Reed Richards. And Sue Storm.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

The Baxter Building stood tall and impossible in the heart of the city, its sleek, glinting frame catching the last of the golden evening light like it had been plucked from some distant future and set gently down in Manhattan.

The security in the lobby had let you through without question, as if they’d been expecting you, as if your name already belonged in the same breath as Reed Richards and Sue Storm, and that thought alone made your stomach twist with something between awe and panic as you stepped into the elevator.

It was silent inside—sterile and smooth, the walls a brushed metal that reflected the softest version of your silhouette back at you, almost dreamlike. You stared at your reflection for a moment, adjusting the bottle of wine you held with both hands, the paper bag crinkling slightly beneath your fingertips.

You’d picked it up on the way here after spending a full thirty minutes in the wine shop pretending to know what pairs with intellectual dinner parties hosted by superheroes. You smoothed the front of your dress—a soft, modest thing that you’d chosen carefully, something that felt like you, but maybe a little prettier, a little more delicate than usual, your lips painted just faintly, enough to make you feel like you were trying without looking like you were trying.

You exhaled slowly, barely noticing the way the elevator glided up without a sound, your heartbeat louder than anything around you. Your thoughts raced, of course they did—what if it was too much? What if you shouldn’t have come? What if he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, that subtle curve of his voice when he said see you at dinner, the glint in his eye, the way his attention had lingered for just a moment too long?

The elevator chimed softly.

The doors opened.

And then— There he was.

Reed stood just inside the threshold, one hand braced casually on the edge of the doorway, the other slipping his phone into his back pocket like he’d only just finished checking something, his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, collarbone peeking slightly where his top button had been left undone, no tie, no lab coat—just a simple, perfectly tailored shirt that made your brain stutter for half a beat.

His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it absentmindedly more than once, and there was a tiny streak of ink or maybe graphite on his knuckle that hadn’t been washed off completely.

It was Reed, but not the version of him you’d grown used to seeing in the lab, not the hyper-focused, brilliant blur of intellect you worked beside every day—this Reed looked like he’d been waiting. For you.

His eyes moved over you slowly—once, all the way down and back up again, not rushed, not obvious, but deliberate enough that you felt it everywhere, like heat pressing into the skin of your chest and the backs of your knees, your fingers tightening instinctively around the bottle you were holding.

He didn’t say anything at first, just quirked the corner of his mouth into something halfway between a smirk and a smile, soft but amused, his gaze still lingering just a little too long.

“You clean up well,” he said finally, voice lower than usual, not teasing exactly—more like he was confessing something he hadn’t meant to say aloud.

Your mouth parted slightly, but your voice caught, and when you finally managed to speak, it came out soft and a little breathless. “I—brought wine.”

He glanced down at the bottle, then back at you, his smile deepening just enough to make your heart skip. “Dangerously overqualified,” he murmured, stepping back to let you in. “Smart and thoughtful. Sue’s going to love you.”

You stepped past him into the apartment, the warmth of the space wrapping around you instantly, the scent of dinner and city lights and him curling at the edge of your senses, and even as you tried to focus on your breathing, on your posture, on not tripping in your kitten heels, you could still feel the echo of his eyes on your skin, like he hadn’t really stopped looking.

The apartment unfolded around you like a page in some impossibly curated design magazine, only softer, warmer, more lived-in than anything artificial—clean, modern lines met rich textures, brushed steel softened by warm walnut floors and deep navy accents that glowed golden under the cascade of low, amber-hued lighting.

One entire wall was glass, and beyond it, the Manhattan skyline burned softly against the horizon, city lights just starting to glitter like distant stars, and even the air inside smelled expensive and comforting—like slow-cooked herbs and something faintly sweet.

You were still catching your breath, still clutching the wine like a lifeline, when you heard a voice float in from down the hall—clear, warm, and unmistakably female.

“There she is.”

Sue Storm walked into view like she had been sculpted from light itself—tall and impossibly graceful, wrapped in soft neutral fabrics that draped just right, her golden hair falling in loose waves that framed her face perfectly, her eyes a crystalline blue that held a kind of sharpness you immediately respected.

She was breathtaking, in that way women are when they know who they are, and the moment she looked at you, her whole expression softened with something kind and curious and real.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said with a small smile, her voice smooth like honey stirred into tea, her gaze never once breaking from yours.

“Hi,” you breathed, the word escaping before you could shape it into anything more eloquent. “It’s such an honor to meet you.”

She waved you off with a flick of her manicured fingers, as if the formality embarrassed her. “Please,” she said with a light laugh, stepping closer. “The way my husband talks about you? I’m the one who’s honored.”

And you blushed so hard you felt it in your ears, your whole body warming beneath the soft light, fingers tightening just slightly around the neck of the bottle as you dipped your head in modest disbelief, not quite sure if you should laugh or hide.

Reed, who had stepped away to adjust the music or maybe just give you a moment, said nothing, but you felt the weight of his glance again—the quiet satisfaction in the corners of his mouth like this was exactly what he wanted: you here, now, nervous but luminous, admired and welcomed.

“Come in,” Sue insisted gently, her hand brushing your arm in a way that grounded you immediately. “Dinner’s almost ready. I made way too much food—he said you don’t eat much, but I never trust him when he says that. He’s never once finished a plate himself.”

You smiled, heart still beating a little too fast, and followed her deeper into the space, the sound of your shoes soft against the hardwood, the city glowing quietly beyond the windows as if watching you take your first steps into something bigger than an internship—something warmer, more dangerous, and far more personal.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

Dinner was lovely—elegant but warm, the kind of meal that felt intimate without trying, served at a long polished table that glowed honey-gold under the overhead lights, the city sparkling just beyond the glass like a living mural.

You sat across from them, Reed to your left, Sue across from you, and despite the tight coil of nerves you’d carried into the evening, it was… comfortable.

Sue had a way of making you feel like you belonged, like you weren’t just a guest in the home of two of the most brilliant minds on the planet, but someone worth sitting at their table, someone they genuinely wanted to know.

You found yourself watching them more than you meant to—Sue leaning toward him with quiet laughter, Reed murmuring something back without looking up from his wine glass, the two of them moving in the kind of rhythm that only came from years of intimacy and quiet understanding. And still, as you watched them, something bloomed low and warm in your stomach—not jealousy, exactly, but a kind of quiet ache, a fascination that hummed beneath your skin, a longing that had less to do with their relationship and more to do with him.

You were still chasing the thread of that thought when Sue turned to you again, eyes bright with interest.

“So,” she said, “how did you get interested in all of this?”

You blinked, startled out of your reverie, and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear with a shy smile. “Well,” you began softly, glancing down at your plate before meeting her gaze again, “ever since I was a kid, I just… I always wanted to understand how the world worked. The math, the movement, the rules. I remember watching the stars and thinking—that’s what I want to learn. That’s what I want to be part of.”

Sue offered you a warm smile, nodding in that gentle, encouraging way that made you feel like your words mattered, like they weren’t small or naïve or too eager. “Well,” she said, “it’s always nice seeing young people interested in this kind of work—especially a fellow…” she paused, grinning as she reached for her glass, “…girl genius.”

You laughed softly, cheeks warm, about to reply with something awkward and grateful and probably too modest—when it happened.

You felt it.

Unmistakable.

A hand. Large, warm, and undeniably real, sliding gently across your thigh under the table.

Your heart stopped. Your breath caught somewhere high in your chest, your eyes flickering toward Reed so quickly you barely caught Sue sipping her wine across from you. But he didn’t look at you—not exactly. His gaze remained calm and forward, his profile composed and entirely unreadable as he took a slow sip of his wine and then glanced up at Sue, his hand still resting firmly on your leg.

“She’s brilliant,” he said casually, his voice smooth and even, like he was commenting on the weather, like he wasn’t currently touching you from across the table while sitting next to his wife.

You sat frozen, pulse thundering in your ears, body rigid but electrified, your fingers tightening ever so slightly around the stem of your glass as you tried to focus, to breathe, to not move.

“She corrected me the other day about a flux equation I wrote in ’04,” he continued, eyes finally drifting to meet yours—and holding there, steady and direct, a silent dare written behind his calm expression. “She was right, too.”

Sue laughed, clearly delighted. “Good. God knows someone needs to keep you in check.”

You could barely hear her. Could barely focus on anything except the heat of Reed’s hand, the way it pressed gently into the top of your thigh, just enough to let you know it was real, just enough to make your stomach twist with something hot and shivery and shamefully thrilling.

And then—his hand moved.

Not in that subtle, polite way you might’ve been able to ignore or convince yourself had been some kind of misunderstanding, not a graze or a twitch or something incidental—but deliberate, slow, intentional, his palm sliding higher, slipping beneath the hem of your dress in a single fluid motion that felt so impossibly confident it made your entire body lock up at once.

The heat of his skin against your thigh stole the breath from your lungs, and when his fingers skimmed the delicate edge of your underwear, just barely brushing the fabric, you felt your heart climb straight into your throat and stay there.

You almost choked on your wine.

The glass halted halfway to your lips, your hands trembling just enough for the crystal to click against your teeth, and you let out a strange, stifled sound—half gasp, half cough—your eyes wide, your posture going ramrod straight as you struggled to swallow the panic and arousal crawling up your spine in tandem.

“You alright?” Sue asked gently, glancing up from her plate with concern etched between her brows, the picture of warmth and kindness and everything undeserving of what was happening beneath her dinner table.

“Yes,” you stammered, too quickly, the syllable snapping out of your mouth like it had been fired from a slingshot, your cheeks flushed a deep, telltale red as you nodded a little too hard. “I’m fine. Just—went down the wrong way.”

Across from you, Reed glanced up from his glass at the sound of your voice, his expression calm—no, worse than calm—amused, like he was enjoying watching you fall apart in real time, like he was studying the way you squirmed and flushed and fidgeted with quiet, academic satisfaction. His fingers moved—barely a shift, just enough to press the pad of his thumb along the inside of your thigh, skimming the thin lace of your panties with a featherlight drag that made your vision blur for a moment, your teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek to stop a sound from escaping.

Sue kept talking, mercifully, unaware of the silent war happening beneath the table, and you tried to nod along, tried to pretend you were still following the story she was telling about something at the foundation gala last week, but Reed’s hand was still moving—so slowly, so wickedly gentle, fingers drifting along the edge of the fabric like he was memorizing it, teasing it, learning every soft line of you with nothing more than a ghost of touch and that insufferable, unreadable look in his eyes.

You were blushing so fiercely now you were sure it had reached your chest, heat blooming down your neck like a fever, your knees squeezing together reflexively beneath the table as your breathing turned shallow, chest rising and falling in a way that did not feel casual anymore.

“Are you hot, honey?” Sue asked suddenly, concern returning to her voice, her eyes flickering to your cheeks. “A house full of so-called geniuses and we still haven’t figured out how to fix the aircon properly. I’ll be back—I’ll check the thermostat.”

And before you could answer—before you could find any response at all—she stood, placing her napkin neatly beside her plate and disappearing down the hall with a rustle of fabric and the click of her heels.

The door hadn’t even shut all the way before Reed finally spoke, low and calm and just for you, his fingers still resting against the soft, soaked curve of you beneath your panties.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, voice a dark, honey-dipped whisper that sent shivers straight through your bones. “Don’t stop now.”

“Reed—” you stammered, your voice cracking under the strain of your own name trembling on your lips, barely more than a whisper, a breath caught halfway between panic and disbelief, your thighs squeezing together out of instinct, out of desperation, out of need you didn’t yet know how to name. “What are you—”

He didn’t lean in.

He didn’t move closer.

He didn’t even blink.

He simply sat there, on the opposite side of the table, one elbow resting near his wine glass, the other arm subtly stretched beneath the surface like a quiet secret unraveling in the dark, and his voice, when it came, was soft and low and steady.

“Tell me to stop.”

And as he said it—calm, impossible, infuriatingly composed—you felt it: the cool air against your skin, your panties slipping down your thighs with a slow, torturous grace, peeled away by a hand that wasn’t even near you, stretched from across the table, precise and gentle and unspeakably brazen. The fabric caught just slightly at your knees before his fingers nudged it past, and you sat there frozen, wide-eyed, red-faced, with your dress pooled neatly over your lap and nothing beneath it now but heat and humiliation and the thundering pulse between your legs.

“Reed—” you breathed again, barely able to shape the word, and his gaze met yours in that maddening, quiet way—no urgency, no shame, only that still, measured calm that made your insides tremble, as if he was watching a reaction unfold under glass.

And then—

Sue's heels clicked softly on the polished floor as she entered the room again, moving with that effortless, elegant grace as she crossed behind you and returned to her seat.

“That should fix it,” she said lightly as she sat, her smile warm and unbothered, her tone casual as if nothing had changed in the few moments she’d been gone.

You turned toward her, your face flaming, your smile shaky and paper-thin as you tried to find your voice again, tried to stitch together whatever pieces of yourself hadn’t yet dissolved under Reed’s hand, which now rested high on your bare thigh like it belonged there.

“Thank you,” you managed softly, the words nearly catching on the breath that refused to sit still in your chest, and somehow, impossibly, you held her gaze.

And across from you, Reed Richards—calm, brilliant, monstrous in his control—simply took another sip of wine.

You tried to focus, truly you did—on Sue, on her words, on the soft clinking of silverware and the gentle thrum of jazz somewhere in the background—but all of it became nothing more than a blur of light and noise the moment his fingers moved again, slow and purposeful, the stretch of his arm impossibly seamless beneath the table, as if he could command every tendon, every muscle, with surgical precision.

He didn’t even shift in his seat, didn’t look down, didn’t so much as twitch, and yet—you felt him, truly felt him now, his fingers slipping between your thighs with exquisite control, brushing over your bare, trembling core with a deliberate slowness that made you forget how to hold your breath steady.

And then—he pushed.

Just one finger at first, and it was too much, because it was him, because it was stretched impossibly long and thick, curling up with inhuman ease, reaching deeper than anyone had ever dared, pressing into you like he already knew exactly where to go, what you needed, like he’d studied your anatomy and had all the answers memorized.

Your thighs tightened automatically, knees trembling under the weight of holding in a sound you very nearly let out, and your hands clenched into your lap, the wine glass beside you forgotten, your whole body alight with the unbearable tension of being touched like this—open, pulsing, absolutely undone—and doing nothing about it.

And then—

“Why don’t you explain to Sue what we went over the other day,” Reed said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just buried his finger inside you under the dinner table, as if he wasn’t slowly crooking it up to find that sweet, aching spot that made your stomach twist and your eyes nearly flutter shut.

You froze.

“What?” you whispered, blinking at him.

He offered a slight tilt of his head, his eyes resting on yours with a look of calm expectation—amusement, even—and then shifted his gaze to Sue, who was looking at you with the kindest, most open smile, entirely oblivious.

“The resonance collapse formula,” Reed said helpfully, voice steady. “She corrected one of my assumptions about it earlier this week. She’s sharper than she lets on.”

He curled his finger again.

And it took everything in you not to cry out.

You blinked rapidly, your lips parting around a breath that wasn’t quite a word, trying to remember the theory, the math, the basic principles of language, but all you could feel was the stretch inside you, the thick, gentle press of him moving in slow, unrelenting circles, coaxing you open without haste, without apology, without shame.

“I—” you started, your voice embarrassingly thin, “we—uh, we talked about—about the resonance curve failing at the threshold of—”

He added a second finger.

Your breath caught so hard you coughed, the burn of it tight in your chest, and you reached for your water like it might ground you, like the coolness of the glass could balance out the unbearable heat pulsing between your legs.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Sue asked again, concerned.

You forced a smile, shaking your head quickly, eyes wet with the effort to look normal, to act normal, when Reed’s fingers were pushing deeper now, stretching you in a way that was obscene, careful, perfect, and somehow managing to keep the rhythm slow and steady, barely moving, just enough to make you drip helplessly onto his knuckles under the table while you tried to describe a physics principle with your body unraveling second by second.

“I’m okay,” you managed to whisper, voice too soft, too high.

Reed’s thumb brushed upward. You jolted. He smiled—just slightly.

“You were saying?” he asked gently.

You wanted to cry. Or scream. Or crawl under the table and never come out.

Instead, you looked up, cheeks flushed, throat tight, and murmured, “We adjusted the decay rate curve based on the harmonic threshold failing beyond point-six-three, and—and recalibrated the control conditions to reflect a more dynamic waveform—”

His fingers pressed up, deep, and you gasped—but you made it sound like awe, like wonder.

Sue beamed at you. “That’s amazing.”

You blinked, barely nodding, and Reed—still untouched himself, still seated like a man entirely at ease—just gave you the faintest smile across the table, like he was proud of you. Like you had passed some unspeakable test.

You weren’t sure when it changed—when Reed’s fingers, once so slow and exploratory, shifted their rhythm, no longer teasing but deliberate, their movement suddenly quickening beneath the tablecloth, each stroke firmer, deeper, more precise, curling up into that one devastating place inside you with the kind of methodical expertise that only a man like him could possess.

His thumb pressed again and again against your swollen clit in quiet, unrelenting circles, and it was obscene, unbelievably obscene, because he was still sitting across from you, back straight, shoulders calm, expression thoughtful and polite as Sue continued her story—talking about an ambassador, or a charity gala, or maybe a speech she gave—and you couldn’t hear a single word of it.

Because you were about to come.

Right there. At their dinner table.

Your thighs were trembling beneath the fabric of your dress, your body pulled taut like a string about to snap, nerves alight and burning in every limb, and you could feel it rising, fast and hot, building in your belly like a storm, spreading up through your spine with every practiced motion of his hand—stretched from across the table, long and dexterous and hidden beneath the soft, quiet clink of silverware.

You were soaked, dripping, pulsing around his fingers, and he knew. Of course he knew. He could feel every flutter, every desperate little squeeze your body gave him, and when he looked at you—really looked at you—his eyes burned with a satisfaction so soft it felt like praise.

You tried to hold it back. God, you tried. Your nails dug into the fabric of your skirt, your breathing shallow and uneven, your lashes fluttering as you ducked your head and bit into the back of your hand, trying to hide the sound, trying to bury the moan that threatened to rip itself from your throat. You were right on the edge, hovering there, helpless, when—

DING!

The sound of the oven’s timer rang out sharply through the kitchen, perfectly, cruelly timed—at the exact second you broke apart, your body shuddering around his fingers as the climax hit you so hard and fast you saw stars behind your eyes. You muffled the moan with your hand, trembling violently in your chair as you faked a cough so sharp it made Sue look up, concerned, just as she was standing to go check the dessert.

“Poor thing,” she said sweetly, already halfway out of the room, completely unaware of what had just happened right beneath her nose. “Let me go grab the cobbler—Reed, didn’t I tell you to turn on the vent fan for the oven? It smells like caramelized sugar in here.”

You barely managed to nod, your breath still stuttering in your chest, the taste of your own bitten-down moan lingering in your mouth like smoke, your vision wet and dizzy as you tried to collect yourself—but it was impossible, completely impossible, because Reed was still watching you, still calm, still composed, still seated like nothing had happened at all, as though his fingers hadn’t just coaxed your orgasm from you with the kind of precision that only a man with endless patience and supernatural reach could possess.

And then—he moved.

His hand, the one he had just pulled back from beneath your dress, rose slowly from beneath the table, casual, unhurried, and with the sort of smooth detachment that made your blood run hot all over again. You watched—helpless, horrified, entranced—as he brought his fingers to his mouth, his expression unreadable but his gaze never leaving yours, and then—

He licked them.

Just the tips. Just a quiet, deliberate motion—his tongue flicking out to drag across the pads of his fingers with unbearable slowness, like a man tasting something rare and sacred, like someone who savored knowledge, savored reactions, savored you—and your breath caught so hard it made your throat ache, your hands clenched in your lap, body still trembling beneath the table.

And that was the exact moment Sue walked back in.

The tray in her hands held a golden, bubbling dish still steaming at the edges, a pitcher of vanilla sauce tucked beside it, and she moved with the same easy grace she always had, placing the dish gently in the center of the table as the scent of caramelized fruit and butter filled the space.

“Was the sauce that good?” she asked with a light laugh, glancing over just in time to see her husband finishing his little motion, his fingers slipping from his mouth like it was nothing at all. “You just licked your fingers like you hadn’t eaten in days.”

Your entire body tensed.

Reed—calm, collected, horrifyingly composed—didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head toward her, then turned back to you, his eyes locking with yours across the table, his gaze heavy with meaning, with memory, with the weight of what he’d just done to you, and said, without a flicker of shame—

“Delicious.”

Your stomach dropped. Your cheeks flamed. You looked away instantly, your eyes darting toward your lap, toward your empty plate, toward anywhere that wasn’t him, your skin hot and crawling with mortification, your thighs pressed tight together under the table, still slick and tender and sensitive as hell, and now—now you had to eat dessert.

With him. With her. With the taste of your orgasm still on his mouth.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

You said your goodbyes to Sue as sweetly and shakily as you could manage, your voice still thin and breathless from the quiet ruin Reed had left you in, the remnants of your orgasm still echoing in your body like a pulse you couldn’t calm, and still—still—you smiled, you nodded, you played the part of the polite, well-mannered girl who had not just come in silence at the dinner table. Sue hugged you lightly at the door, warm and soft and lovely, thanking you for coming and saying how nice it was to meet you, her words kind and sincere, her smile so genuine it made you ache.

“We’ll have to do this again,” she said gently, her voice carrying no suspicion, no awareness, only the comfort of a woman who’d welcomed you into her home and truly meant it.

“It was an honor,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper, eyes lowered, fingers nervously wrapped around the strap of your bag, heart pounding loud and unrelenting in your chest.

Reed appeared behind you then, as if summoned by the rhythm of your exit, and without saying anything, without asking, he moved to walk you out, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back—a simple gesture, one that should’ve been harmless, innocent, but that felt anything but, especially after what those fingers had just done to you beneath a tablecloth in the dim golden light of a family dining room.

The door clicked shut behind the two of you, and the hallway beyond was quiet, cool, and still, a soft hum from the city beyond the glass, but the silence between you buzzed with something thicker, darker, more intimate than you could bear. He said nothing at first, only walked beside you with slow, unhurried steps, like the moment hadn’t already been branded into both your bodies, like he hadn’t watched you fall apart with your hand over your mouth while his wife got dessert.

At the door to the elevator, he stopped, and you turned toward him, still too flustered to meet his eyes, still trying to hold yourself together with trembling fingers and shallow breaths, your lashes lowered as you whispered, “Thank you for… dinner.”

His response came after a pause, his voice smooth, impossibly steady. “You were perfect.”

You froze—eyes flicking up, breath catching—and found him watching you with that same calm, unreadable expression, but there was something beneath it now, something warmer and darker and dangerous, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth that made your knees weaken all over again.

“Good girl,” he added softly, low enough that only you could hear it, and the elevator doors opened behind you with a soft ding, cool air spilling out into the hallway like a breeze that didn’t belong.

You stepped inside on trembling legs, unsure if you remembered how to breathe, and as the doors began to close, you looked back—just once—and there he was, standing exactly as he had before, his hands in his pockets, head tilted ever so slightly, still watching you, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t wait to take apart again.

And when the doors shut fully, sealing you into silence, your hand finally flew to your chest.

Because you had just survived dinner. Barely. And you weren’t sure you’d ever be the same again.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

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sumluckr · 24 hours ago

Text

Wolf at the door

Pairing: Geum Seong-je x female reader

Summary: One impulsive night leads to a secret you can’t escape. When your sister brings home her new boyfriend, everything you tried to forget comes back to haunt you.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, blackmail, toxic dynamics, non-consensual power dynamics and psychological manipulation.

The bass-heavy music thrums through your body as neon lights flash across the packed club. You stand at the edge of the dance floor, heart rattling in your chest. This isn’t you – or at least, it’s not the you everyone knows. Good girls from respectable families don’t sneak into clubs on a weeknight, don’t let strangers buy them drinks, and definitely don’t fantasize about reckless, illicit thrills. But tonight, you’ve shed your perfect-student skin. Tonight, you’re rebellion in a short black dress, determined to forget the suffocating expectations that cling to you like a second skin.

You down the last of your cocktail, sweetness and alcohol burning down your throat, and sway your hips to the music. It’s dizzying and a little liberating to be here alone – no parents hovering, no teachers, no judgment. Just for a few hours, you want to be someone else, someone free and bold and bad. Your eyes drift over the sea of strangers under pulsing strobe lights. Bodies move in dark silhouette. Laughter and shouts cut through the throbbing bass.

That’s when you feel his eyes on you – a prickle of heat at the back of your neck. You glance over your shoulder and catch sight of a figure lounging against the wall near the bathroom hallway. Even in the erratic neon glow, he stands out. Tall and lean, he’s dressed in a fitted black jacket and ripped jeans, exuding a casual menace. His hair is dark, a few unruly strands falling over one eye. And those eyes… fixed on you with an intensity that sends a thrill up your spine. In the shifting light, you can’t discern their color – only that his gaze is bold, unabashed, and dangerous.

Your pulse skips. A sensible voice in your head whispers that nothing good can come from locking eyes with a stranger like him. He’s exactly the kind of boy you’ve always been warned about – the kind your parents would never approve of, the kind who radiates trouble. Perhaps that’s precisely why you hold his gaze a second longer than you should. Why a spark of defiance flares to life inside you, challenging your own good sense.

He smirks when he sees you looking. It’s a lazy, confident curve of his lips, as if he finds your attention amusing. Under the flashing club lights, he pushes off the wall and begins to cross the room toward you. Instinctively, your breath catches. He moves with a predatory grace, weaving through the crowd without taking his eyes off you, as though he’s already decided you will be his next conquest.

Your heart thunders. Part of you wants to turn away, break the spell, retreat to safety. But your feet remain planted, curiosity and rebellion rooting you in place. The air seems to thicken as he approaches. You catch a better glimpse now: sharp features, a strong jaw marked by a fading bruise near his cheekbone, and a split in his lower lip as if he’s been in a recent fight. A white bandage peeks out from beneath the collar of his jacket, taped at his shoulder or neck. He should look beaten up, rough, scary… and he does. Yet none of it diminishes his appeal – if anything, the bruises and bandages only intensify the dangerous aura around him. He’s like a storm contained in a human frame.

When he reaches you, the scent of smoke and something musky washes over you. He’s a head taller, forcing you to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. In the flicker of neon, you see now they’re a deep charcoal-grey, penetrating and cold. A shiver races over your skin. Too late to run now.

He doesn’t ask to dance. He doesn’t ask anything. Instead, the stranger’s hand lifts, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair off your face. The gesture is oddly tender for someone who looks like him, but the glint in his eyes is anything but gentle.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing here all alone?” he drawls, voice low to be heard over the music. There’s a hint of amusement in his tone, laced with something dark that you can’t quite name. Up close, his charm is edged with danger, like a knife cloaked in silk.

Your stomach flips. A dozen possible answers flit through your mind – a lie, an excuse, anything to preserve your dignity – but what slips out is the raw truth: “Trying to have some fun.” You’re surprised by the boldness of your own words. Normally you’d never admit that to a stranger, but the alcohol and adrenaline are dissolving your filter. If my parents heard me now… The thought almost makes you laugh.

He chuckles, a low rumble that you feel in your chest more than hear. His thumb trails lightly down your cheek in a mockingly affectionate stroke. “Oh, I can give you fun,” he says, leaning in. His lips hover by your ear, the heat of his breath making you tremble. “Question is, can you handle it?”

A bolt of heat spears through you, half excitement, half fear. The challenge in his voice and the flirtation ignite something reckless inside you. This is precisely what you came here for, isn’t it? To prove you’re not just the obedient daughter, the straight-A student, the well-behaved sister. To feel something real and wild, even if it’s just for one night.

You don’t trust your voice, so you answer by arching a brow, hoping to appear braver than you feel. “Try me,” you manage, the two words coming out steadier than the hammering of your heart.

His eyes darken, that predatory smirk widening. Without another word, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you onto the dance floor. The abrupt closeness knocks the breath from your lungs. He’s solid muscle under that jacket; you can feel the tension coiled in him, like he might spring into violence or passion at any second.

The music shifts to a sultry, grinding beat. He moves with confidence, hands sliding low on your hips. You follow his lead, letting him press you back until your body meets the hard plane of his chest. It’s intoxicating – his heat, the way he guides you as if he owns your body. You can smell a faint trace of blood mixed with his cologne, or maybe it’s your imagination. Either way, it sends a thrill through you. This is dangerous. He is dangerous.

And you’ve never felt more alive.

You dance, though it’s less dancing and more an excuse to touch. His hands roam over your curves in time with the heavy bass. When your arms loop around his neck, your fingers graze a row of bandages along the side of it. You realize they’re covering what look like half-healed cuts. Your eyes flick to his in question, but he only gives a lazy shrug and pulls you closer, grinding against you in answer. The message is clear: Don’t ask. So you don’t. You shut off the cautious part of your brain that wants to know what happened to him. All that matters is right now.

His thigh pushes between your legs as you sway together, and a small gasp escapes you at the pressure against your already thrumming core. You swear you feel him smile against your temple at the sound. Embarrassed by how quickly your body is responding, you turn your face up, intending to reclaim some control by kissing him first – but he beats you to it.

He swoops down and captures your lips in a bruising kiss that steals all thought. It’s not gentle or slow. It’s teeth and tongue and heat, a clash that sends sparks through your veins. You whimper into his mouth, and he takes the sound as invitation to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your toes curl. You taste a hint of copper – maybe from the cut on his lip – mixed with the alcohol on both your tongues. The metallic tang shouldn’t be arousing, but it only reminds you that this man is raw and real, not some polished prince charming.

His hand moves up your back, tangling in your hair, tilting your head to his liking so he can kiss you even harder. It’s like he wants to consume you, and you find yourself yielding, letting him set the pace. When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard. Your lips tingle, likely swollen from the ferocity of the kiss. A satisfied gleam lights his eyes as he looks at your dazed expression.

“Fun enough for you?” he purrs, voice dripping cockiness. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, which you realize is stinging slightly from a bite – his or yours, you’re not even sure.

A flush heats your cheeks. You bite back an instinctive polite reply. Good girls say thank you or demur. You force those impulses down and, mustering your bravado, give a soft, breathless laugh. “Not bad…,” you tease, trying to match his nonchalance, though your voice betrays you with a slight tremor. “But I thought you promised me fun. Is that all you’ve got?”

His eyebrows lift at your challenge, surprise flickering over his features. Then that wolfish grin returns, more wicked than before. He leans in so that his nose almost brushes yours. “Careful,” he murmurs, and you feel his hand tighten at your hip, fingers digging in possessively. “I might just have to prove I can blow your sweet little mind.”

Your heart skips at the promise laced in those words. Before you can form a reply, he captures your hand in his. “Come.” It’s an order, not a request. You barely have time to snatch your purse from a nearby ledge before he’s tugging you through the crowd.

There’s a surreal thrill in letting yourself be led. Normally, you’d balk at anyone manhandling you – but something about his confidence, the deliberate way he navigates through throngs of people with you in tow, is intoxicating. Part of you can’t believe what you’re doing. You met this boy mere minutes ago. You don’t even know his name. This could be incredibly stupid… No, it is incredibly stupid. And yet, you don’t resist. Whether it’s curiosity, desire, or the rebellious anger at your own sheltered life driving you, you follow him.

He pushes open a heavy door in the back, leading you into a dark hallway that smells of spilled beer and cleaning bleach. The sign on the door that slams shut behind you reads Restrooms. The bass from the main room fades to a muffled thump through the wall, and the sudden relative quiet makes your ears ring. The hall is lit only by a flickering fluorescent light. To your left, the door to the ladies’ room stands closed; to your right, the men’s. He ignores both, instead zeroing in on a third door at the very end – a single unisex bathroom or maybe a staff washroom. A small paper sign taped to it reads “Out of Order,” but he twists the knob and shoves the door open without hesitation.

Your pulse jackhammers as he pulls you inside the tiny bathroom and locks the door behind you with a sharp click. It’s a cramped space – just a sink, a cloudy mirror, and a toilet stall with a busted-looking door half off its hinges (so that’s why it’s out of order, you think absently). The only light comes from a single dim bulb overhead. The walls tremble faintly with the bass from outside, and through the vent you can hear the muffled chorus of the current dance track.

Suddenly, in the confined quiet, reality presses on you. This is really happening. You’re in a dingy club bathroom with a dangerous stranger, about to cross lines you’ve never come near before. A flicker of nerves finally cuts through the haze of lust and liquid courage. Your instincts rear up with a warning – this is too fast, too reckless. What if he hurts you? What if you regret this?

Sensing your hesitation, he steps forward, backing you against the sink. The porcelain edge presses into your lower back. He places his hands on either side of you, caging you in. There’s a thrill in knowing the exit is right behind him and you’d have to get through his strong body to reach it. Thrill… or terror. Possibly both. Your breathing quickens, but you lift your chin, refusing to show fear.

He notices – he notices everything, it seems – and one corner of his mouth twitches in approval. “Nervous?” he asks softly. He brings a hand up to your face and trails a finger slowly from the hollow of your temple down to your jaw. His touch is surprisingly light, almost a caress, at odds with the dangerous gleam in his eyes.

You swallow hard. “No,” you lie. Your voice is barely above a whisper in the quiet bathroom. The word comes out too fast, betraying you.

He actually laughs – a dark, husky chuckle that curls low in your belly. “Liar,” he murmurs. His finger tilts your chin up. “I can feel your heartbeat.” He presses his body against yours, and you realize he can likely feel it, given how hard your heart is thudding against your ribs. It’s practically vibrating through you.

Instinctively, your hands come up to press against his chest, whether to push him away or just to touch him, you’re not sure. They end up fisting in the material of his shirt. Beneath the thin fabric, his muscles are taut, and you become acutely aware of the warmth and power coiled there. He feels like a loaded gun in the shape of a man – all potential energy, ready to go off.

He dips his head, lips ghosting over the side of your neck. You gasp when you feel the scrape of his teeth against your sensitive skin, not quite biting, but threatening to. “If you want me to stop, you better say so now,” he breathes against your neck. It’s not really a question, more like a sly dare. The hint of sarcasm in his tone tells you he’s not used to anyone telling him to stop. He’s mocking the very idea that you might not go through with this.

Your pride flares, overcoming your nerves. You did not come this far to chicken out. If you back out now, you’ll return home to your perfectly curated life and lie awake every night wondering what would have happened if you’d been braver. And beyond that—your body is on fire for him, desire already coiling low in your belly. Fear is there, yes, but it only seems to heighten your arousal, sharpening every sensation. The danger is part of the thrill.

So you answer by grabbing the lapels of his jacket and crashing your mouth to his. It’s messy and ungraceful, but it sends your message loud and clear: Don’t stop. A low growl of approval emanates from him, and then everything becomes a blur of heat and motion.

He kisses you fiercely, drinking in your surrender. Your world narrows to the wet slide of his tongue against yours and the way his hands roam your body, claiming it as his. One hand cups your breast through your dress, fingers deftly finding your nipple and pinching just hard enough to make you yelp into his mouth. The sharp sting sends a lightning bolt of pleasure down your spine. Any lingering inhibitions crumble; you arch into his touch, craving more.

“Hmm, sensitive,” he notes with a dark chuckle, breaking the kiss just to watch your reaction as he gives that hardened nub another squeeze. You bite your lip to stifle a moan. He tuts disapprovingly. “No, let me hear you.” He pinches harder suddenly, catching you off guard. A cry escapes your lips before you can stop it, echoing in the tiny bathroom. You slap a hand over your mouth in shock at your own volume, eyes darting to the door. The music outside is loud—hopefully loud enough that no one heard.

He grabs your wrist and pulls your hand away from your mouth, eyes gleaming almost fever-bright in the dim light. “Don’t.” It’s a command. “We’re far from the only ones screwing in this club, don’t worry about them.” The crude confidence of his statement sends a flush through your cheeks. Before you can respond, he’s tugging the straps of your dress down your shoulders, not bothering to be gentle. The fabric slinks down, exposing the lacy pastel bra you’d worn – ironically one of your prettiest, daintiest pieces, chosen this evening on a hopeful whim.

He lets out a low whistle of appreciation at the sight of you, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “Better than I imagined,” he purrs, and you flush hotter knowing he’s been imagining you. The thought that this dangerous man picked you out of everyone in that crowd, and was picturing what’s under your dress… it sends a heady mix of power and vulnerability through you.

His hands slide around your back, and with an expert flick, he unhooks your bra. It falls loose, and you hesitate only a split second before allowing it to slip off your arms, baring your breasts completely to his gaze. The hungry way he stares could devour you whole. Self-conscious, you start to cross your arms over your chest, but he catches your wrists and pins them back against the mirror behind you. The cold glass presses into your skin.

“None of that,” he chides softly. “Don’t hide from me.” Again, that note of command. He’s not asking – he’s telling you to let him look. The dominance in it makes your breath catch, a mixture of indignation and unwilling arousal. You’re used to being in control of yourself; giving it up – even in this small way – feels foreign. But when you meet his gaze, the open heat and lust you see there sends a pulse of warmth straight between your legs. He wants you. Wildly, ravenously. Perhaps as much as you want to be wanted.

Slowly, you lower your arms, leaving yourself exposed to him. A slow grin spreads across his face. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and strangely, the praise – however mocking it might be – sends a thrill through you. Good girl. It’s what you always strive to be, what everyone calls you. But on his lips, in this context, it feels deliciously twisted, almost dirty.

Before you can dwell on it, he dips his head and takes one of your nipples into his mouth without warning. You cry out, the sensation of wet heat and suction pulling taut at that sensitive peak. His tongue flicks and circles expertly, while his hand finds your other breast, rolling and teasing the nipple between calloused fingers. Pleasure jolts through you, and you feel yourself growing wetter by the second, your panties dampening with arousal.

You clutch at his shoulders to steady yourself, head falling back against the mirror. Each lick and gentle bite he gives your breasts sends sparks skittering through your nerves. He alternates between them, clearly enjoying the way he can make you squirm and moan with just this. When he finally lifts his head, both your nipples are pebbled tight and aching, glistening with his saliva. The cool air of the bathroom hits the wet skin and you shiver.

The stranger’s breathing is heavier now, his eyes dark with lust as they rake down your body. “I knew you’d be responsive,” he mutters appreciatively, almost to himself. “Act so pure, but your body’s just begging for it, isn’t it?”

You should be embarrassed, maybe even offended by his cocky assumption – but the truth is there’s no denying how turned on you are. Your legs feel weak and an insistent ache is building between them. You bite your lip, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of admitting it aloud. Instead you reach forward boldly and brush your hand over the front of his jeans, feeling for the hardness you know must be there. You’re rewarded with the discovery of a sizable bulge straining against the denim.

His breath hisses through his teeth at your touch, eyes flashing. It’s the first time you’ve seen him react with something like surprise. “Careful,” he warns, but there’s a slight catch in his voice. You realize with a heady rush that you have an effect on him too. The great thing about egotistical boys is they’re often unprepared when you call their bluff.

You palm him more firmly through the fabric, emboldened. “Who’s nervous now?” you whisper, throwing his words from earlier back at him.

A dangerous grin spreads across his face, equal parts amused and aroused. “Alright,” he growls, “you asked for it.” In one swift motion, he grips your thighs and lifts you up onto the sink counter. A surprised laugh bursts from you, cut short as he steps between your legs, spreading them wide around his hips. The skirt of your dress hikes up to your waist in the process, and you flush as you realize how exposed you are – only a thin scrap of silk panty preserves your modesty, and even that is soaked through with evidence of your desire.

He notices, of course. Nothing escapes those sharp eyes. He runs a finger over the front of your panties and it comes away glistening. He holds it up, and even in the dim light you can see the slickness coating his fingertip. “All this from a little kissing and groping?” He tsks softly, though the pride in his voice is evident. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. “And you claimed you weren’t nervous. Maybe it’s not nerves at all… maybe you’re just aching for a bad little adventure.”

You’re spared having to answer – or lie – because he doesn’t wait for a response. He hooks his fingers into your panties and, with one rough yank, tears them aside. The delicate fabric doesn’t stand a chance; it rips with a startling sound, the ruined pieces sliding down your thighs. A shock of cool air kisses your now bare sex, and you instinctively try to close your legs, a surge of shyness hitting you at being so exposed. But his body stands firmly between your knees, preventing any escape.

“Don’t hide,” he reminds you darkly, grabbing your knees and pushing them further apart instead. “Let me see.” The audacity of him just taking this without asking should anger you, should scare you – and yet the command in his tone only fuels the heat in your belly. You’re quivering with a potent mix of humiliation and arousal as he gazes down at your most intimate place.

“Perfect,” he murmurs under his breath, almost reverently, as one of his hands slides up the inside of your thigh. You feel a fingertip brush your folds, testing, exploring the wetness there. You choke back a moan when that finger lightly flicks over your swollen clit. He notices that too – the slight jolt of your hips – and rewards you by circling the sensitive nub slowly, sending waves of pleasure radiating outward.

“You’re so wet for me already… such a naughty girl,” he says softly, and for the first time there’s a hint of something almost gentle in his voice, though the words are degrading. It confuses your pleasure-fogged brain; you don’t know whether to be ashamed or pleased. The one thing you do know is that you need more. Each teasing swirl of his finger is driving you mad, winding you tighter.

“Please…” The word slips out before you can stop it, and you hate how desperate you sound.

He arches a brow. “Please what?” he prompts, mercilessly slowing his finger to an agonizing crawl. He’s making you say it. The smug bastard wants to hear you beg.

Your pride and need war inside you. A strangled whimper escapes your throat as he barely grazes your clit, denying you the pressure you crave. The ache is too much; pride crumbles. “Please,” you pant, swallowing your dignity, “more… touch me.”

His grin is triumphant. “Good girl,” he practically purrs, clearly satisfied at hearing your plea. In reward, he plunges that finger suddenly into your entrance, all the way to the knuckle. You cry out, back bowing at the sudden intrusion. He’s thick and his finger curls expertly inside you, dragging along your inner walls in a way that lights up every nerve. You clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle your moan.

He doesn’t chide you this time for quieting yourself – frankly, you couldn’t stop the moan from spilling through your fingers even if you tried. Instead, he inserts a second finger, stretching you. It’s a tight, hot pressure that borders on too much, but you’re so slick that he works them in easily. Soon he’s pumping them in and out, setting a relentless pace while his thumb resumes tormenting your clit. The combined sensations make you see stars.

“Shit—” you gasp against your palm, your free hand clinging to the edge of the sink as pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your core. He’s watching your face with rapt attention, as if cataloging each expression that crosses it. And he looks… hungry, like your pleasure is feeding something primal in him.

“You like that?” he hisses through his teeth. “Knew you’d feel good…” He scissors his fingers inside you, stretching you further, and you bite your lip hard to keep from screaming. It’s so much sensation, bordering the line of pain and pleasure in the most exquisite way. Every pump hits a spot deep inside that has you quivering. Your thighs begin to shake around his waist, and you realize with a shock that you’re already hurtling toward orgasm. It’s humiliating how fast he’s pushing you to the edge, but you can’t hold it back – he’s too skilled and you were too pent-up, too eager for this.

“Come on,” he growls, noticing the way your body tightens. He leans in, his breath hot on your ear as he works you ruthlessly. “Let go. Come for me, and maybe I’ll give you what you really want next.”

His raspy command is the final straw. With a muffled cry, you shatter. Pleasure crashes over you in a blinding wave. Your inner walls spasm around his thrusting fingers, and you clutch at his shoulders for dear life as your climax ripples through you. He continues to pump you through it, drawing out every last second of ecstasy until you’re trembling and limp against the mirror.

As you sag, catching your breath, a warm flush of embarrassment and relief floods you. You’ve never come that hard with anyone – not that your experience is extensive – and certainly not so quickly. The stranger withdraws his fingers from you slowly, and you whimper softly at the sensitivity. Through hazy vision you see him hold up his hand, coated in your arousal, and without breaking eye contact, he brings those fingers to his own lips and licks them clean.

The lewdness of the act makes your cheeks burn. “Tastes sweet,” he murmurs, smirking when you look away, flustered. “Don’t go shy on me now.” With his other hand, he grips your chin and guides your gaze back to him. You’re still dazed, the aftershocks of orgasm tingling through you. He presses forward, and you feel the unmistakable hard ridge of his erection nudging against your still-throbbing core.

A spike of nervous anticipation cuts through your post-climax haze. He’s clearly not done – not by a long shot. Your eyes dart down between your bodies as he uses one hand to unzip his jeans and free himself. You suck in a breath at the sight. Even in the low light, what he’s packing is… intimidating. Fully hard, he juts out thick and long, the tip flushed deep red and already glistening with a drop of precum. For a moment, a sliver of doubt flickers in your mind – will that even fit?

He notices your eyes widening and lets out a dark chuckle. “Don’t worry,” he says smugly, positioning himself, the head of his cock rubbing slickly against your entrance. “I got you nice and ready.” He’s not wrong – you’re still dripping from both your own release and his ministrations – but you still tense up instinctively at the pressure.

“Relax,” he orders, softer this time, almost as if he’s coaxing you. One hand strokes down your thigh in a parody of soothing. “Not getting cold feet, are you?”

“N-no,” you stammer, and to prove it, you force yourself to unclench, will your muscles to loosen. You hook your legs around his hips, drawing him closer in encouragement. The movement causes his tip to breach you, just an inch, and both of you gasp in unison – you at the sudden stretch, him at the tight heat enveloping him.

“Fuck… so tight,” he hisses, fingers digging into your hips. His control wavers; you see a flicker of strain in his jaw as he fights not to slam into you all at once. The idea that he’s holding back, even a little, for your sake in this moment is strangely… flattering. And reassuring. Maybe he’s not completely cruel.

You take a shuddering breath and nod. “Do it,” you whisper. I can handle it, you tell yourself, echoing your bold words from earlier. I want this.

His eyes lock onto yours, and for a split second, something like respect glints there. Then his composure snaps. With a guttural groan, he thrusts forward, burying himself inside you to the hilt. The stretch is incredible – bordering on painful for a heartbeat – but the slide is eased by how wet you are, and the slight burn quickly melts into a shockwave of pleasure at how deep he is. You cry out, nails raking across his back under his jacket, clinging to him as he fills you completely. He’s big enough that you swear you can feel him in your stomach, stealing the air from your lungs.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he growls against your shoulder, where he’s dropped his forehead as if to gather himself. His breathing is ragged, each exhale warm on your skin. You’re panting too, adjusting to the fullness. There’s a dull ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the raw sensation of him throbbing inside you. You hadn’t realized how empty you felt until now.

He doesn’t give much time for you to adjust. Lust and perhaps impatience drive him to move almost immediately. Pulling out an inch, he slams back in, jolting a gasp from you. Then again, faster – setting a pounding rhythm that quickly has the sink creaking beneath your bottom and the mirror at your back shuddering. He holds your hips in an iron grip, using it as leverage to fuck up into you hard and deep.

It’s feral and unrestrained; he takes you like he has a point to prove. Perhaps he wants to mark himself on you from the inside out, to ensure you never forget this night. Each stroke rubs against that sweet spot he found with his fingers earlier, and soon you’re keening with each thrust, any pain transforming wholly to pleasure. The filthy sounds of sex echo in the small bathroom – skin slapping on skin, your ragged breaths, his low grunts of effort, and the wet squelch each time he drives into your drenched heat.

Your head falls back, thumping lightly against the mirror. The coil in your belly, unbelievably, is tightening again so soon. He angles his hips and grinds against your clit on the next thrust, making you mewl and see stars. It’s overwhelming – he overwhelms you, consumes you. The room feels like it’s spinning, and you cling to his shoulders, lost in sensation.

He notices you tipping toward another climax and lets out a dark laugh, clearly proud of how quickly he’s wrecking you. “Gonna come again for me, huh?” he pants, punctuating his words with particularly sharp thrusts that make you cry out. “Such a greedy little thing… I bet no one’s ever fucked you like this, have they?”

You shake your head frantically, beyond shame, beyond words. It’s true – nothing in your sheltered life has ever felt like this. No boy you dated (under your parents’ watchful eye) ever came close to unraveling you so completely. You feel tears prick your eyes from the sheer intensity of it all.

He groans in satisfaction at your wordless admission. “That’s right,” he snarls, voice thick with possessive glee. One hand leaves your hip to grasp the back of your neck, pulling you forward off the mirror so he can latch his mouth onto yours in a bruising kiss as he fucks you. It’s all tongue and teeth, more claiming than affection, but it sends a thrill through you nonetheless. You can taste yourself faintly on his tongue, mixed with the copper of that cut on his lip that’s reopened from exertion.

“Mine tonight,” he growls against your lips, giving a particularly rough thrust that sends you both sliding a few inches along the counter. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

In the haze of pleasure, you don’t even question it. “I’m yours,” you gasp obediently, anything if he’ll just keep going, keep giving you this mind-numbing bliss. The words echo strangely in your head – you’ve never said such a thing to anyone. You barely recognize your own voice, breathy and wanton.

He rewards you with a hand slipping between your bodies, finding your overstimulated clit and rubbing it in tight, slick circles as he pounds you. The sudden extra stimulation rips a wail from your throat. Your nails dig into the back of his neck, surely scratching him, but he seems to only relish the slight pain, growling and thrusting even harder in response.

“That’s it… come for me again,” he grits out, sounding as unhinged with lust as you feel. “Come all over my cock, baby.” The crude command combined with the relentless attention on your most sensitive spot sends you careening over the edge for a second time. Your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and all-consuming. You convulse around him, inner walls squeezing like a vice. He curses loudly as your climax milks his length.

With a few more erratic thrusts, he suddenly stills, buried as deep as possible. His grip on you is almost bruising as he groans into the crook of your neck, and you feel a burst of warmth flooding your core as he finds his own release. The sensation of him spilling inside you, the filthy reality of it, prolongs your pleasure in a sinful aftershock. He rides it out with a few shallow grinds, as if trying to push his seed even further.

For a long moment, the only sound is both of you gasping for air in the aftermath. Your heart is pounding so loudly in your ears, you barely notice the muffled thump of the club music or the faint ringing silence that follows your screams. Your body feels boneless, thoroughly used in the best way, and for a fleeting moment you understand why people get addicted to this kind of reckless passion.

He finally draws back enough to look at you. His hair is disheveled, damp with sweat at the temples; his lips are swollen and red; his pupils blown wide. He looks thoroughly debauched and extremely pleased with himself. You flush and glance away, suddenly shy now that the haze of lust is lifting and reality starts to seep back in.

He isn’t having that. Gently – almost surprisingly gently – he turns your face back to him with a finger under your chin. “Don’t go all shy now,” he murmurs. For a moment, his thumb strokes your cheek and you catch a glimpse of something like softness in his expression, a crack in the cocky facade. “That was…” He trails off, searching for the word. Instead of finishing the sentence, he just smirks and lets out a satisfied exhale. “Damn.”

A shaky laugh bubbles from your lips, relief and agreement in one. “Yeah. Damn.” You can’t help smiling a little, and his grin widens in response. For a strange second, you feel a connection – like you shared something beyond the purely physical. But before you can name it, he pulls out of you and reality rushes back in.

You wince slightly at the emptiness and the trickle of combined fluids already leaking out of you. With a mix of embarrassment and practicality, you hop off the sink on unsteady legs and reach for some tissue from a dispenser on the wall, quickly cleaning yourself as best you can and dropping the soiled paper into the waste bin. He watches you, tucking himself back into his jeans and zipping up. There’s a predatory satisfaction in his gaze, like a wolf that’s just feasted.

Your dress is still bunched around your waist. You tug it back up over your breasts, realizing belatedly that your bra is hanging around your elbows, completely undone. You flush and turn slightly away, trying to fasten it. Your hands are shaking, making the simple task frustrating.

Wordlessly, he steps close again and bats your hands away. Before you protest, he fixes your bra for you with quick efficiency, then slides your dress straps back over your shoulders. It’s an oddly intimate gesture – helping you dress after ripping you apart – and it leaves you momentarily breathless in a whole different way.

“Th-thanks,” you stammer, not sure what else to say. Your mind is a jumble. What do you even say after doing something like this? There’s an awkwardness creeping in that you don’t know how to navigate. The initial thrill of rebellion is wearing off, and a faint whisper of guilt tickles the back of your mind, uninvited: What have I done?

He tilts his head, studying you. In the quiet, you notice a faint purple bruise forming on the side of his neck – your doing, likely, from your desperate kisses or bites. Your cheeks heat at the evidence of your own loss of control.

“You okay?” he asks unexpectedly. The question surprises you; you hadn’t pegged him as the type to care after getting what he wanted. His tone is gruff, though, like he’s a bit uncomfortable asking.

“I’m fine,” you reply quickly – reflexively. It’s the good girl response, automatic, and it tastes bitter on your tongue given the circumstances. Were you fine? Physically, aside from the pleasant aches, yes. Emotionally… that’s harder to parse. You feel exhilarated, sated, and yet also strangely hollow now that it’s over. But you’re not about to divulge that to a stranger.

“Good.” He nods, seemingly satisfied. A beat passes where neither of you speak. The reality of your situation settles in heavily – you just had a raw, unprotected hookup with a violent stranger in a club bathroom. And now what? Does one exchange numbers after something like that? Part of you doesn’t even want to know his name; it’s easier to compartmentalize this as a one-time reckless fling if he remains a nameless fantasy.

Sensing the shift in atmosphere, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He taps one out and sticks it between his lips. He doesn’t light it – likely because we’re indoors – just lets it dangle there as he watches you with an unreadable expression. The earlier softness is gone; he’s cloaked himself back in cool detachment.

“So,” he says casually, voice echoing slightly in the tiled bathroom. “That tick the fun box for you?” He’s back to that cocky, almost mocking tone, and it puts you oddly at ease. It’s easier to handle than any attempt at tenderness.

You manage a wry smile. “It was… definitely not boring,” you reply, trying to sound nonchalant, though your pounding heart hasn’t quite settled.

His lips curl around the cigarette. “Glad to be of service.” There’s a beat, and then he adds, “You got a name, good girl?” The nickname drips with ironic emphasis.

For a second you hesitate. A part of you likes the anonymity. But it feels awkward not to introduce yourself, given he’s been inside you. “Y/N,” you answer quietly, using your first name only.

He repeats it, as if testing how it feels in his mouth. Something about the way he says your name sends a shiver through you – perhaps because in your mind it’s still shocking that this dangerous boy even knows your name now. This is real, you remind yourself. It happened.

“I’m Seong-je,” he offers after a moment, surprising you. You hadn’t expected him to volunteer anything personal. The name rings faintly in your mind – Korean, obviously, and unusual. You wonder if it’s a nickname or family name, but don’t pry.

“Seong-je,” you echo softly. He smirks at your pronunciation – maybe you said it a bit awkwardly – and for a brief instant, the corner of his eyes crinkle like he’s holding back a genuine laugh. The sight makes something flutter in your chest.

He steps back, running a hand through his mussed hair. Now that you’re not drowning in lust, you can’t help but take in more details about him. The smear of your lipstick is on the edge of his jaw. His shirt is rucked up a bit, revealing a slice of defined abs – and another bruise blooming near his ribs. Just what kind of life does he lead to be this banged up? The rational part of you whispers that this man is trouble, possibly more than just casual bar-brawl trouble.

As if sensing your thoughts, he reaches out and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear – a gesture almost sweet if not for the cruel curve of his smile. “Don’t overthink it, Y/N,” he chides lightly. “We had a good time. End of story.”

End of story. Right. This was always meant to be a one-night thing, no strings, no messy complications. That’s what you told yourself coming here. You should be relieved he’s on the same page.

“Right,” you say, forcing a bright tone that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just… two people blowing off steam. I won’t read into it if you won’t.”

He nods once, seemingly satisfied. Then, without warning, he leans in and steals one last kiss – a swift, biting press of lips that leaves you breathless all over again. When he pulls back, he’s grinning. “For the road,” he says, winking.

And with that, he unlocks the bathroom door. Cool air from the hallway trickles in, and you suddenly realize how stifling the small room had become with heat and the scent of sex. Seong-je glances out, checking the coast. You’re keenly aware of the state you’re in: dress wrinkled, hair a mess, thoroughly fucked. If anyone sees you leaving together, it’ll be obvious what happened. A flush of embarrassment and strangely, pride, warms your cheeks.

He steps aside and gestures. “Ladies first.”

You slip past him, and he follows. The hallway is empty save for a drunk couple stumbling into the main restroom giggling. The club music is still pumping, oblivious to the small drama that unfolded in the back.

You and Seong-je stand there for a moment, facing each other under the harsh fluorescent light. There’s an odd look in his eyes – something like smugness, but also a flicker of… regret? No, probably just your imagination.

“So, uh… have a good night,” you offer lamely. You cringe internally at how stupid that sounds, but what else is there to say? Thanks for the mind-blowing illicit sex? You want to slap yourself.

Seong-je doesn’t seem to mind. He just exhales a stream of smoke from the cigarette now lit between his lips, even though he’s not supposed to smoke here. He flashes you one more of those insufferably attractive smirks. “Night, good girl.” The pet name lands differently now, making your heart give a confusing little twist.

With that, he turns and strolls away down the hall, as casual as if he’d just finished taking a piss rather than you. You watch his retreating back for a second – the confident saunter, the broad set of his shoulders – and then he’s gone, disappearing into the strobe-lit chaos of the club.

You press back against the wall of the hallway, legs still trembling, and exhale a shaky breath. What the hell did I just do? The gravity of it threatens to crush you now that you’re alone. But beneath the swirl of guilt and shock, an echo of pleasure thrums, and a tiny rebellious smile tugs at your lips. I did that. Me. The good girl broke bad for a night, and no one will ever know.

After gathering yourself, you slip out of the club and into the night, hailing a taxi home. As the city lights streak past the window, you replay the last hour in your mind on a loop. With every replay, you’re not sure if it feels more like an empowering victory or a dangerous mistake. Perhaps both. You tell yourself it’s over – a secret memory to treasure on lonely nights and nothing more. In a day or two, you’ll bury it and return to your regularly scheduled life of perfection.

As you quietly sneak into your house, still smelling of sweat and cigarette smoke, you have no idea that this night – far from staying a secret – is about to shadow your life in ways you can’t imagine.

⸻

Two weeks later, the memory of that reckless night still visits you in heated flashes. You’ll be in class or eating dinner, and suddenly your mind will drift – the music, the neon lights, his hands on your body, his voice growling in your ear. Every time, it makes your cheeks burn and your stomach flutter, equal parts shame and longing. You try to push it away. After all, what good is dwelling on it? You never even exchanged numbers. Seong-je was a stranger – a dark, thrilling stranger – and that’s all he was ever meant to be.

You haven’t told a soul about that night. Not your best friend, certainly not your sister or parents. It remains your illicit secret, something you hold close with a mix of pride and mortification. By day you throw yourself into your studies and chores with renewed vigor, as if being extra good now can erase how dirty you’d been that night. By night you lie in bed restless, sometimes waking in a sweat from dreams where rough hands and bruising kisses find you in the dark.

It doesn’t help that your sister has been chattering about some guy she met recently. Apparently she literally bumped into him at a café on her campus and spilled coffee on him, which led to exchanging apologies and phone numbers. The sheer rom-com sweetness of it made you smile politely while internally rolling your eyes. She’s been on a few dates with him, and from what she’s said, he’s “sweet, a bit quiet but really charming when he opens up.” You’ve been happy for her, albeit a bit envious of how wholesome her budding romance sounds compared to your own recent debauchery.

When your mother announces over breakfast that your sister is bringing her new boyfriend to meet the family tonight, you hardly react beyond mild curiosity. Good for her, you think. It’s been a while since she dated anyone seriously enough to introduce him. You only vaguely wonder what he’s like – picturing some clean-cut college boy from a good family. Whoever he is, he’ll have to withstand the polite grilling your parents are sure to give.

All day you go about preparing for the evening. It’s a casual family dinner, but your mom insists on breaking out the nice dishes and even nags you to wear a “pretty dress, but nothing too revealing.” You oblige, choosing a demure knee-length skirt and a soft blue sweater that your mother approves with a smile. It’s almost amusing how starkly different you look from the girl who stumbled into a taxi two weeks ago in a rumpled club dress and no panties. Good girl, back in uniform, you think wryly at your reflection.

By the time the doorbell rings, the table is set, the house smells of your mom’s famous japchae, and your dad is finishing a lecture to you about proper behavior. “Be polite, ask him about his studies, no phone at the table, and for heaven’s sake, don’t mention anything embarrassing about your sister,” he rattles off. You nod along, only half-listening, your thoughts wandering to whether this boy will get the Dad Speech about treating her right. Probably.

“I’ll get the door!” you chirp, glad for an excuse to escape Dad’s fussing. Padding to the foyer, you pull the door open, prepared to greet some awkward but earnest college guy.

Instead, the world flips upside down.

There, standing on your front step next to your beaming sister, is him.

Your dangerous stranger from the club is on your doorstep, one hand casually slung in his pocket, the other arm wrapped around your sister’s waist. He’s out of the club gear and bandages tonight – wearing a crisp white dress shirt under a beige blazer, looking for all the world like a picture-perfect boyfriend. His wavy dark hair is neatly combed, and perched on his nose are a pair of familiar half-rim glasses that give him an air of studiousness. He looks clean-cut. Polite. Deceiving.

But nothing can disguise those eyes – sharp and piercing, the eyes that haunted your dreams. In the split second of seeing him, your heart plunges into your stomach. A rush of heat and then cold washes over you. This can’t be real. Perhaps you’ve finally lost it, guilt conjuring hallucinations. But no – he’s real, solid, standing right there.

He meets your gaze, and for an agonizing moment, his eyes widen almost imperceptibly in recognition. You see it – the spark of surprise that flares and is quickly controlled. Yet on the surface, he remains the picture of composure. His lips curve into a polite smile, the kind you’d give a stranger.

And that’s exactly what he does. With a slight bow of his head, he says in a warm, respectful tone, “Hello. You must be Y/N.” As if we’ve never met. As if he wasn’t buried inside you, coaxing screams from your throat.

You realize you’re staring, frozen, mouth slightly agape. Words. You need words. But your brain is short-circuiting, flashes of that night ping-ponging wildly – his face over yours in pleasure, the feel of his hands pinning you down, the way he snarled your name. It collides with the sheer absurdity of him standing here, looking like the ideal suitor.

“Y/N?” your sister’s voice breaks through, a note of concern. She’s looking at you quizzically, no doubt wondering why you’re gawking.

You snap out of it, plastering on a shaky smile. “S-sorry! I…” Think, think. You pretend to fumble with the door. “It caught on the rug,” you lie weakly, stepping back. “Come in.”

They step inside and you shut the door behind them, hand trembling on the knob. This isn’t happening. But the scene continues to unfold, whether you’re ready or not.

Your sister is nearly vibrating with excitement. “Everyone, this is Geum Seong-je,” she announces proudly as she leads him into the living room where your parents stand waiting. “Seong-je, these are my parents, and you already met Y/N at the door.”

He offers a respectful bow to your parents. “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. L/N. Thank you for having me.” His voice is polite, deferential – a complete 180 from the husky, taunting tone you heard in that bathroom. It sends a chill through you how convincing he is.

Your parents, of course, are immediately charmed. Your mother clasps her hands, clearly pleased by his manners. Your father shakes his hand and asks what he studies.

“Ganghak High, sir. I’m in my final year,” Seong-je answers smoothly. “I plan to attend university next year. I’m considering business or economics.” The ease with which the lie rolls off his tongue is chilling; you know for a fact he’s no ordinary high schooler – he’s a gangster, a delinquent, something dangerous. But here he is selling himself as a model student. And why wouldn’t he? He looks the part right now, all tidy and earnest.

“Ah, same year as Y/S/N, good, good,” your father nods approvingly.

You linger near the periphery, hands clutched together tightly to stop their shaking. Your heart hasn’t slowed since opening that door. You feel like you’re in a dream – or a nightmare. How is he here, in your home, holding your sister’s hand and charming your parents? Does she have any clue who he truly is? Who he is to you? You swallow hard. Of course she doesn’t. No one knows. And for the sake of everything, they can’t know.

Your eyes flick to your sister. She looks radiant, happier than you’ve seen her in a while, as she gazes at Seong-je with obvious affection. Jealousy twists in your gut unexpectedly – not the romantic kind, but a bitter envy that she can look at him like that, all hopeful and smitten, blissfully unaware of the monster behind the mask. You, on the other hand, know exactly what lurks beneath that sweet boyfriend veneer. You’ve felt it, bruising your skin and setting you on fire.

Suddenly the room is too warm, the air too thick. You force yourself into motion to avoid suspicion. “I-I’ll go help Mom with dinner,” you mumble and scurry off towards the kitchen.

As you flee, you dare one quick glance back. You catch Seong-je watching you retreat, an indecipherable expression in his eyes. Something like amusement flickers across his face as he notices your obvious panic. He gives the slightest wink – so quick you’d miss it if you blinked. Your stomach drops. That single gesture says it all: He’s not going to pretend nothing happened between us. Not entirely. He’s enjoying this.

In the kitchen, you grip the counter and inhale deeply, trying to steady your racing pulse. Your mother is humming as she stirs a pot of soup, oblivious to your turmoil. You desperately wish you could confide in her, or anyone, but there’s no world in which that wouldn’t implode everything. What would you even say? Mom, that boy out there had me against a bathroom sink two weeks ago and— No. You’d rather die than let your parents know you were involved in something like that. Besides, it would break your sister’s heart and likely your family’s trust in you.

No, you have to handle this on your own. Somehow.

You plaster on a facade of normalcy through dinner. It’s one of the hardest things you’ve ever done, sitting across the table from Seong-je while your sister and parents engage him in pleasant conversation. You mostly push food around your plate and nod or give one-word answers if addressed. Hopefully they’ll chalk it up to you feeling shy or just letting your sister’s guest have the spotlight.

Meanwhile, he is infuriatingly perfect. He compliments Mom’s cooking, discusses a few books Dad brings up, and even laughs modestly when your sister teases him about how he tripped when they first met. A story which he recounts with self-deprecating charm, saying he was so distracted by her pretty face that his feet forgot how to work. Cue your mother’s cooing approval.

It’s sickening. It’s terrifying. You can hardly reconcile this respectful young man with the sadistic, impulsive delinquent you know him to be. But you catch glimpses – subtle things only you would notice – that hint at the truth. The way his smile sometimes doesn’t reach his eyes. The slight impatience that flickers on his face when Dad talks too long about some political issue. The way his hand occasionally tightens on the utensils with a white-knuckle grip, as if restraining irritation. He’s acting. All of this is an act. And everyone is buying it.

Except you.

You can’t even swallow a bite of food. Nausea roils in your gut every time his gaze ghosts over you. He doesn’t overtly stare – that would be too obvious – but there are moments you feel the weight of his attention. It’s like a silent game to him: make you squirm without anyone else noticing. Under the table, you clench your fists in your lap, nails biting into your palms to ground yourself.

At one point, your sister gushes, “Seong-je’s been so helpful with my volunteer project too. He jumped right in to help organize the school supplies drive for underprivileged kids. Isn’t he just the best?” She leans her head on his shoulder, and he flashes a humble smile.

Your father nods approvingly. “Very commendable. Good to see young men caring about community service these days.”

You nearly choke on your water. Community service? Underprivileged kids? The cognitive dissonance is astounding. This is a man who in reality likely spends his free time beating people to a pulp for kicks, now cast in the role of altruistic boyfriend.

In that moment, bitterness momentarily outweighs fear. You find yourself speaking before you can stop. “That’s surprising,” you say, trying to keep your tone light, as if genuinely curious. “Someone your age juggling school and still finds time for volunteer work? You must have a lot of energy.”

It’s not much, but you hope he catches the barbed undercurrent: I know what you really do with your time. It’s petty, maybe even reckless, but a part of you wants to see a crack in his façade.

A brief silence falls. Your parents glance at you, slightly perplexed by your sudden interjection. Seong-je’s eyes meet yours. For a split second, something dangerous flares in them – a warning. Did the others catch it? Likely not; it was gone in an instant, replaced by a genial chuckle.

“What can I say, I like to keep busy,” he responds smoothly, lifting his glass of iced tea in a casual gesture. “Idle hands, devil’s playthings and all that.” His lips curve into a smile that to anyone else seems playful, but you feel the needle of that phrase aimed at you. Yes, he certainly had firsthand knowledge of devil’s playthings – your hands hadn’t been idle that night, nor had his.

You swallow, looking down quickly. Point to him. All you managed to do was earn yourself a subtle rebuke. Your cheeks burn and you resolve not to poke him again.

After dinner, everyone moves to the living room for dessert and continued conversation. You linger in the kitchen under the guise of clearing dishes, needing a moment alone to steady yourself. You grip the edge of the sink, staring at the running water as you rinse plates, mind racing. How are you going to survive this evening without slipping up? You thank your lucky stars that he’s pretending not to know you – it’s the only thing keeping you sane. But it unnerves you that you have no idea what he’s thinking or planning.

He must be loving this – fate practically handing him a loaded gun to mess with you. The knowledge that he could destroy you with one word, reveal to your entire family what you did… it hangs over you like a guillotine. You have to ensure he has no reason to actually drop that blade. As much as you loathe it, cooperating with his charade is your only option. For your sister’s sake, for your own, you have to play along and pray he eventually loses interest and goes away.

“Y/N, bring out the tea, please!” your mother calls from the other room.

You take a deep breath and carry the tray of tea and sliced fruit into the living room, your face composed in a mask of pleasant neutrality. You will not break. You’ve survived endless high-pressure exams and family expectations – you can survive one evening of this.

But the universe isn’t done testing you. As you set the tray down on the coffee table, your sister suddenly exclaims, “Oh! I almost forgot, I have something to show you.”

Your sister jumps up. “It’s in my car, I’ll be right back!” She pecks Seong-je’s cheek quickly making your stomach clench and dashes out the front door to retrieve whatever this thing is.

Your parents chuckle, engrossed in their own banter about something, and your mom heads to the kitchen to fetch some more honey for the tea, leaving you, your father, and him briefly in the living room. Your father stands by the window, preoccupied with adjusting the blinds. And then, just like that, you find yourself momentarily alone on the couch with Geum Seong-je.

Every muscle in your body tenses. You place a tea cup in front of him on the table with what you hope is a steady hand. He takes it, and for a moment, his fingers purposely brush yours. It’s subtle, to anyone else an innocent contact. But the touch is electric, and you snatch your hand back as if burned. Your father’s back is turned; he notices nothing.

Seong-je leans back casually, crossing one ankle over a knee. The posture of a young man relaxed and at ease – yet when he speaks under his breath, barely above a whisper, his words are a knife’s edge. “Careful, little lamb. Your family might think you’re afraid of me.” He sips the tea, hiding the smirk that tugs at his lips.

Little lamb. The phrase isn’t particularly special, yet hearing it from him sends a jolt of recognition and dread through you. It’s the tone – low, taunting – the very same he used in that bathroom when he teased and degraded you. And afraid? Damn right you are. But you can’t let it show.

You force yourself to sit down at the opposite end of the couch, smoothing your skirt. Taking a deep breath, you murmur back, voice tense, “What do you want?” It comes out more pleading than firm. You hate that – but you’re desperate for some hint of his intentions.

He doesn’t look at you. Instead, he swirls his tea lazily, feigning interest in the delicate cup. “What do I want…” he echoes, as if pondering a simple philosophical question. “That’s a long list. But at this very moment?” He turns his head slightly toward you. Behind the sheen of civility in his eyes, you see the spark of cruel amusement dancing. “I want to enjoy a nice evening with my girlfriend’s lovely family. That’s all.”

You grit your teeth. Girlfriend. Your stomach churns. He’s loving this power play, knowing you can’t call him out. “Why her?” you whisper, barely audible over the clink of plates as your mom returns from the kitchen. “Why my sister, of all people?” It slips out, the real question burning inside you. Is this some sick joke of fate or did he plan this?

His smile is slow and predatory as he regards you. He sets the teacup down with a soft clink. “Why not her?” he murmurs back. “She’s pretty, sweet, comes from a respectable family.” The emphasis isn’t lost on you. “And she practically threw herself at me that day in the café. Who was I to refuse such a polite invitation?”

Anger flares within you. His casual cruelty toward your sister – reducing her to some convenient naïve girl – ignites a protective spark that momentarily douses your fear. “She’s a good person,” you snap under your breath, eyes flashing. “She doesn’t deserve to get tangled up in… whatever you are.” You stop short of saying “monster” or “psycho,” but your tone says it for you.

He chuckles, a dark quiet sound. “Relax,” he says softly, danger lacing each syllable. “I’m not here to hurt her. I quite like her, actually.” He glances toward the doorway where your mom is chatting with your dad now. No one is paying you two any mind. Emboldened, Seong-je shifts closer by just an inch, his knee nearly touching yours. “In fact,” he continues, voice like velvet menace, “I think I might keep her around for a while.”

The implication makes your blood run cold. Keep her around. As if she’s a plaything. Does he genuinely like her? Or is she just a pawn in whatever twisted game he’s set his sights on now – a game that now clearly involves you.

You open your mouth to whisper a retort, but at that moment your sister bustles back in, a scrapbook and some papers in hand, Mom trailing behind her. You snap your mouth shut and spring up. The sudden movement draws your father’s curious glance. “Everything alright, honey?” he asks.

“Fine!” you answer, voice a bit too high. “Just thought I left the stove on, but I didn’t.” Another stupid lie, but no one questions it.

As everyone gathers to see what your sister is showing (some certificates and photos from her volunteer project, which she wants to share), you find yourself drifting to the corner of the room, letting the others cluster around the coffee table. You cannot stand to be near him right now – not with the way your insides are roiling with fear and helpless rage.

From your corner, you watch the scene: your sister excitedly talking about her project, your parents listening proudly, and Seong-je – Wolf in sheep’s clothing that he is – with one arm comfortably around your sister’s shoulders as he listens attentively. He occasionally chimes in with a supportive comment or a gentle squeeze of her arm that makes her beam at him.

It’s nauseating how convincing he is. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was genuinely the caring boyfriend he appears. You wonder if, in some twisted way, he does like aspects of this normal life. Or is every smile, every touch, purely calculated for your torment?

At one point, your sister pulls out her phone to show a short video. Everyone’s heads lean in, including his. He glances up briefly, and his eyes snag on you, hovering apart from the group. A subtle frown creases his brow, as if he doesn’t approve of you distancing yourself. You realize your aloofness might be noticeable. Blend in, you remind yourself sternly. Act normal.

So you step closer and feign interest in the video, peering at the phone from over Mom’s shoulder. It’s a harmless clip of school kids thanking donors. But you hardly see it, hyper-aware that now you’re standing only a foot from Seong-je. You swear you can feel the heat radiating off his body, and it makes your skin crawl and tingle all at once.

Suddenly, you feel a light touch at the small of your back – feather-light, quick. You jolt, startled. It was his hand, you know it. The others remain oblivious, eyes on the phone. You don’t dare react overtly, but you shuffle a half-step forward out of his reach. The nerve of him, touching you right behind your unsuspecting family.

Your heart is thudding again. Thankfully, the evening begins winding down soon after. Your parents, clearly satisfied with this meeting, exchange approving smiles. It appears Seong-je has successfully won them over. Your mother even sends you a pointed look as if to say why can’t you date a nice boy like that? You swallow back a hysterical laugh at the irony.

As your sister and Seong-je prepare to leave, you stand stiffly by the door. Your mind races for a way to handle future encounters. Surely this won’t be the last time – if he’s her boyfriend now, he’ll be around. The thought makes you dizzy with dread.

Your family bids their warm goodnights and “come again soon”s. Your sister hugs you and you hug her back tightly, whispers of “Congrats, he’s great” somehow leaving your lips because that’s what a supportive sister would say. You hate yourself for lying, but the alternative is impossible.

Then it’s your turn to face him. He extends his hand to you, the perfect polite gesture. Your parents watch expectantly, so you have no choice but to take it. As you shake, his grip firms just a hint more than necessary – a silent assertion of dominance. His eyes lock on yours, dark and knowing behind those glasses.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Y/N,” he says, voice smooth and cordial. Only you notice the faint trace of mockery hidden in the word “pleasure.” Your cheeks flame, recalling just what that word entailed between you two.

“Likewise,” you somehow manage to reply without your voice cracking. You retrieve your hand from his as quickly as possible, palms clammy.

He smiles – that lovely deceptive smile – and then he’s out the door with your sister, waving goodbye as they walk to his car.

The moment the door closes, you feel your knees wobble. Excusing yourself hastily, you retreat to your room and collapse onto your bed, heart pounding. You bury your face in your pillow and let out a silent scream of frustration and fear.

What am I going to do?

⸻

You spend the weekend in a state of high-strung anxiety. Every time your phone buzzes, you jump, half-expecting an unknown number to be him. But no text comes. No calls, no messages passed through your sister. It’s eerie, this silence. It gives you too much time to think of worst-case scenarios.

By Monday, you’re a nervous wreck but try to soldier on at school. At least there you can distract yourself with exams and friends’ gossip. But right after your last class, as you approach the school gates to head home, you freeze.

Leaned against the wall by the gate is Seong-je.

He looks out of place on your campus, not wearing the standard uniform that the other senior boys are in. Instead, he’s in that Ganghak High red blazer you’ve heard rumors about – a symbol of fear, some say, for other schools. And indeed, a few students hanging around whisper as they notice him, giving him a wide berth.

Your heart thuds painfully. How long has he been there? Did he come for you? How does he even know what school you go to? Perhaps from your sister or from some stalking.

Before you can retreat, his head turns and those wolfish eyes lock onto you. Caught. He smirks and pushes off the wall, strolling toward you with lazy confidence.

You glance around; some of your schoolmates are watching curiously, including a couple of your friends. Crap. The last thing you need is rumors flying that you’re talking to some notorious Ganghak guy. Taking a steadying breath, you force your feet to move and meet him halfway, hoping to get him away from prying eyes quickly.

“What are you doing here?” you hiss under your breath when he’s close enough, trying to appear like you’re just casually chatting.

He looks you up and down, making your skin prickle. “Is that how you greet your dear friend?” he chides with a soft laugh. Deliberately, he raises his voice a notch, loud enough for others to catch. “It’s been a while! I was just in the neighborhood and figured I’d surprise you after school, Y/N.”

Your eyes widen slightly. Friend? Surprise you? He’s giving anyone eavesdropping a false narrative. Why? To cover his tracks or to trap you further? You have no idea, but you play along, weakly replying, “Uh, yeah, long time no see.”

He grins as if pleased. “Walk with me a bit?” Without waiting, he throws an arm over your shoulders in a chummy way and steers you out the gate. The gesture looks friendly to an outsider, but to you it feels possessive, oppressive – his fingers dig just a touch into your shoulder in warning.

Once you’re a block from school, away from the curious eyes, you shrug off his arm and step out of his reach. “Seriously, what do you want?” you ask, keeping your tone low and urgent.

He tilts his head, feigning hurt. “Can’t I just want to see you?” He steps closer and you back up instinctively until you’re pressed against the brick wall of a closed bookstore. The afternoon rush hour masks your little confrontation; people pass by on the street without giving you two a second glance.

“I’ve been dying to talk to you,” he continues, voice dropping to a silken threat. With one hand, he braces against the wall next to your head, leaning in. The proximity floods you with a cocktail of feelings: fear, anger, and disturbingly, that unwanted spark of excitement your body still remembers around him. You curse yourself for it.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you whisper, chin lifting in defiance that you don’t quite feel. “I’ll stay out of your way, you stay out of mine. Just… leave me and my family alone, okay? You made your point.”

He chuckles, clearly amused by your attempt at bravado. “What point do you think I made, hm?” He brings his face dangerously close, and you shrink back against the wall. “I haven’t even started making points.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Please,” you try, softening your tone to a plea. “Don’t hurt them. They haven’t done anything.”

He blinks, then laughs outright. “Hurt them? Why would I hurt them? They’re lovely.” His hand moves from the wall to brush a stray strand of hair off your cheek in a mockery of tenderness. You flinch. “It’s you, little lamb, who I think could use a reminder to behave.”

You swallow hard, eyes stinging with frustrated tears you refuse to shed. “I haven’t done anything to you,” you manage, voice trembling despite your effort. “Why are you doing this?”

His expression hardens slightly. “Not yet. You haven’t done anything yet. But see, I know your type. Act all quiet now, but guilt can be a powerful thing. One day you might just crack and feel the need to spill your guts to sis or mommy or daddy about your naughty escapade. Maybe out of some misguided attempt to save your sister from the big bad wolf.” He sneers the nickname. “And we can’t have that, can we?”

Your blood runs cold. He’s essentially admitting he’s keeping you in line to secure his secret relationship with your sister. And likely for the sick thrill of having you at his mercy, toying with you.

“I wouldn’t… I would never tell them,” you insist urgently, grabbing his jacket lapel in desperation. “I swear. I know it would only hurt them. I won’t ever say a word.”

His eyes flick to your hands fisted in his blazer. One brow lifts. You realize you’ve touched him of your own accord – a bold move. You release him quickly, but the ghost of a grin on his face tells you he found that interesting.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he replies coolly. “But I’m not just going to take your word for it.” He leans in, his nose almost brushing yours. From afar it might look like an intimate moment between friends or lovers, but his words are pure threat: “You’re going to prove to me that you can keep your pretty mouth shut.”

“H-how?” you stammer, heart pounding.

He tilts his head, pretending to consider. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. To your confusion, he hands it to you. The screen is open to the new contact screen.

“Put in your number,” he says simply.

Your fingers tremble as you take the phone. You hesitate – but it’s not like you can refuse. With a few taps, you enter your cell number and name. He takes the phone back and presses dial. A second later, your own phone buzzes in your bag. Now he has your number, and you have his, presumably.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, that moniker making you cringe now. He pockets his phone. “Now, you and I are going to keep in touch. See, I want to make sure everything stays nice and quiet. And you’re going to help me do that by being very cooperative.”

You lick your dry lips. “What does that mean?”

He smiles slowly, and there’s genuine delight in his eyes – the kind a predator has when the prey is cornered. “It means, Y/N, that from now on, you and I have a little secret of our own. And you’re going to do whatever I ask, whenever I ask, to keep it.” His hand slides down the wall, and a knuckle deliberately grazes your thigh just below the hem of your skirt. The touch is barely there, but it jolts you. “In private, of course,” he adds, voice dropping. “We wouldn’t want to upset dear sister.”

Your breath shudders out. So this is it – his endgame. He wants to use you, the sister of his girlfriend, for his own twisted pleasure, right under her nose. It’s so perverse, you feel like you might be sick.

The sensible part of you screams to refuse, to run, even if it means telling someone the truth. But then images of your sister’s devastated face, your parents’ disappointment, and the havoc that could ensue – not to mention what he himself might do – flash through your mind. He could destroy your family as easily as snapping a twig, whether through violence or simply revealing your indiscretion and making it look like you seduced him. Who would your parents side with? Their dutiful elder daughter and her “nice” boyfriend, or you – the younger daughter caught lying about sneaking to clubs and sleeping around? The thought is sobering. Your credibility would be in shreds.

He reads the turmoil on your face and his smile widens. “Shh,” he coos mockingly, “no need to panic. If you’re a very good girl, this can even be… fun.” His finger trails up your arm lightly, as if in a caress, but it only makes your skin crawl (and, traitorously, tingle). “I won’t do anything you don’t secretly want, hmm?”

You glare at him, bristling. How dare he insinuate— But the words die in your throat, because some treacherous part of you had wanted him, that night. And the confusing part is, despite everything, your body still reacts to him; you can’t deny that your pulse quickened under his touch just now in more than fear. It’s disgusting and shameful, but he’s keenly aware of it. He’s weaponizing your own desire against you.

Seeing you speechless, he chuckles and steps back, giving you space. “Go home now, Y/N,” he says lightly, as if this were a normal goodbye. “I’ll be in touch very soon. Don’t ignore me.” The pleasant tone doesn’t mask the threat beneath.

You wrap your arms around yourself. “And if I… if I don’t show up when you…?” you ask haltingly.

His eyes harden to steel. “That would be unwise. I wouldn’t want to have to explain to your sister how I recognized her adorable younger sibling from a certain club bathroom video.” He pauses to let the horror sink in. “Yes, I know the club has cameras in the hallway. It’d be a shame if some footage fell into the wrong hands.”

You blanch. Did he actually get footage? He might be bluffing, but can you risk it? The mere idea that a video could exist of you in that state – or even just entering that bathroom with him – could ruin you if he shared it around.

“I understand,” you whisper, defeated.

“Good. Now run along.” He adjusts his blazer, then leans down, shocking you by planting a chaste peck on your forehead. To an onlooker it’d appear affectionate, but you feel the mockery in it. You flinch but stay still, heart hammering.

He walks away then, hands in pockets, whistling a tune. After a few steps, he calls back casually without turning, “Oh, and one more thing: don’t even think about trying to get a new number or block me. I have… other means to reach you and I’d be very unhappy. You wouldn’t like me unhappy.” He tosses a two-fingered wave and merges into the crowd, leaving you trembling against the wall.

You press a hand to your mouth, stifling a sob. The gravity of your situation settles in fully now. You’re trapped in a nightmare of your own making, blackmailed by a sadistic wolf wearing a prince’s clothing.

After composing yourself as best you can, you make your way home. You feel like a ghost moving through your own life. That evening, you can barely meet your sister’s eyes at dinner. She chatters on about how Seong-je surprised her at her campus today with lunch and how sweet he is. Each word is like a knife twisting deeper into your gut.

You force smiles and nods, throat tight. Inside, you’re screaming.

⸻

True to his word, Seong-je doesn’t wait long to make use of his new leverage. The following Friday evening, you get the text you’ve been dreading:

From Seong-je: Miss me? 😉 – Meet me tonight. 10pm. I’ll pick you up at the corner of your street. Don’t keep me waiting, lamb.

Your stomach plunges reading it. It’s 8pm when that arrives. You’re in your room supposedly studying, but in reality you’ve been on edge all day knowing he’d call on you soon.

Hands shaking, you respond simply: Ok. You consider begging him off, claiming you can’t sneak out, but you suspect he’d see right through excuses. And after four days of mounting threats – subtle touches or glances at school, another dinner at your house where he brushed his foot up your calf under the table – you know he’s done being patient.

Making an excuse to your parents that you feel restless and might go for a walk (which earns a puzzled look but no argument), you slip out at 9:50, heart in your throat. It’s drizzling lightly, the pavement shiny with rain under the street lamps. You wait under an awning, pulling your light jacket tighter.

Right on time, a black car turns the corner and rolls up beside you. The passenger window slides down, and there he is behind the wheel, looking effortlessly devilish in a leather jacket, his glasses notably absent – which sends a spike of nervous adrenaline through you. He only takes them off when he expects a “fight,” or some physical action. The significance is not lost on you.

“Get in,” he says mildly. You hesitate only a moment before obeying. The seat is cool against your thighs, which are bare beneath your skirt. At his earlier command, you’re wearing the outfit he told you he liked on you at the club: a short skirt and low-cut top, effectively your rebellion attire that he now uses as your humiliation attire.

As soon as you buckle in, he reaches over and, to your surprise, gently brushes a damp strand of hair off your face. The gesture is almost tender, but you know better now. “Glad you made it, baby,” he purrs, and his free hand gives your thigh a squeeze. You jump, biting your lip.

He chuckles and pulls the car away from the curb. “Relax,” he says, as if that’s remotely possible. “We’re just going for a little ride.”

“Where…where are we going?” you ask, voice unsteady, watching the neighborhood streets give way to a more industrial area.

He hums thoughtfully. “Somewhere private. I wouldn’t want any interruptions while we… chat.” The way he says “chat” sends chills down your spine.

Within minutes, he’s pulled into a deserted parking lot behind what looks like an old closed workshop. The area is dark and shielded from the main road. He cuts the engine. When he turns to you, the playful mask drops from his face, leaving something hungry and unhinged in his eyes.

Instinctively you shrink back against the car door. Your heart is pounding so hard it hurts.

He unbuckles his seatbelt and then yours, the metallic click loud in the silence. “Come here,” he says softly.

You hesitate a second too long. In a flash, he grabs your wrist and pulls. With surprising ease, he manhandles you from the passenger seat over the center console onto his lap. You gasp as your legs straddle him automatically to keep balance, your skirt riding up to your hips in the process. Suddenly you’re face to face, your hands braced on his broad shoulders, noses nearly touching.

He smirks up at you, hands settling on your waist firmly. “That’s better,” he murmurs.

Your breath comes in shaky pants. This position – it’s too familiar, too reminiscent of that night except now you’re painfully aware of the depravity of doing this while he’s dating your sister. “Seong-je, we shouldn’t—”

He tuts, silencing you. “We’re not in the mood to argue, are we?” His grip on your waist tightens, fingers digging in warningly. “You’re here to do whatever I want, remember that.”

You nod quickly, fear spiking. “I-I remember.”

“Good.” He drags one hand slowly up your body, from your waist to your ribcage, then higher to cup your breast through your flimsy top. You suck in a breath. His thumb rolls over your nipple, and despite yourself, it responds, hardening. He feels it and grins. “No bra? You actually listened. Good girl.”

Humiliation burns through you. Wearing no bra (and even no panties) were part of the instructions he texted earlier. You’d complied, cheeks flaming as you dressed. The proof of that compliance is now evident as his thumb circles lazily over the taut peak.

You bite your lip, stifling a whimper. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing your body still reacts, but it betrays you eagerly.

He watches your face avidly. “You’re blushing,” he teases, pinching your nipple suddenly. You yelp, reflexively grinding down into his lap at the shock of pleasure-pain. The friction rubs right against your bare slit on the crotch of his jeans, sending a jolt through you. He inhales sharply, feeling it. “Fuck, you really came out here with no panties. How obscene,” he growls appreciatively.

You squirm, trying to lift off the bulge that’s growing beneath you, but he clamps an arm around your lower back, forcing you down onto it again. Both of you moan softly at the contact.

“Please…” you whimper, not even sure what you’re begging for – mercy, or more.

He tilts his head. “Please what? Use your words.” His other hand comes up to grab your chin, thumb pulling your bottom lip down. “Be honest with yourself.”

Tears of frustration gather in your eyes. “I… I don’t—”

A sudden CRACK! jolts you as his palm smacks down on your rear, hard, beneath your skirt. You cry out in shock more than pain, the sound echoing in the car. The sting spreads over your buttock, and you realize with horror and unwanted excitement that he just spanked you.

“Don’t lie to me,” he hisses, eyes flashing. “You came here dripping for it. You knew exactly what would happen.” He shifts his hips up, grinding his erection against your exposed folds. The thick ridge parts your slick lips, nudging your clit, and you can’t help the moan that spills out.

He smirks. “See? Your body doesn’t lie.” His hand that smacked you now soothingly rubs the sore spot, then sneaks lower, under your skirt and between your legs from behind, one finger sliding into your wetness with ease from that angle. You jolt, nails digging into his jacket.

“Already soaked… You act so terrified, but you’re enjoying this, aren’t you, you little slut,” he breathes against your ear, slowly pumping that finger in and out, each movement pressing you down more firmly on his cock from the front and invading you from behind at once. It’s overwhelming and filthy, being taken from both angles even in this small way.

“N-no, I—” you protest weakly, but even as you say it, your hips have begun to rock, chasing the sensation. The dual stimulation sends sparks through you.

He clicks his tongue and withdraws his finger abruptly, making you whine involuntarily at the loss. He brings the finger around between your bodies and holds it up – coated in your arousal, strands of it glistening in the dim light. “Liar,” he whispers, before pushing that same finger past your lips.

Your eyes widen as you taste yourself on his skin. Instinct says pull away, but his arm on your back holds you firm. “Suck,” he orders quietly. Trembling, you obey, tongue swirling around his digit, because what else can you do? He watches, pupils blown, undoubtedly recalling your mouth on a different part of him that night.

“Better,” he groans, sliding his finger out with a wet pop. You’re panting now, humiliation and desire in equal measure flooding you.

Seong-je then moves fast. He yanks your top down, stretching the neckline until your breasts spill free. The sudden exposure to the cool air makes your nipples pebble up painfully. You flush and instinctively try to cover yourself, but he grabs your wrists and pins them behind your back. The action arches your chest forward, presenting your breasts to him.

He licks his lips, gaze raking over you. “God, you’re perfect,” he mutters and lunges. His mouth latches onto one nipple, sucking hard, while his free hand mauls the other, squeezing and rolling. You cry out, back arching more as a wave of pleasure crashes into you. The position has you grinding directly on his length; you can feel every inch of him through his jeans rubbing against your slick folds.

It’s all happening so fast. The car windows fog with your combined heat. The smell of rain and sex permeates the enclosed space. You’re losing yourself – it’s as if your body is remembering the ecstasy he gave it and is powerless to resist sliding right back into that state.

He alternates his mouth between your breasts hungrily, nipping one while pinching the other, then soothing with his tongue. You squirm and mewl, the pain and pleasure mixing intoxicatingly. It dawns on you dimly that he’s not even asking you to do anything; he’s simply taking what he wants, using you like a toy for his pleasure. And worse… you’re letting him, body yielding traitorously because it feels so damned good.

He releases your wrists, only to grab your hips. “Enough,” he grits out, voice rough. He’s reached the end of his patience. “I need to fuck you. Now.”

Your heart stutters. Despite everything, the word fuck said so rawly sends another pulse of heat through you, but also fear. Here, now? In his car? While he’s technically your sister’s boyfriend? Your conscience screams that this is so very wrong.

Sensing your hesitation, he narrows his eyes. “Don’t even think of denying me now,” he growls. One hand tangles in your hair at the back of your head and tugs, forcing you to look up at him. “You owe me this, and you know it.”

Tears spill over your cheeks, both from the pain of your scalp and the emotional agony. “I… I know,” you choke out. “Just… please, be quick.”

He regards you for a moment, then wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. Surprisingly, he chuckles, a dark, almost sad sound. “So eager to get it over with? We’ll see.”

Then he’s maneuvering you off his lap. Confused, you start to move back to the passenger seat, but he grabs your thighs and turns you around so that you’re facing the windshield, your back to him, still straddling his legs. Before you can process, he pushes your upper body forward. “Hands on the dashboard,” he commands.

You obey shakily, pressing your palms to the cool dash and leaning over it. This angle presents your ass perfectly to him, and you hear him groan appreciatively behind you. The remaining scraps of your skirt are hiked up over your hips, leaving your butt and dripping sex completely exposed. You feel utterly debased… and frighteningly, that only heightens the illicit excitement coiling in your belly.

There’s the sound of his zipper unfastening, the rustle of clothing, a condom packet tearing – thank god he at least thought of that, or maybe he always carries them. Then his warm hands grip your hips, and you feel the thick head of his cock glide through your folds from behind, coating himself in your arousal.

You tense up, anticipating the thrust. He slides back and forth a few times, not entering, just teasing both of you. It has you quivering, a strangled whine escaping your lips as the fat tip nudges your clit on each pass.

“Do you want it?” he asks, voice strained – he’s clearly holding himself on a taut leash right now.

You screw your eyes shut, pride warring with need. He slows the movement deliberately, almost pulling away entirely, leaving you frustratingly empty. Your body betrays you as your hips subtly push back, seeking him. “Y-yes,” you whisper, barely audible.

He yanks your hair. “I didn’t catch that.”

“Yes,” you say louder, voice cracking. “I want it… please.”

The satisfaction in his grunt is the only warning you get. In one powerful thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside you. You both cry out – you at the sudden fullness stretching you, him at the tight heat enveloping him.

“Fuck,” he curses, stilling for a moment as your body adjusts, fluttering around his intrusion. He’s every bit as thick and long as you remember, maybe even more so in this position that lets him hit deeper.

There’s a brief flare of pain from the abrupt entry, but it quickly gives way to an incredible pressure that has you clenching around him. A guttural groan rumbles from his chest. “So tight… You missed my cock, didn’t you?” he pants, pulling out halfway and slamming back in, drawing a yelp from you.

He sets a bruising pace at once, clearly too far gone for gentleness. The car rocks with the force of his thrusts. His fingers dig into your hips hard – you know they’ll leave marks tomorrow – using them as leverage to pound you from behind.

Your moans mix with the lewd slap of skin on skin. It’s raw and animalistic, nothing like any romantic coupling. It’s use. He’s using you like a personal fucktoy, and the most shameful part is how your body responds eagerly. Each drive forward rubs that devastating spot inside you that makes you see stars. The angle, bent over the dash, allows him to hit even deeper than at the club. Sparks of ecstasy light up your nerves despite the sting of his roughness.

“You feel that?” he growls, one hand leaving your hip to snake around and press down on your lower belly while he impales you. The added pressure internally is intense. “Feel me splitting you open? Hnh, say who’s fucking you.”

“You… you are,” you gasp out, tears of pleasure at the corners of your eyes.

He lands another sharp smack to your ass. “Name.”

“Se-Seong-je…!”

Another smack, harder. The sound echoes. “Not what I meant.”

It clicks. He wants the perverse title. The humiliation of it sends a shameful thrill through you. “Wolf,” you sob, skin burning with embarrassment and arousal. “Wolf is fucking me!”

He growls in approval and as a twisted reward, his hand between your legs shifts, two fingers strumming over your swollen clit in rhythm with his thrusts. You keen, the added stimulation hurtling you toward the edge with frightening speed.

Your legs shake, and you scrabble for purchase on the smooth dash as your mind goes blank with rising ecstasy. Sensing your impending climax, he pistons into you faster, chasing his own end now too. “That’s it, come for me,” he bites out, breathing ragged. “Come on my cock like the needy little slut you are.”

The degradation pushes you over the precipice. With a wail, you shatter around him, inner walls clamping down hard in pulsating waves. Your vision whites out; you’d collapse entirely if he wasn’t holding you up by a firm arm across your waist now.

“F-fuck!” he chokes as your orgasm milks him. With a final deep thrust grinding as far as he can go, he stills and you feel his cock twitching, releasing into the condom, his own rough cry filling the car. He clutches you tightly to him as he spends himself, teeth scraping your shoulder in the throes of it.

For a few moments, the only sound is both of you gulping in air, hearts pounding in tandem. Your body continues to spasm weakly around him, drawing out every drop. You’re distantly aware of how utterly sinful this is – in a car, behind your sister’s back, with a man who’s effectively your blackmailer. Yet in this haze of climax, none of that matters; all that exists is the afterglow and the man throbbing inside you.

Eventually, as clarity slowly returns, so does the crushing guilt. You stiffen, a sob catching in your throat. What have I done?

Seong-je, still draped over your back, must sense the shift. He gently – almost tenderly – kisses the nape of your neck, an unexpected gesture that makes your heart lurch in confusion. Carefully, he withdraws from your sensitive body. You wince at the loss and collapse onto the dash, boneless.

He ties off the condom and tosses it aside, then pulls your skirt back down to cover you, and your top up over your breasts. You feel strangely numb as he helps you back into the passenger seat. Neither of you speak immediately. The silence is heavy with things unsaid.

You keep your gaze fixed on your trembling hands in your lap. You flinch when you feel his hand brush your cheek, turning your face towards him. His expression is unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes roam over your features, lingering on your tear-streaked cheeks, your swollen lips, the fresh marks blooming on your neck and shoulders from his mouth.

For a moment, you think he might apologize – there’s a flicker of something like confliction in his gaze. But then it’s gone. He smirks lightly, thumb grazing your lower lip. “You look thoroughly fucked,” he says, almost in admiration. “Wear those marks with pride, baby. Only you and I know what they mean.”

Shame floods your face, and you turn away, hugging yourself. It’s too much – the way he shifts back to callousness so easily.

He starts the car, and you’re surprised when he drives you not back to the corner where he picked you up (which might arouse suspicion if someone saw you returning from nowhere) but around the block, pulling up discreetly by your house’s side gate. He knows the layout from previous visits.

“How—”

“I pay attention,” he answers your unfinished question, shutting off the engine. “Now, before you go…” He grabs your chin again, but gently this time. “Remember our arrangement. You answer when I call. You do what I say. And in exchange, I keep our dirty little secret safe and maybe treat your sister like the princess she believes she is. Understood?”

Your throat tightens. You nod faintly, drained.

He leans in and kisses you – not rough, but slowly, deeply, leaving you breathless all over again. When he pulls back, he murmurs against your lips, “You were perfect tonight. Don’t disappoint me, and maybe I’ll even let you enjoy it again.” The arrogance in that statement would normally earn an eye-roll, but horrifyingly, you did enjoy it in some twisted way, despite the anguish of what it means.

Tears prick your eyes anew. He pulls back, his thumb wiping one away. “Shh. Now go, before you’re missed.”

On shaky legs, you exit the car. He watches as you slip through your side gate and creep into your house. Thankfully, your parents are asleep. You collapse into your bed, the scent of him all over you.

In the silent darkness, hot tears finally overflow freely. How did it come to this? You’ve betrayed your sister, your own morals, everything. And worst is, you’re not even sure you can fully blame him – because your own body and some secret part of your soul responded to the thrill. That knowledge shackles you in guilt.

A single text pings on your phone, lighting up the gloom:

From Seong-je: Sleep well, little lamb. 🖤 See you soon.

Clutching your pillow, you sob quietly until exhausted sleep claims you, his words and the ache between your legs a constant reminder that this nightmare is far from over.

⸻

The following weeks pass in a tense, clandestine haze. By day, you put on your best performance of normalcy – attending classes, eating dinner with your family, exchanging hollow small talk with your sister about her “wonderful” boyfriend. You even smile when she gushes over the bouquet of roses he sent her “just because” one afternoon. Inside, each lie and each praise for him is like swallowing broken glass.

By night or stolen moments, you live under his shadow. He calls, and you have to invent an excuse to slip away to answer, heart in your throat. Sometimes he simply talks as if you’re old friends, his tone disarmingly light – asking about your day, teasing you until you begrudgingly respond with more than one-word answers. Other times, his voice drops to that low timber that makes your stomach flip, and he describes in lurid detail the things he wants to do to you next time, asking if you’re touching yourself as you listen (you always say no; he always sees through it).

And there are the meetings – the secret rendezvous that you wish you could say you dreaded, but in truth, you now ache for with a twisted mix of craving and shame. In abandoned classrooms after school, in the backseat of his car in dark parking lots, even once in a restroom at a department store while your sister waited outside unaware – he takes you, again and again. Fast or slow, cruel or almost tender, but always intense, always leaving you boneless and soaked with guilt.

Each time, you tell yourself it’s the last, that you’ll find a way to break free. But each time, he lures you back in – with threats, with dark promises, with the simple undeniable pull he has over your body. He is a drug and you’re deeply addicted, even as you hate yourself for it.

And through it all, your sister remains blissfully oblivious. She notices maybe that you’ve grown quieter, paler. You claim stress about exams; she buys it, too wrapped up in her own happiness. The guilt of it gnaws at you till you feel hollow.

One evening, a particularly charged family dinner finds you nearly at breaking point. Your sister excitedly announces that she and Seong-je plan to attend a charity ball together, and she’s already dress-shopping. Your parents toast to the lovely couple. Seong-je – who’s dining with you all – reaches over to squeeze your sister’s hand affectionately. “I’m a lucky man,” he says with a charming smile.

His foot brushes yours under the table at that exact moment – a secret touch that makes you jump. He smirks subtly without missing a beat in conversation. You can barely eat; nausea and twisted arousal churn in your gut.

Later, as you clear the table, he corners you in the kitchen while the others talk in the living room. He presses up behind you as you stand at the sink, his hand sneaking under your skirt.

“You’re so quiet tonight,” he murmurs, nuzzling your neck. “Jealous of the ball? Don’t worry, I’ll make time for my favorite girl after.” His finger finds your slit, discovering you shamefully wet. “Already soaked? Naughty… We just did it this afternoon.”

“Stop,” you whisper, mortified and aching. Your parents and sister are mere feet away beyond the door. The risk is insane.

He only chuckles and slips a finger inside you, making you bite down on a moan. “Meet me later,” he whispers, pumping slowly. “Midnight, my place. I want you in my bed for once.”

Your eyes widen. His place? You’ve never been. Too dangerous. You shake your head frantically. He hooks another finger inside you and rubs your clit with his thumb, a ruthless combination that has your knees buckling. “Midnight,” he repeats softly, “or maybe I’ll have to entertain a different guest. Perhaps your sister—”

“I’ll come,” you gasp quietly, grabbing his wrist to halt the devastating movements before you cum right there.

He withdraws his fingers and licks them clean, winking. Then he’s gone, back to the others, leaving you trembling over the sink.

Midnight finds you standing outside a sleek apartment complex, hood up and heart rattling. He buzzes you in. The elevator ride up to the 10th floor feels like ascending into some surreal fantasy.

He opens the door shirtless, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. The domesticity of it – seeing him in a home setting – does strange things to your heart. “Right on time,” he purrs, ushering you in and locking the door.

The next hours blur in a fever dream. True to his word, he takes you to his bed – a large, plush bed in a surprisingly tasteful room. There, he peels off every layer of your clothing with agonizing slowness, worshipping every inch of exposed skin with lips and tongue until you’re writhing. This isn’t the hurried coupling in cars or bathrooms; this is drawn-out seduction.

You try not to think about how many girls he’s brought here or if your sister has been in this very bed. But he seems to sense your distraction. “Tonight, you’re the only thing on my mind,” he whispers at one point, as if reading your insecurity. And disturbingly, you want to believe it.

He ravishes you thoroughly: going down on you until you sob his name, then taking you in languid strokes that feel almost like an erotic caress rather than punishment. He even kisses you – really kisses you – throughout, as if you’re lovers. By the end, you’re nestled against his chest in a tangle of sheets, your sweat and his mingling, both of you spent and breathing softly in the dark.

For a fleeting moment, it feels like something normal. Like after all the depravity, you’ve circled around to a tender peace. In that vulnerable haze post-orgasm, you dare to ask the question that’s been buried in your heart.

“Why are you doing this… really?” you whisper, tracing an old scar on his shoulder absentmindedly. “You have her. You could just let me go and… be happy with her. Why keep tormenting me? Is it just the blackmail and sex, or…?” You trail off, afraid to voice the hopeful alternative your silly heart stupidly wonders about in the darkest recesses – that maybe, somehow, he feels something for you beyond just control.

He’s silent for a long time. You can’t see his face in the dim light, only feel the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek. Just when you think he won’t answer, he sighs. His hand idly strokes your hair.

“I’m not a good man, Y/N,” he says quietly, almost gentle. “I hurt people – because I like it, and because it’s the only way I survive in my world. Your sister… she’s a pretty doll. An escape maybe. But you…” He tilts your chin up, and even in the dark, you feel the weight of his intense gaze. “You stumbled into my life and saw the real me from the start – and you didn’t run. Hell, you fucked the real me.” A bitter chuckle. “You have no idea how… addictive that is. You make me feel—”

He stops himself. Your heart hammers. Did he almost admit to feeling something?

Abruptly, he pulls away and sits up on the edge of the bed, back to you. “This was a mistake,” he mutters, voice hardening. “Getting cozy.”

Panic flares in you. “No, I– I didn’t mean to upset—”

“Get dressed,” he snaps, standing. The sudden coldness in his tone is like a slap. You jolt up, clutching the sheet to your naked chest. His walls are back up, brick-solid. “I’ll drive you home.”

Tears prick your eyes. You scramble for your clothes, dressing in heavy silence. He’s already fully clothed, mask of detached calm in place. The vulnerable man who held you minutes ago is gone.

The car ride is silent and tense. When he pulls up near your house, you turn to him, desperate. “Seong-je—”

“Stop,” he cuts off, not meeting your gaze. His grip on the wheel is white-knuckled. “Don’t read into this. Our arrangement stands. Go.” His voice cracks slightly on that last word, betraying a hint of emotion that twists your heart.

You want to reach for him, to say something that might break through. But fear and pride hold you back. With a trembling exhale, you exit the car. This time, he doesn’t watch to ensure you’re safely in – he’s already driven off, tires screeching softly on the pavement.

You stare after the car’s tail lights until they disappear. A fresh wave of pain settles in your chest. Somewhere along the line, you realize with despair, your dark tormentor became more than just that to you. Inextricably, you’ve fallen for the one person you absolutely should not – the cruel, broken boy behind the monster.

And that, you think as you wipe away tears and steel yourself to creep back into your house, is perhaps the darkest tragedy of all.

Inside, the house is quiet. You slip into your bed, the scent of him still clinging to your skin. You know this twisted game can’t last. It’s a matter of time before it all combusts disastrously – secrets like this always do. But for now, you’re caught in his web, bound by desire and fear and something achingly like love.

As you drift into a fitful sleep, one thought echoes in your mind: There is no way out of this unscathed. And the little good girl inside you curls up and cries, even as another part of you – the part irrevocably claimed by Geum Seong-je – whispers that, given the chance, you’d do it all over again.

#weak hero x reader #weak hero smut #geum seong je #geum seong je x reader #geum seong je smut #weak hero class 1 #weak hero class two #weak hero class fanfic #wolf keum

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wandanatsgf · 2 days ago

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Putting You in Your Place

Pairing: Ava Starr x Reader

Word Count: 1.1k

Summary: you and Ava are teammates who have never gotten along. One day you push her too far so she puts you in your place.

Warning this contains: brat taming, face slapping, strap sucking, choking, use of ma’am as a title, spanking, vaginal sex

“What the fuck was that?” Ava yells at you. Her arms wave around in frustration. She's pacing, too angry to sit still.

The two of you are on your way back to the tower after a mission gone almost wrong. Key word being almost.

The jet you’re on flies high in the sky, using autopilot to steer. You’re the only two on the jet, arguing in the back of it.

“What’s the big deal? We got the intel. We’re alive. Everything’s fine,” you tell the woman in front of you. Your tone is nonchalant, as if you truly don’t care about your actions. It pisses Ava off even more.

“You almost cost us this intel because you wouldn’t listen. If you had just done what I asked everything would've been fine.”

“It’s done now, just drop it.” You wave a hand at her as if you are dismissing her, dismissing her concerns.

“Is that how you want to be?” She tilts her head, one eyebrow lifting in question.

“Yeah that’s how I’m going to be.”

“Last chance honey. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.” Her tone is sharp. You have pushed her to the edge, to her breaking point. But you just don’t seem to know when to stop.

“Yeah right, you’re just all talk.” No sooner are the words out of your mouth are you pushed up against the wall, her hand around your neck pining you to the wall. She squeezes, limiting your air supply.

“You think you can talk to me like that?” She snarls. Her head dips down, lips next to your ear. She’s so close you can feel her breath ghosting over your skin.

“Yeah I think I can.” She moves back and her unoccupied hand flies through the air, landing a sharp slap to your face. You gasp, not expecting it. The slap stings and you’re sure it’s left a red mark. But it also left a mark on your panties, arousal starting to leak through and leave a wet spot.

“You have anything else to say or are you finally going to be quiet for once?” You don’t say anything, choosing to stay silent. You’ve pissed her off enough and you don’t make it any worse for you.

“Good girl,” she says. “Now let’s put that mouth to better use.” She releases your neck, allowing you to breathe better again. Using that same hand she pushes down on your shoulder, forcing you to your knees. She unbuttons her trousers and pulls out a strap that you didn’t know she was packing.

“Come on, open up baby.” She holds the strap with her right hand, tapping the tip of it on your face until you open your mouth.

“There you go, isn’t this a much better use for that bratty mouth of yours?” You try to say otherwise, but with your mouth occupied it is unintelligible.

She ignores your words of disagreement, choosing to focus on using your mouth instead.

She continues to push into your mouth, fucking it, hips thrusting back and forth. Your saliva coats the silicone, turning it slick.

“So fucking good,” Ava moans out, head thrown back in pleasure as if she can feel what you’re doing to the strap. After a few more minutes of this she stops you.

“Ok that’s enough baby.” She pulls the strap out of your mouth. Then maneuvers you so that you’re standing, your front half pressed against the wall. Your hands are on the wall while your hips are pushed back, pushing your ass out.

“You’re so pretty like this.” Her words are accented with slaps to your ass. Each one stings in an addicting way. You moan.

“You like being spanked baby?”

“Yes ma’am.” The title slips out of you before you even notice, but Ava notices and she likes it. It makes her smile, she's proud of you for being so good right now. For submitting to her and stopping your bratty attitude.

“If I had known this is all it took for you to be good I would’ve done it ages ago.” She spanks you a few more times before slotting her body behind you. You can feel her strap against you, just resting there. You try to push back, desperate for some sort of friction. All that gets you is another spank and a hand tangled in your hair.

“No baby,” she reprimands, “I decide when to fuck you.” The dominant tone of her words has you stopping, choosing to be obedient and give in to her whims.

After what feels like forever she slowly pulls your mission suit pants down and slips your panties to the side and slip her strap in. Your pussy makes a wet squelching noise, having been so turned on by her.

She thrusts into you, going faster and faster the longer she fucks you. You’re close you can feel your orgasm creeping up on you.

“You’re not gonna be a brat to me again are you?” Her movements are making it hard to think, let alone talk. You can’t answer. You’re too caught up in the pleasure.

“Answer me.” Her thrusts stop. Your body stilling and the pleasure dissipating. You whine, having been so close just to have it ripped from you.

“No ma’am. Please I’ll be good,” you say, desperate for the pleasure to start again. You beg over and over again, and the she gives in.

“Good girl.” She starts her movements up again, her thrusts even rougher than before. Your legs threaten to tremble and give out at the pleasure that courses through you. It’s too much.

“Oh god,” you moan out. The coil in your stomach tightens, threatening to spring free.

“I need to cum please,” you beg, desperate for release.

“Cum for me baby. Show me how good I make you feel.” At her words you cum, your pussy clenching around her strap. Your body spasms before you finally still. She gently slips out, and just in time as the alert system tells you you’re about to touch down. Ava tucks the strap back into her pants before helping you clean up.

The jet touches down and the two of you are gathering your things when you speak.

“You still mad at me?” Your voice is breathy, still tired from the intense fucking you just received.

“I was never mad, just worried. You need to be more careful. You could’ve died,” she explains, her voice soft. It’s a complete 180 from how she just takes to you.

“I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful. I promise.” You hold out your pinky to her. She holds it with her pinky then looks you in your eyes.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I hope you will.” You wink at her before deboarding the jet, leaving her to follow you.

She follows, shaking her head at you. She knows how you are. You’ve never been the most careful Avenger, but hopefully after this you’ll do better. But if you don’t, she’ll happily teach you another lesson.

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baisemains · 2 days ago

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Elements of Desire

Chapter 8: Green Light

single mom!sevika x fem!reader

word count: 9.2k

contains: slight language, alcohol mention, a little angst, liiiitle bit of suggestive themes, mostly fluff though 😁

description: sevika tries turning the tables on you, but little she does she know that she's throwing both of you in the deep end.

ao3 link | spotify playlist

previous // sevika masterlist

As much as you had hoped you'd have time to explore this new avenue with Sevika after poker night, the science fair's second deadline was quickly approaching and all of your energy was focused on making sure Powder and Ekko were on top of their projects. You felt it in your gut that they both had a fighting chance and you were doing everything in your power to make sure they had the support they needed.

Sevika completely understood, of course, but a small, selfish part of her wished that you two could pause it all for one day and spend some time together. Between work and the girls, you two were like ships passing in the night, never able to grab a moment to do anything but send the occasional check in text.

She felt as if she was starting to go insane without you around, her thoughts filled with memories of the last time you were at her house. That night was constantly running around in her mind, as if it were a favorite movie of hers. The memory of your leg pressing against hers, and how she had to fight the urge to caress it. Or how she so badly wanted to slide her knee even further up between your thighs. These were the thoughts Sevika would lose herself fantasizing about when work got slow, but right now, she had to stay distracted or else she’d show up at your place unannounced and possibly embarrass herself.

So, for the next few days, that was your new normal. The occasional good morning message and seeing each other for a minute or two when Sevika picked Powder up, before you scurried off to check on Ekko's progress. Reminding herself this was only temporary, she bid you goodbye with a smile every single time, only letting it fall once you were out of sight. She had to be patient, you would both be able to continue this...thing that you had started soon, or at least that’s what she was hoping for. The thought of having you over and picking up right where you left off was the one thing keeping her mind in check through this seemingly endless stretch of separation.

The finish line finally comes into sight the day before the presentation when Sevika comes to pick Powder up and the girl heads to the bathroom. It's the first time in what feels like forever that you don't hurry out the door when she shows up, instead leaning against your desk with your legs crossed and your fingers interlaced. You ask Sevika permission to come over and coach the girl through it in person, since the circumstances from before didn’t let you be there physically. Letting out an internal sigh of relief, she tells you yes while holding back her grin from being too obvious, or at least she thinks she does. You see right through it, that telltale sparkle in her eye giving her away.

"Perfect. Since her presentation is at noon, I can be there around 11 if that works for you guys?"

Nodding, Sevika lets herself fully smile, having missed the unexpected confidence you exude around her. “We’ll be home. I'm helping out a friend with his car early in the morning, but I’ll be back by then. Could even whip something up if you're able to stick around for lunch.”

Hearing that Sevika was planning on cooking made you want to do a victory lap, and you can’t help yourself from letting her know just how much the thought excited you.

"Sounds great. I don't have to be at Ekko's until later in the afternoon, so I'll be all yours until then.” Sevika’s knees nearly buckle when you say that, trying her damnedest to act normal about the implication, and she takes a couple of deep breaths before answering.

“Good. I’m looking forward to it then.” And, because she can’t help herself, one more comment. “And you better bring your appetite.”

"I always do." You tilt your head slightly while giving her a once over to drive home the double entendre, and Sevika’s skin breaks out in goosebumps, mouth parting as she fumbles for a reply.

Your eyes settle their gaze pointedly on her lips before a pair of footsteps in the hallway bring you both back to reality. Looking away, you see Powder cross through the doorway and glance between the two of you, feeling the slightly charged atmosphere in the room.

“I'm ready, Mom.”

Sevika’s attention snaps to her daughter, her mind clearing just in time to respond. “Alright, let’s go then.”

You say your quick goodbyes, promising to see them the following day. Powder gives you a bright smile before disappearing back into the hallway, and Sevika shoots you one last look before leaving you alone with your thoughts. Once they’re out of sight, you lay back on your desk, body slumping as you groan into your hands. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

After a pleasantly restful night, you're springing out of bed, ready to take on the day. Setting your outfit aside before you head to the bathroom and get ready, your roommate texts you that breakfast is ready a short while later.

Heading to the kitchen, you see that everyone is there, and you smile at the fact that you’re all able to spend time together. They of course tease you about the fact that you’re going over Sevika’s later, knowing all the details about what happened at poker night the previous week. Your face heats up but you brush them off with a nonchalant shrug of your shoulder, though your internal monologue is squealing. Eventually, you have to head back to your room and finish getting ready, and when you do, you bid your roommates farewell, strolling to your car with an extra pep in your step.

Sevika woke up that morning with a start for the fourth time since her head hit the pillow hours ago. Rolling over to look at the clock, she was surprised to see it only read 6am. Not able to go back to sleep, she sat up and swung her legs out of bed before she headed into the kitchen for coffee.

While the pot percolated, she began planning out the first half of her day in her head. A quick shower and breakfast, then a couple hours spent working on her friend’s engine, and time to return home before you make it over. Speeding through her routine, she headed out after kissing both of her daughters goodbye and letting Powder know she’d be back by lunch. Her morning passes by quickly, the engine taking up all of her attention as it needed more work than she previously thought, so she's on her way home a little later than planned.

When Sevika arrives, she pulls up the garage door and begins taking off the sleeves of her dirty coveralls before seeing you sitting on the floor next to Powder. She instantly freezes when you look over at the interruption, eyes taking in her disheveled look; oil smeared on her face and undershirt, shoulder muscles and bicep bulging, plump bottom lip caught between her teeth.

The two of you stare at each other before Powder knocks something over and you blink away the haze before giving Sevika a tight smile. "Hey. Sorry I forgot to text you when I got here, Isha let me in and she was telling me about school."

The woman nods in agreement before walking over and placing a soft kiss to the top of Powder's head as a greeting. Shucking off the rest of her outer layer, she throws them into a hamper in the corner before standing next to the workbench and responding, “It’s all good. No harm done.”

That leaves her in just a t-shirt and cotton shorts, leaving plenty of skin for your eyes to rake over. You don't though, remembering that Powder's presentation is in less than an hour, and she still needs to go through her practice run. Turning away from Sevika, you begin asking the girl questions to double check her knowledge, and the older woman stands there watching you two for a moment in silent admiration.

She continues to take in the way your hand casually touches Powder’s shoulder every time you praise her for a correct answer or how your encouraging smile always lights up when she’s on the right track. It’s clear how much you care about her learning, and it pulls at something deep within Sevika’s chest, feeling grateful you're in their life.

"I'm gonna go take a shower, but I'll be back in time for the call."

Both of you murmur in agreement as Powder continues to run through the exercise, your eyes now tracking Sevika as she crosses the room to the doorway. She can feel your gaze following her the entire time, and it takes everything within her not to smirk at how your stare feels like a caress against her skin.

Half an hour later, Sevika rejoins the two of you in fresh clothes and all traces of dirt and oil wiped away. You take in the sight of her out of the corner of your eye, not trusting yourself to keep from staring yet again, and check your notes to make sure Powder hit all of the key points. Turning to the girl, you ask, "You wanna show your mom the whole thing before they call?"

Powder looks at you first, an excited smile taking over her face at the prospect of getting to see the look on her mother's face, before she shifts her gaze to Sevika, silently asking permission. Sevika nods once, a small grin appearing in the corner of her lips and a soft look in her eyes as she motions for her daughter to begin.

The girl fully dives in, going through the presentation with ease and answering all of the questions asked to the best of her ability. It takes a few minutes before she's finished, and Powder looks between you and Sevika with shining eyes, awaiting your validation.

"You did amazing, babe," Sevika praises warmly, bringing her into a tight hug. "I'm so proud of you and all your hard work." Pulling apart, she turns to you with a grin. "And you. Powder is so lucky to have you as a teacher."

As you shyly brush her off, Powder walks over to her project and begins arranging it for the official thing. Sevika then leans over to you and whispers, “You should be proud too. It’s obvious she learned a lot in your class."

“Thanks, but you should be taking most of the credit.” Sevika’s eyes crinkle at the praise, her expression clearly showing how much it means to her to hear the words spoken out loud.

You sit next to each other on the couch as Powder puts the finishing touches on, both of you watching with identical grins. You then glance at Sevika and take in the slight differences between her appearance from earlier in the day to now, your eyes lingering on a scar on her right forearm and a small bruise on her cheek. Every new thing you realize about her only endears you more and more, but it doesn't scare you as much as it normally would.

The ringing from the computer catches your attention and soon after, Powder is answering the board member with a polite smile. After exchanging pleasantries, she begins explaining her project, much like the first time several weeks ago, but with more conviction. She breezes through the first half with no problem, but after the first question the interviewer asks, Powder's gaze flicks toward you and you mouth the answer. It takes her a second to process it and your hands fidget in your lap as she does.

She's finally able to get the sentence out and when your hands wring together, Sevika places her own over them, calming you down for a second before your heartbeat picks up again. The woman keeps a gentle hold on you the entire time, her thumb rubbing over your knuckles in an attempt to soothe your nerves, but your attention is fixed on Powder. Even though you can see her falter ever so slightly, her answer is so well thought out and articulate, and the words just seem to flow from her mouth effortlessly.

With Powder near the end, Sevika tightens her grip on your hand as her nerves also make an appearance. The girl then begins her closing statement, her shoulders squared and pride gleaming in her eyes. After the presentation ends, you and Sevika wait in bated breath for the feedback. Although this board member was different than the last, they give the same cut and dry answer as before, only letting Powder know that her performance was satisfactory and they would reach out to her teacher with a decision in a week.

Even though she wished for more detailed feedback, Powder was still satisfied with the outcome, taking the result in stride. She turns to you, hands now separated from Sevika's, and hugs you tightly once you stand from the couch. "That was exciting! Kinda killed my vibe at the end when he didn't say much, but I think it went okay."

"It definitely went better than okay," Sevika reassures, patting her daughter's hair. "You kept your composure the entire time, even when he asked you that question you had to think about. That was the best part."

Powder eyes bounce back and forth between the two of you, a pink tint coating her cheeks.

"I couldn't have done it without either of you guys. I'm glad you're in my corner."

She then pulls you both into a group hug, squeezing tight as you and Sevika each wrap an arm around her. After a couple seconds, she releases you from her grip and stands back, patting her stomach. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm starving."

You both laugh at the girl's shift in mood, her appetite now taking over her thoughts, and you all make your way to the kitchen. Sevika had already started prepping before she joined you earlier, so she was now focused on finishing up as you sit in the living room with the girls. She watches as you easily slip into the conversation, switching between talking to Powder and Isha, then Vi and Caitlyn.

Calling everyone over to the table, Sevika wipes a hand on her Kiss the Cook apron you've come to love before pulling it off and taking a seat. All of you settle in front of the meal, the girls happily going straight for the food as you and Sevika both take an extra moment to soak everything in. Sevika takes notice of how at ease you are around the girls, watching you and Powder's playful banter and how you jokingly chastise Vi for trying to sneak food before everyone has been served.

Sevika feels her chest bloom with each glance in your direction, finding it hard to stay silent every time you throw your head back and laugh, the sound wrapping itself around her heart and making a home. Once everyone has finished eating, the girls all excuse themselves to the living room, leaving the two of you in easy conversation. Sevika stands and begins gathering the leftovers to put away, and you stand up to join her in clearing the table.

Now you’re both standing next to the sink, scrubbing dishes in comfortable silence while the girls chatter amongst themselves, and you let yourself relax in the moment. It’s familiar and domestic in the best way, and you find yourself wishing it could be like this all the time. When you look over at Sevika to make a comment about her fork collection, you see the clock on the wall behind her and let out a small sigh. It catches her attention and she turns to you with a slight furrow between her brows. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," you smile. "It's just that I told Ekko I would go over to rehearse before his presentation, so I should get going." Sevika's face drops and a pang of disappointment shoots through her core, but she's trying her best to maintain normalcy. "Oh, right."

"Thank you for lunch though, it was delicious, as always." You turn around and lean your back against the counter before nudging her shoulder with yours. "The company wasn't too bad either."

The small contact of your shoulder against hers snaps Sevika out of her mini internal crisis, and the smirk you give her makes her chest loosen up a bit. "You're just buttering me up to mooch off my cooking again, aren't you?"

"Maybe. Is it working?"

She can’t help but let a laugh bubble up in the back of her throat. "Annoyingly so."

“Mission accomplished then,” you reply with a beaming smile.

She rolls her eyes before shoving your shoulder with her own, a smirk taking over her features. “Yeah, yeah, you little charmer.”

Sevika then pushes away from the counter, throwing a clean kitchen towel so it hits you in the face. “I bet you sweet talk all your friends that way.”

Pursing your lips as you lightly shake your head, you tell her in a quieter voice, "Only the special ones."

Sevika’s eyes take on a different look when you say that, becoming just a little softer. "I'm honored, then."

You’re both smiling at each other, a slight bit of tension filling in the sliver of space that still remains between you, until a shriek of laughter from the other room reminds you of where you are. Sevika lets out a sheepish chuckle before clearing her throat and nodding towards the living room. "I’m sure the girls will wanna say bye."

The pair of you make your way to the couch, finding Vi and Caitlyn cuddling on one end while Isha and Powder are sitting on the other. "Hey you guys, sorry to break up the party but I have to head out."

This elicits various groans from everyone, but Powder is the first to respond. "Already? But you just got here."

Chuckling, you tell the girl, "I've been here for over two hours, I have to head to Ekko's now."

"I know,” she whines, “it just feels like you just got here." Powder then stands to give you a hug goodbye, thanking you for all your help that day. Isha's next, sending you puppy eyes that threaten to break your resolve. You almost giggle at the look in her eyes, giving her a heartfelt farewell before turning to Vi and Caitlyn. They both wave before the younger of the two gets up and begins walking over.

“It was good seeing you, me and Caitlyn are driving back to campus tomorrow morning so we probably won’t be home again until the summer.”

“Oh! Right, I forgot you had to go back eventually.”

Vi lets out a chuckle and glances back towards the girls on the couch, smiling fondly.

“Me too. I hate having to leave them.”

She looks back toward you and Sevika, eyes bouncing between the two of you with a look in them that you can’t quite place.

“But they’re in good hands.”

Vi then reaches towards her shirt sleeve, adjusting it as she lets out a small yawn.

“Plus, someone’s gotta be the first one in this family to graduate college, so, y’know.”

Sevika scoffs at that, ruffling Vi’s hair with a smile. “Okay, smartass, I went to trade school.”

“Ugh, Sev, I just finished styling it!” The teenager runs a hand through her locks, trying her best to bring it back to its previous state.

The two of you stand there giggling as Vi fixes her appearance, standing up straight and facing your direction when she’s done. You can see her hands fidgeting out of the corner of your eye, and you brace yourself for what she’s going to say.

“It was really nice to get to know you. And again, I’m so sorry about everything, pretty sure Powder’s never gonna let me live that down,” she sighs.

You crack a smile, patting the girl on the shoulder and looking her in the eye.

“I appreciate that, Vi. It takes a really mature person to admit when they’ve done something wrong, especially when it comes to the people they care about. Hopefully we can get to know each other even better the next time you’re here.”

The teenager sheepishly nods at that and sticks a hand out in your direction. Instantly grasping it, she pulls you into a hug and you let out a noise of surprise before embracing her back. As she pulls away, she stops next to your ear so only you can hear her and whispers, “Take good care of her, okay?”

A shocked look settles on your face but you quickly school it before Sevika can see you, and you give Vi a single, firm nod, stomach twisting at the implication. She shoots you a satisfied grin before turning back to the living room and leaving you and Sevika standing together. The other woman clears her throat and looks in your direction before gesturing to the doorway.

Shooting one final glance towards the girls in the living room, you follow Sevika to the front door, slowly slipping your shoes on as she stands there holding your coat and bag. The look on her face mirrors the one her youngest just gave you, but your other obligations are calling your name. As you grab your jacket, Sevika wordlessly helps you put it on as if this was something you two did often. Once you’re all set, she stands there with her thumbs hooked into her belt loops, looking as adorable as ever. There’s no hesitation this time as you slip your arms around her and settle into her chest, feeling her muscular arms embrace your frame. The two of you stay that way for a long moment, simply enjoying the way the other feels.

Your phone buzzing catches your attention, and when you look down at it, you see that it’s just past the time you said you’d be at Ekko’s.

“Shit, I have to go. I was supposed to be there already.”

Looking at the other woman, you give her a sad smile as she slowly nods, knowing your time together has officially come to an end. “Of course, I hope it goes well.”

“Me too, I really hope both of them get through.” Hoisting your bag higher onto your shoulder, you turn towards the door and turn the knob before opening it. A nervous feeling settles into your stomach as you decide whether or not to turn back around, but before you can talk yourself out of it, you spin towards Sevika and press a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth, surprising you both.

You whisper a “See you Monday” against her lips before scurrying off to your car, tossing your things on the passenger seat and driving off without looking back.

Sevika is still standing in the doorway, stunned as she holds a hand to her mouth. Lost in a daze, she finally comes back down to earth and shuts the door before leaning her forehead against it. If only she had realized what you did faster, she would’ve caught you and gave you a proper sendoff. Sighing, she presses a hand against her chest and feels the way her heart is beating faster than before, like a schoolgirl on the playground. She laughs to herself before walking back to the living room, shaking her head at the fact that you beat her to the punch.

You arrive at Ekko’s house in a trance-like state, stunned at your own actions. Yes, you had openly flirted with Sevika before, but not only was it usually under the influence of alcohol, it was much easier to say all those things when you weren’t feeling her warmth underneath your fingertips like that. Your mouth hasn’t stopped tingling since you left, the sensation of her soft skin replaying over and over in your head. Once you reach the front door and Ekko’s mother lets you in, you snap yourself out of it and tell your mind to focus for the next couple of hours before you can go home and bask in the memory.

Thankfully, the practice and the presentation both go smoothly, leaving you and Ekko both optimistic for the results of their decision. His parents thank you profusely for your time and effort, and you promise to let them know as soon as the board alerts you of their decision. Making your way back to your car, you settle in and take a deep breath before turning the engine on and begin driving home, eager to let yourself fully revel in the echo of this afternoon.

The rest of that weekend passes by without a peep from Sevika and you’re now worried that the kiss upset her. Little do you know that it's been on a 24/7 loop in her head, leaving no room for any other thoughts.

Monday morning comes with a quickness, and you’ve decided to not reach out to the woman for fear of pushing her further away. Sevika’s in a similar boat, the kiss never straying too far from the forefront of her mind. She’s unsure of how calling or texting would come across, so she’s simply waiting until the afternoon when it's time for her to pick up Powder.

Since you're waiting to hear back from the committee, there's no more after school sessions unless she moves on to the next round, so you're surprised when Powder walks into your room after the end of day bell rings. "Hey Teach."

"Powder! I wasn't expecting you today."

She grins, rubbing a hand on the back of her neck and looking sheepish before glancing over her shoulder and closing the door. "Yeah, I actually wanted to talk to you about something. Do you have a few minutes?"

You round your desk and lean back against it with a gentle smile. "Of course. What's up?"

"Well, um..." The girl sighs and closes her eyes. "This is so embarrassing to say."

You wait for her to continue, curiosity now piqued. Her next sentence rushes out all as one word and it takes you a second to decipher what exactly she said.

"I have a crush on Ekko and I wanted to know if he's said anything about me to you."

After the words process in your brain, you have to bite back a smile before you choose how to reply. "Well, Ekko hasn't said anything to me exactly, but I can see the way he acts around you, and I'd bet he feels the same way.”

Powder lights up almost instantly at that, her cheeks tinged pink. "Really?"

"Yeah, really. Actually, when I told him you also got accepted into the second round a month ago, he seemed pretty happy about it."

The girl bites the inside of her cheek at your explanation, and you think it's sweet that she came to you to talk about it. She really trusts you.

You cross your arms and shoot her a smile, tilting your head a bit. "So, are you going to ask him out?"

Her eyes widen and she quickly shakes her head. "No! No way. If he likes me, he has to say something first."

Because Powder had closed the door and you had music playing before she arrived, you don’t hear the two pairs of shoes in the hallway approaching your room. Right as she reaches for the door handle, Sevika hears your voice and something in her gut tells her to wait, so she holds Isha back from the door. She listens as you explain to Powder how having feelings for someone feels, and how to go about approaching them, if they choose to. A small smile graces her lips as you describe exactly how she feels, down to the last detail.

"You know, sometimes both people are waiting for the other to say something, and then no one ever does and they move on without ever knowing. I would say it's better to get rejected than live in that doubt."

Powder looks deep in thought for a second before letting out a sigh. "I guess you're right. I'm just really nervous, what if he doesn't like me, y'know?"

A small smile cracks through, and you lean your head back before looking over at the teenager. "Believe me Powder, I have been there. More times than I'd like to admit, but I always felt better after having a solid answer, even if it wasn't the one I wanted."

“It doesn’t have to be right away, either. You can feel the situation out for a bit before deciding.” You continue, easing the girl’s nerves, and Powder lets out a noise of relief as you talk, a weight slipping off of her shoulders.

She then rubs a hand across her forehead. "Yeah, I think I'll just try and do that. It kind of feels better to have said it out loud, y'know?"

"Yeah, I definitely do. It's like all those thoughts are bouncing around your brain and it's hard to make sense of them until you tell someone else about them, right?"

The girl chuckles and looks down at her feet before looking back at you with a smile. "Yeah, it is. Thanks for this, by the way. I don't think I would've said anything for a long while."

"Anytime, kid. I know plenty about that kind of stuff, the good and the bad, so if you have any more questions, don't hesitate to come ask me, alright?"

She nods along, a look of utter relief on her face now.

"Yeah, I think I will."

At that, the girl finally begins to step away from your desk, clearly feeling more confident now than at the beginning of this talk. At that moment, Sevika decides to make her presence known and knocks on the door before opening it and crossing over the threshold.

"Hi..."

You freeze upon seeing the woman in front of you, immediately thinking about the last time you saw her. Isha rushes in and hugs your legs, causing you to bend down and embrace her. Before you or Sevika can say another word, Powder breaks the silence.

"Hey guys! I was just telling Teach about my...project."

Sevika slightly raises a brow at her daughter, deciding not to give away that she heard a large part of the conversation. "Right."

The woman then looks over at you and a nervous feeling settles in your stomach, not knowing what to expect. You both stand there unmoving, and Powder's eyes flit between the two of you, feeling the shift in the room. Thankfully, Isha lets Sevika know she has to use the bathroom and Powder takes advantage of the opportunity to take her, leaving the pair of you alone.

"Look, about the other day–"

"I meant to call you–"

Both of you begin speaking at the same time, and you gesture for the other to speak first before Sevika insists you go. You take a deep breath and gather your thoughts, still feeling anxious about what might have happened.

"I just wanted to apologize. I don't know what came over me but I shouldn't have just kissed you like that, I'm sorry if it made you uncomfortable."

Sevika furrows her brow and looks at you for a moment in disbelief before letting out a soft laugh.

"Uncomfortable is actually the last word I'd use to describe how I feel about that."

You blink a couple of times, thrown off by Sevika's response.

"Well then…what would you say?"

Sevika rubs a hand on her thigh and sits atop one of the tables, avoiding your gaze.

"A bit unexpected," she looks up now to catch your eye, "but definitely something I'd be interested in experiencing a few more times."

Your throat bobs as you register what she's telling you, and suddenly the room feels very warm. "Oh."

She gives you a cheeky smirk and crosses her arms, still leaning against the table. "Yeah, oh is right. That kiss definitely had me thinking about it for a while." Now it's your turn to avoid eye contact, and the both of you sit there in a semi-awkward silence for a few moments. Sevika then finally gets up and walks closer to you, a sly smile on her face.

You can feel your heart beginning to race from the way she’s looking at you, and you let out a breath of air as she leans closer. "I-"

She brings a hand to your hip and you let out a sharp gasp. Sevika grins at the sound, her thumb rubbing a small circle there. "See? You're not the only one who can play dirty."

A familiar voice down the hallway alerts you that your timeframe is running out, but before you can move, Sevika swoops down and presses a firm kiss to your cheek, causing your eyes to flutter shut. She pulls away just in time for the girls to enter the room, stepping back just as the two of you enter their line of sight.

Powder gives the two of you a look, a wary but knowing expression on her face before she turns and walks over to her bag. Sevika catches your eye and winks at you while her daughter's back is turned, a blatantly smug grin on her face. When Powder turns back to face your direction, she grabs Isha's hand and clears her throat, waving to you.

"Thanks for the advice, Teach, I'm definitely gonna apply it to the…experiment.”

You try your best to compose yourself before sending Powder an encouraging smile. "Of course, anytime. Good luck with the presentation." With that, your student shoots you one last nod before she and Isha leave the classroom, Sevika trailing not far behind them. She stops once the girls are outside, turning around and looking over her shoulder at you. "I'm sure I'll see you around."

Shaking your head at her, the woman lets out a small laugh and disappears down the hall. You throw your head back and groan, in disbelief that Sevika managed to turn the tables on you for once.

That week passes by without any more appearances from Sevika as she decided to pick Powder up on time, so all you have to go off of are the occasional voice note or picture of a book she recommends. Friday afternoon, as soon as the final bell rings, so does your phone, and the name on your screen causes your heart to skip a beat.

Pressing the green button, you raise the phone to your ear and answer the call. "Hello?"

"Hi. I called to ask what you were doing tonight." Sevika's low drawl fills your ear and your heart picks up the second you hear it. "The girls wanted to know if you were free for dinner and a movie at the house, it's been a while."

You try to hide the smile in your voice, not wanting to give Sevika the satisfaction, but it seeps through anyway. "Yeah, that sounds nice actually. It'd be nice to get a break from grading for a bit."

Sevika lets out a low hum and you can hear the cheerfulness in her voice.

"I bet. It's homemade pizza and ice cream night, so you're in for a real treat."

You laugh out at the end of that, thinking about just how domestic this situation is becoming between you two, and Sevika continues.

"Come over around 6, okay?"

"Okay, see you then. Bye."

"Bye, miss."

Looking at the clock on your laptop, you see that you have a couple of hours to finish your work before it would be time to head home and drop your stuff off. The time flies by and before you know it, you're in your car headed over. It feels juvenile, but the entire drive over your mind is playing out every possible scenario, trying to prepare for any situation that could arise. When you pull up to the familiar house and take in the sight of a light on in through the living room window, you can't help the giddy feeling that swells up in your chest as you get out and walk up to the door.

The sound of the doorbell rings throughout the house and you hear the padding of feet approaching the door. Powder opens it with a wide grin on her face, the excited teen bouncing from side to side in her pajamas. "Hi Teach, come in."

Entering the house, you're immediately greeted by a wonderful smell coming from the kitchen, and you notice how the entire house is spotless as you slip off your shoes. Powder shuts the door with a click and the two of you head towards the back of the house.

You see Sevika standing at the stove wearing her signature apron over a tight t-shirt and grey sweats that hang low on her hips. She has a look of concentration on her face as she inspects a tray of pizza she just pulled from the oven. Turning around to look over her shoulder, Sevika grows a smile at the sight of you. "You made it."

"Barely," you say playfully as you walk up behind her. "Traffic was a nightmare on the way over." Sevika gives a small hum of acknowledgement, eyes running over you quickly, taking in your outfit before she places the pizza back on the rack.

"You look nice." She lets her gaze linger on your form, and it suddenly feels much hotter in the small kitchen. Clearing your throat, you give your attention to the tray of food instead. "Thanks, I didn't realize everyone else would be so casual."

Sevika actually giggles at that. "Yeah, I guess I forgot to mention the dress code."

You can't help but smile at the sound of her laugh, and you take a moment to enjoy the rare reaction. "If I had known, I would have come in sweatpants and a stained t-shirt like a reasonable person."

Sevika lets out another soft laugh and turns around. She leans her hip back against the counter, giving you a full view of her casual outfit and the way it hangs off of her body.

A ding from the oven rings out right then, announcing that dinner is ready, and the two girls stroll into the kitchen with wide grins on their faces, hungry and ready to eat. Sevika starts moving the pans to the table and you begin grabbing plates and glasses for everyone. Isha and Powder sit down, conversating amongst themselves before the two of you join them.

The entire time, Sevika steals glances in your direction, taking in every aspect of you while making sure everyone has pizza on their plate. You glance up at her, catching her in the act halfway through serving Isha and she shakes her head before looking away, ignoring your knowing smile.

Once dinner is over, Sevika makes quick work of clearing the table, sending the girls to the living room to pick a movie. When you see her grabbing multiple bowls from the pantry, you hurry over to help her before she drops something.

"You really didn't have to–" Sevika looks up, seeing you grab the rest of the dishes from her, and shoots you a look of mock frustration. "Oh whatever, I'm not going to turn down the help."

You laugh and give her a sly smile. "I thought you enjoyed being the tough one?"

Sevika snorts at that, nodding her head towards the fridge. “Gonna grab the ice cream.”

Once she pulls the freezer door open, she continues on with her previous thought. "I never said I had a problem receiving help, I just don't like to ask for it."

Surprised at the slip of information, you simply hum and hand her bowl after bowl to scoop the dessert into, conversation lulling into a comfortable silence. When the final bowl of ice cream is filled, Sevika moves to put the container back in the fridge and you both carry the food over to the girls, who are sitting together on the floor arguing about what to put on. Setting the dessert down on the coffee table, Sevika clears her throat to grab their attention, and the girls look up at you two.

"Alright, so what are we watching?"

"I wanna watch an action movie." Powder states, leaning back against the couch.

Isha shakes her head firmly and signs to her mom I want to watch a cartoon.

Sevika looks amused, resting her weight against the wall and folding her arms.

"Why don't we watch a cartoon first?"

Powder begins to protest before Sevika signs behind Isha's back so the girl can't hear her. Just wait until she falls asleep and then put on the other movie.

The older girl lets out an Ohh, okay before turning back to the TV and scrolling through the cartoon options as you and Sevika take your places on the couch. Once she lands on something Isha agrees to, the movie begins playing and you settle into your seat, getting comfortable when you feel warmth pressed into you.

Sevika is sitting right next to you, her knee pressed against yours as her body relaxes. She's doing her best to focus on the screen but finds herself drifting closer and closer towards you. The warm weight of her hand suddenly landing on your knee startles you for a second, but you quickly relax into it, letting her thumb run over it in small circles. Isha sits on the floor, curled up onto a pillow as she begins to doze off with the sound of the TV playing softy now.

Right on cue, not even fifteen minutes into the movie, Isha's soft snores can be heard over the movie and Sevika pauses it before scooping the little girl up in her arms and carrying her to her room. When she returns, Powder's already switched it to her choice and is glued to the screen, much to Sevika's amusement.

As she sits back down, Sevika notices you’re scrolling on your phone and right when she opens her mouth to jokingly tell you no phones during the movie, you turn towards her with a nervous look on your face.

“Um, they emailed me with the results.”

Suddenly, Powder whips around with a frantic look on her face.

“What did they say?”

Looking between her and Sevika, you gulp lightly before shaking your head.

“I haven’t opened it yet, we should all look together.”

Sevika’s jaw clenches as she takes a deep breath. “Yeah, okay.”

She gestures for you to move closer before you hand the phone to Powder, understanding this is her moment. On your other side, the girl in question scoots closer to you as she taps on the email, preparing for the answer that can potentially make or break her future. She skims through it, reading the message aloud before the phone slips from her hand and she cradles her head in her hands.

Your heart is in your throat at her reaction and Sevika speaks up with nerves lacing her throat.

"Well what did they say?!"

Sevika reaches for your fallen phone, finding it and raising the screen to her face right as Powder speaks up.

"I...I got in."

Letting out a shaky sigh of relief, Sevika leans her head back against the wall and you look over at the girl next to you to find that she's crying. Before you can say anything or even move, Powder’s throwing herself at you in a hug, squeezing tightly as she buries her head into your shoulder. You can barely make out the words she speaks through her tears, but you feel her grip tighten with the next few words. “Thank you. So much.”

Suddenly, you feel two strong arms envelop you both as Sevika pulls the both of you into a tight hug, a rush of emotions coursing through all of your veins. You hold onto Powder, both of you crying as Sevika takes a deep breath, attempting to calm herself down. Eventually, you all pull away, Powder letting out a shaky laugh before wiping at her face. "Sorry, I just...man, I didn't expect to get this emotional about it."

Sevika pats the girl on the shoulder, a warm but watery smile on her face. “Don’t apologize, this is a huge deal, you have the right to react however you want.”

A fresh set of tears appear in Powder's eyes as she collapses into her mom's arms, the two of them embracing as you watch with a heart full of emotion, wiping the tears from your eyes. After a minute, the teenager pulls away with a start before jumping up from the couch and snatching her phone from the floor.

"I have to go call Vi!" She then sprints in the direction of her room, leaving the two of you behind.

Before Sevika can say anything to you, you're scrambling for your phone until Sevika hands it to you with a questioning look.

"Ekko, I have to see if he made it through."

Scanning the email for names, your chest swells as you read his name alongside Powder's, a choked sob escaping your throat as you drop your face into your hands, exhaling shakily.

"He got in."

Sevika's heart constricts from the sound of joy and relief in your voice and without hesitation, she pulls you toward her, wrapping her arms securely around your body. A soft chuckle leaves her mouth as she holds you tightly, her head coming to rest against your shoulder, taking in the moment of triumph.

"Oh thank goodness."

Before she realizes what's happening, you're cradling her face with both hands and pulling her into a kiss, tasting salt from the tears falling down your face. As soon as your lips come in contact with hers, Sevika melts against you, hands wrapping themselves around your waist and pulling your bodies flush together. She’s unable to describe the feeling in her chest, a combination of relief and excitement bubbling up with something else.

As soon as the kiss starts, it ends with a gasp and wide eyes as you pull away, a shaky hand covering your mouth.

"Sevika, I am so sorry–"

"Stop apologizing."

She cuts you off before pulling you back in, claiming your mouth in a bruising kiss, the floodgates of her emotions finally bursting open and leaving her inhibitions behind. You’re immediately lost in the kiss, unable to stop yourself from responding with just as much fervour. The hand on your waist squeezes you close, and she pushes against your lower back, wanting to press into you that much more. Only once a soft moan slips out from between the pair of you do you separate, matching dazed expressions on both of your faces.

You’re both trying to regain your footing, chests rising and falling with heavy breaths. Sevika looks down at your lips, the swollen shape of them a result of her own doing. Her hands slide from the small of your back to your hips, holding you tightly in place. She looks at you for a moment, wide eyed, until a smirk worms its way across her face, and then she can't help the laugh that bubbles up.

The sound rings throughout the room and you can't help but laugh alongside her, completely bewildered by the fact that you're sitting here with this woman, in this position. You can feel her eyes roaming your features at the same time she begins to run a hand up and down your back, and you can't help but lean into the touch.

"I've wanted to do that for a bit now," she whispers into the space between you.

Your heart flutters and you gently nod, bringing a hand up to run it over her jaw.

"Me too."

Sevika captures your hand in hers, bringing it to her mouth to press a kiss against your knuckles. She's openly staring at you now, completely entranced, and you can't help the soft inhale from the way her gaze is making you feel.

She takes her time tracing the lines of your palm with the gentle pad of her thumb, her other hand trailing across the soft fabric of your shirt, coming down to rest on your thigh. Her eyes dart between both of your hands, and she suddenly speaks up, eyes flicking up to yours with a forced smile as she does so. “This...we can continue this after tonight, right? You're not gonna wake up tomorrow and decide you're over it?" Over me.

Shaking your head with a frown, you can see the hurt flash through her eyes before you cradle a scarred cheek in your palm, seeing right through the mask she tries to slip back on.

“Of course not.”

A choked laugh slips from her lips and she tries to lighten the mood with a joke.

"Good, cause that would be pretty embarrassing, to be honest."

You don't like how she tries to brush off her vulnerability so easily, but she cradles you in her arms before you can protest, feeling a soft kiss pressed against your forehead. The two of you sit like that for a while longer, stealing kisses every now and then. Finding a good moment to bring up what's on your mind, you break the silence with a gentle tone.

"Sevika."

"Hm?"

"Can you look at me really quick?"

The woman tenses up before releasing you from her hold and shifting to face you. Her hands are fidgeting in her lap and you grab them softly, causing her to make eye contact with you.

"I don't think we should try to figure us out or define it right now."

A wounded look briefly crosses her features but you squeeze her hands to keep her from moving away.

"But...that doesn't mean that I don't plan on sticking around." You exhale deeply before running a thumb over her knuckles in a soothing manner.

"With the finals now coming up, all of my extra time and energy is going to be focused on that, and it wouldn't be fair to you or me to try to add this dynamic in the mix."

Her head drops and you instantly cup her chin to pick it back up and look into her eyes.

"But once it's over, you will have my full attention, I promise you."

Thinking about your statement for a second, you quickly correct yourself. "Well, as much as I can give you while still being there for my students, but you know what I mean."

That finally pulls a genuine smile from her, and she straightens up before cradling the back of your neck with a firm hand, sparkling eyes bouncing between your own.

"Sorry for all the melodrama, I just..." she exhales deeply, "Fuck, I was not expecting you at all."

"I know exactly what you mean."

Tapping the screen of your phone and seeing the time, you sigh and begin moving away from Sevika, knowing you should head home before you take this any further. Her jaw clenches but she lets you go anyway, watching you stand up and begin searching for your belongings while she watches. When everything is in order, you approach her and she rises to meet you, expression slightly guarded despite her best efforts.

"Walk me out?"

Sevika nods and does her best to compose herself. Her heart rate is elevated, but she can't find it in herself to be upset with you. You want to be sure of this when the time comes, and she understands that more than anyone. Following behind you, she keeps her hands in her pockets, shoulders slightly slumped. Once your shoes and coat are on, you face Sevika again with a lopsided smile, trying to cover up the sadness you feel at having to leave.

"See you next week?"

Sevika nods again, her jaw twitching as she stuffs down the anxious feeling settling in her chest.

"Yeah, okay."

After giving her a sympathetic look, and before you can think twice, your hands are on her cheeks and you're pulling her face to yours. Sevika lets out a quiet gasp, but she doesn't hesitate to lean into the kiss, her body coming to envelop you as if to keep you there. When you finally part, the both of you are panting, and you take a moment to rest your forehead against hers.

"I have to go."

"Uh huh, you said that already."

Sevika's voice is a bit hoarse, but she does her best to keep composure, not wanting to lose control of her emotions again. She moves away and holds the front door open for you, the brisk night air rushing in. You give her a final glance, and she tries to memorize the way you look, wanting to engrave this moment in her memory. But before you can fully cross the threshold, Sevika catches you by the wrist, pulling you back to face her.

"Hey."

The serious expression on her face catches you off guard, and you cock your head to the side with curiosity. She takes a step forward, crowding you against the cool door frame, and she keeps your gaze locked with her own. One of her hands rests on the wood behind you, trapping you there with her, and she takes the opportunity to lean down and bury her face into the crook of your neck. Sevika takes a deep breath and leaves a kiss over your pulse point, the fluttering of your heart causing her to smirk against your skin.

"I know you have to leave but...I just needed to do that."

After another moment, she lifts her head back up to look into your eyes again, and you can see the emotions shining through her gaze.

"Be careful driving home, okay?"

Sevika lets the hand trapping you drop and places it over your lower back, keeping you pressed between her and the wall as she leans in and presses a light kiss to your forehead. You don't say anything, not trusting yourself to speak, and just nod in agreement, fighting the urge to stay right there with her. Sevika sighs before stepping back, her hand leaving your body and falling to her side, empty.

With a shaky inhale, you step off the front porch and look back at her with a small smile before getting into your car and pulling away. Sevika stands there for a moment longer, listening to the sound of the engine fade into the night before closing the door and turning around to rest her back against it, sinking to the floor.

She is so completely fucked.

taglist: @daughterofthemoons-stuff @vii-v @runawaybaby3 @ferxanda @sevikas-whore @vikashoneybee @sleepingwasp @savedforlaterr @lia-winther @bebadoobie @nymanas @dyketoast

#pls pls pls leave ur thoughts i basically died for this one (wrote for 8 hours straight to finish it)#emotional sevi is sooooo ughuhguhfg #the way i wrote like 10 different endings and this is the only one that closely resembled my outline 😂#anyways theiir feelings are admitted now so 🤗 we can get to the fun stuff (emotional baggage)#as always thank you for reading sending everyone a kiss on the forehead and see you next week(?) for the next one!#sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika fluff #arcane x reader #arcane x you #arcane fluff

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sodaneko · 2 days ago

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SATURN LIGHTNING ; Suna x f!reader

It’s a beautiful destruction, taking you apart like this, and Suna isn’t so sure anymore who is ruining who now, but it doesn’t matter as long as he gets to keep you as his sweetest secret.

contains: f!reader, brother's best friend & roommate suna, +18 (not sfw, mdni), pet names (attagirl, sweet girl, baby, good girl), fingering, oral (reader receiving), praise kink, spit kink (you know me), secret romance, down bad and mildly obsessed suna, born from two drabbles (one + two) but not necessary to read them prior for context, hello i'm back in sunarin hell

word count: 1.5k

Big brother’s best friend Suna Rintarō has trouble sleeping ever since you moved in with Osamu and him. He blames it on the thin walls and your insatiable nature (he’s convinced it runs in the family) because when he walks down the hallway after midnight he can hear you rubbing out your frustrations on the highest settings of your vibrator, the relentless buzzing and your cursing under your breath when your toy dies on you. You poor little thing, he thinks to himself, because he knows your own hands won’t do.

Not anymore at least, not since you got a taste of his fingers working you open.

It’s a good thing that Osamu is working day and night at his newly opened restaurant, and when he’s not working he’s dead asleep for half a day, blissfully unaware that his best friend is making his sister squirt for the first time in the other room. Suna is pretty sure Osamu would kill him if he found out about this, but the thought melts away the moment he sinks into your tight hole, feeling you flutter around him. He constantly told himself he could put a halt on this anytime–but then you just had to look up at him this teary eyed, his slender fingers pressing down on your tongue where his cum was pooling, and let him spit in your mouth, swallowing everything he gave you.

Yeah, he could never let you go. He's gonna ruin you for everyone else.

As always it’s late when Suna hears the soft patter of your feet across the wooden floor again. You don’t bother knocking or turning any light on, too risky waking up your brother, instead you just push Suna’s door open a tiny crack so you can slip inside, heading straight for his bed. The mattress dips slightly under your weight and you hum when he lifts the covers, inviting you in.

“Hi Rin,” you whisper with a small breathless giggle, acting coy as if your panties weren’t already soaked by the time he runs a finger over the fabric.

“Hi sweet girl,” Suna murmurs, his hand finding you where your shirt rides up, pulling you closer to him by the waist. His thumb is tracing idle circles against your bare skin, admiring your softness. In the dark his lips find yours, melting against each other in a hungry kiss. His tongue slides against yours, lapping up the small moans threatening to escape your throat. He has one thigh slotted between your legs, guiding your sloppy movements as you grind on him.

Suna thinks you’re a vision when you’re like this. the heat in your cheeks, your glassy eyes, your lips plump and glistening from your cherry lip gloss and his spit. Your shirt pushed up, exposing the underside of your chest and your hardened nipples while the damp patch in your panties is growing bigger by the minute. And god, your gaze–fiery, hungry, quietly pleading, no, demanding.

“Gonna play with your pussy,” he whispers against your lips, his fingers already slipping past the waist band. He finds you soaked and aching for his touch, a stuttered breath escaping your throat when he draws slow, lavish circles around your clit. “Be good for me, yeah? Not a sound. Can you do that for me?”

You nod eagerly, a small mewl escaping your throat, earning you a click of his tongue. Suna feigns annoyance, his hand cupping your cunt. There’s this shit-eating grin again when you grind against his palm, desperately searching for some sweet friction. Your pupils are blown out when you look back at him, an expression between desire and something challenging. You whine quietly, biting down on your bottom lip to stop the sounds from slipping out. The sight makes the heat pool in his lower stomach, shooting straight into his cock.

“On your hands and knees for me, c’mon,” Suna instructs, pushing himself up and eventually flipping you over on your stomach when you’re too slow to follow what he told you, your mind already lightheaded from his ministrations. He gives your side a small pat while he positions himself between your spread legs from behind, instructing you to lift your hips for him.

“Attagirl,” he mutters once you push up your ass in the air with a small wiggle, your cunt on full display for him like that. His cock is straining and leaking uselessly against his sweatpants. Later. He has patience of a saint, you on the other hand…

Suna grabs the nape of your neck and pushes your face into the pillow. He's as gentle as one can be with it, muffling your soft mewls. Some days he dreams of having you all for himself, in a room where he can charm out all these sweet sounds of you without having to worry about someone hearing you. The way you push your ass against his crotch snaps him back into reality, the grip on your neck tightening slightly in a silent warning.

“Hush, baby,” he murmurs, his other hand slipping between your legs, pulling your panties aside to give him better access. You’re already dripping for him. “Gotta be quiet for me if you want me to eat this pussy.”

Suna doesn’t give you another warning, just pulls you closer to him by your hips before burying his face between your thighs. He feels the jolt that shoots through your body when his tongue licks a long stripe across your cunt and he keeps you still with an iron grip around the back of your thighs. His hands are big enough to pull your folds apart with his thumbs while still keeping you in place. You can feel his breath hot and heavy against your pussy before he closes the distance again, lapping at you with fervor.

You’re making a fucking mess out of his sheets but Suna couldn’t care less, if anything he coaxes more out of you, wanting to see how far he can take this. Only when you look over your shoulder again–these glassy needy eyes again, your breath coming out in short pants–does he pull away slightly, sinking two fingers in your tight hole instead.

“Too much?” Suna murmurs and there’s an underlying softness to his voice. His fingers still for a moment but you start rocking back and forth on them, signaling him not to stop just yet. He can tell how hard you’re trying to stay quiet and it’s adorable really, how you think he’s gonna go easy on you. After all, you crawled into his bed, right?

“Want your cock, Rin,” you whine quietly, one of your hands moving between your legs, spreading your cunt some more for him in an invitation. Suna idly moves his fingers, curled up against your sweet spot but not enough pressure to make you cum just yet.

“You want my cock,” Suna echos, his tone slightly mocking. his lips tug into a half-loped smile. “But I'm not done with you yet, sweet girl. You didn’t even cum on my tongue yet and you’re already getting greedy?” The click of his tongue makes you clench around his fingers and Suna knows he got you right where he wants to right now.

With that he once again sinks between your spread legs again, eating you out like starved, eager, his moans vibrating against your cunt. He doesn’t care about breathing, just a one track mind of wanting to make you feel so good you forget your own name. He wishes you would scream his instead, but your muffled whimpers are a delight too. By now his sweatpants are already soaked with his own cum, his cock throbbing and leaking uselessly against his thigh.

He can tell you’re close when your legs start to tremble and your whines turn into sobs, begging him not to stop. It’s when you turn around slightly to grab his hair and shove him harder against your aching cunt that Suna is the one who has to swallow down his moans, his cock instantly jumping back to life from the sweet mix of pleasure and pain. He’s feeling dizzy but he doesn’t stop, not now, not with your juices dripping down his chin and your tongue fucking your hole, his fingers rubbing relentlessly around your puffy clit.

Suna isn’t so kind as to give you a break when your orgasm crashes over you, no. Sure, he lets you ride out the aftershocks of it on his tongue, but instead of giving you a moment to catch your breath he pulls down his sweatpants just enough to let his cock spring free, bouncing against the valley of your ass. Coating it hastily with your wetness and his precum he strokes himself a few times before sinking into the warmth of your throbbing hole, one hand of his flying towards your mouth and clasping over it to hold back your pitiful sobs.

“You can take it,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, punctuated by a sharp thrust that makes your cunt tighten around him. “You can take anything I give you, right? So fucking perfect for me. Good girl.”

It’s a beautiful destruction, taking you apart like this, and Suna isn’t so sure anymore who is ruining who now, but it doesn’t matter as long as he gets to keep you as his sweetest secret.

a/n: this was supposed to be a fleeting thought about suna eating pussy from behind but here we are

#hq x reader #suna x reader #haikyuu x reader #suna x you #hq x you #haikyu x reader #suna rintarou #suna rintaro x reader #-`♡´- .txt #-`♡´- after dark

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multific · 1 day ago

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Love in the Shadows

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Summary: For months, your love had to live in stolen moments and hidden glances.

It was always the quiet moments you lived for the whisper of footsteps in the corridor, the brush of his hand at your waist, the flash of his smirk when no one was looking.

In the eyes of the school, you were strangers. To each other, you were everything.

You leaned against the stone wall of the abandoned corridor, heart hammering in your chest as you waited. Midnight had long passed. Students were tucked away behind locked doors.

Still, you waited.

You always did.

Soft footsteps echoed, and before you could react, Mattheo’s arms were around you, pulling you into the shadows.

"Miss me?" he whispered, voice like smoke curling into your ear.

"You’re late," you murmured back, half-hearted in your scolding, arms sliding around his neck.

He kissed you before you could say anything else, desperate and starved like he hadn’t seen you just hours before.

His fingers tangled in your hair. Your back hit the wall with a soft thud. You smiled against his mouth.

He always kissed like he was making up for all the time you had to spend apart.

"Had to make sure no one was following me," Mattheo said breathlessly, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. "You're worth the wait."

Your heart twisted painfully. This hiding, this sneaking around, it was dangerous. It was reckless. But you loved him too much to stop.

You slid your fingers into his dark hair, tugging gently. "One day," you whispered. "We won’t have to hide."

He went still as if your words pierced him deeper than you intended.

“One day,” he echoed, but his voice was low, uncertain.

You didn’t know then how close that day would be.

It started the next morning.

You noticed the glances first the way students looked at you in the halls, muttering behind cupped hands. Then the parchment slipped into your bag during Potions: a single line scrawled across it.

"Does Riddle know you’re such a weakness?"

Your blood ran cold. You crumpled the note and shoved it deep into your pocket.

When you met Mattheo in the library later that night, you didn’t tell him.

You should have. But you knew how fiercely he protected what he loved and how ruthlessly he destroyed anyone who threatened it.

You didn’t want to be the reason he burned the world down.

But secrets have a way of surfacing.

Mattheo found the note himself two nights later when you left your satchel unattended during a stolen study session.

You returned to find him staring at it, jaw tight, his hands shaking with fury.

"Who gave you this?" he demanded, voice low and dangerous.

You froze. "Mattheo-"

"Who?"

You swallowed hard, stepping closer, placing a hand on his chest. His heart thundered beneath your palm. "It doesn’t matter," you whispered. "They’re just trying to get to you. That’s all."

His hand curled around yours, gripping it tightly. "And what if they do?" His voice cracked, raw and broken. "What if they hurt you to get to me?"

You shook your head fiercely. "They won’t. You won't let them. I trust you."

Mattheo stared down at you, like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world. For a long moment, he said nothing only breathing hard, trembling with contained rage.

Then he made a decision.

One that would change everything.

The next day was a blur.

Word had spread. Students gathered in the Great Hall, the buzz of rumours thick in the air. You sat alone at your house table, stomach in knots, trying to focus on your food.

And then the room fell silent.

You looked up and saw him.

Mattheo.

Walking straight across the Hall. Toward you.

Every step he took was deliberate.

Defiant.

The heads of Slytherin House whipped around. Teachers frowned. Whispers broke out like wildfire.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Mattheo reached you, not even hesitating. He reached out and took your hand.

In front of everyone.

Gasps echoed. Someone dropped their goblet.

"Mattheo," you breathed, panicked, tugging gently on his hand. "You don’t have to-"

"Yes, I do," he interrupted, voice fierce but steady. His thumb brushed across your knuckles. "I'm done pretending."

He pulled you up from the bench like you weighed nothing, drawing you against him. Your hands splayed against his chest, feeling the rapid, uneven beat of his heart.

"I love you," Mattheo said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

A ripple of shock travelled through the Hall.

"And if anyone," he continued, staring down anyone who dared to look at you wrong, "even thinks about touching you, they'll have me to answer to."

Silence reigned. No one dared to move.

You stared up at him, wide-eyed, overwhelmed, your heart aching with love and terror and wonder all at once.

Slowly, you lifted your hand to his cheek. "I love you too," you whispered.

He smiled a small, rare, beautiful. A smile that belonged to you alone.

That night, in the safety of his room, Mattheo kissed you like a man starved.

There was no more fear, no more hiding. Only two hearts, finally free.

He held you against his chest after, murmuring promises against your hair about the future, about never letting go, about fighting for you until his last breath.

And for the first time in months, you slept without fear.

Because you knew,

Mattheo Riddle had chosen you.

And he would choose you, always, always, always.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

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luvyeni · 2 days ago

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TWO DUMB VIRGINS ๑. ( 박지성 )

PART NINETEEN. i can do it …

𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗘 ──── you wanted to lose it . he was tired of being made fun by his friends. both of you thinking he’d pull out fast enough… but what can you expect from two stupid virgins ? …

( 対 ) park jisung + fem. reader genre young parent au , smau · contains! mentions of sex. pregnancy talk. crude language. jokes among friends mature content

jisung open the car door; waiting for you to climb inside. “jesus christ that took longer than it should’ve.” you huffed sitting down. he closed the door , making his way over to the driver's seat. “are you sure jaemin is okay with you continuously using his car?” you asks as he closed the door; starting the vehicle. “he mostly uses jenos car and when i mean uses , i mean sits in the passenger seats and yell directions.” you laughed. “plus it’s just until i get one.”

“do you even have money for that?” you asked. “don’t worry about that.” he said slowly, pulling off. “you tell me don’t worry , but i’m a chronic worrier , i always worry about things.” you stared out the window. “yn i promise you im a struggling student , but im not completely broke , i can take care of myself.” he stopped debating if he should say it. “i can take of you and the baby.”

“we both graduate this year and then i can find a more stable job and you don’t really have to work that hard at the salon , well unless you want to.” he said. “i’m just saying i can do this.” he came to a stop; turning to you. “what?” you shook your head. “i have never seen someone so young but so prepared for such an inconvenience in his life.” you said. “how?”

“well when i told my mom she slapped me for being a dumbass.” he confessed. “oh i’m so sorry.” you said. “then she laid it out to me, she told me everything i needed to do and what i need to expect , so if you ever need to yell at me for no reason i fully understand it.” he placed his hand over his chest sympathetically. “this is such a crazy situation we’ve found ourselves in , but i wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else but you.”

“really?”

“well maybe yuna.” “yn.” “im joking … chenle is obviously the best choice.” “you play too much you know that right ?”

“are you and chenle like?” you felt like you could’ve broken your neck the way you turned. “why would you ask such a question?” you said. “no of course not , we’ve been friends since we were babies.” you said. “yeah but wouldn’t that make you two — jisung we aren’t dating , we’ve never dated we’ve never even teetered on the line of that conversation.” you said. “why you wanna date him?” you joked. “no i don’t want to date him.”

“what about that cute nurse?” you asked. “i’m not gonna date her either.” he said. “why she was nice.” you said but he cut in. “you wanna go to lunch?” he asked. “sure.” you smiled. “but can i ask you a question?” he hummed. “is this a date?” he gulped. “we-we’ll that’s what i was hoping…” he stopped. “but if you prefer for it to just be lunch as friends then — you’re an idiot.” you said. “if you wanted to go on a date you could’ve just asked that date we met at the cafe.”

“you’re the one who said you wanted to just be friends.” you said. “after i thought you gave me a false number.” he scoffed. “it wasn’t a false number , it was a mistake in my poor handwriting.” you defended. “you still had many times to ask.” you said. “i’ve been trying to sell you off to any girl i could.” he furrowed his eyebrows. “i didn’t want you to feel trapped with me.” you said. “is that why you tried to give the nurse my number.”

“i was about to set you up with yuna if i could.” he turned to you as he pulled into your favorite cafe. “yu-yuna?” he said. “why?” you shrugged. “it was either that or yunjin.” he shook his head. “i would’ve said no.” he confessed. “why?”

“because they both terrify me.”

( 🏷️ ). @starsungwrld @neverbeurs @chocolate-scoups @delinalovesriize @cupid-ville @maiyhw @cosmicwintr @nctislifue @httpsxnox @hyunjinslongasslegs @andyyjw @kookssecret @ithinkulikeme @meowmeowhoon @jae-n0 @413ktz @httpjiprk @antifrggile @ourshin @itskpopular @smiles4hyuck @jaeminnnanaaa17 @bbyinni @sillypaperspyeagle-blog @n0hyuck @catdonut657 @markleesleftpinky @clean-soap @janjoonty @veilstqr @mikeeel @cigsaftersuh @kittykyuuu @akirawhore

𝕼 ㅤ𓈒ㅤ𓈒 PREV. TDV. NEXT. .ᐟ

©️LUVYENI

#park jisung fake texts #park jisung fanfic #park jisung x reader #park jisung scenarios #park jisung smau #park jisung fic #nct dream fanfic #nct dream x reader #nct dream fic #nct dream x female reader #nct dream fics #nct dream smau #nct ff #nct dream social media au #nct fake texts #nct fanfic

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mintyys-blog · 3 days ago

Note

Hey, you know how u did a st. Trina reader with the mark variants? could u maybe do a thragg x st. Trina reader as well? PLZZZ

DEVINE DESIRES | thragg x st. trina! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: mention of pregnancy

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work, whether AI-generated or otherwise, without my permission.

She was something else—something beyond him.

Her skin shimmered like moonlight, her presence a rare and divine beauty that even Thragg, in all his years of conquest, couldn’t deny. Y/N, the celestial being in human form, moved with an ethereal grace that made her seem like a goddess and him, a mere mortal in her presence. But that didn’t stop him from wanting her.

He towered over her as she stood before him, her luminous eyes meeting his with a softness that only made his instincts sharper. Her fragility, her purity—it only made him crave her more.

“You’ll be mine, Y/N,” Thragg growled, his hands reaching to hold her delicate form, his grip gentle but possessive. “I don’t care what your power is. You’ll carry my child.”

Her smile was both knowing and full of serenity, as if she had seen this moment long before it came. “You think you can tame the divine?” she whispered, her voice like a lullaby that made his blood burn.

“I don’t need to tame you,” Thragg replied, his lips curling into a predatory smile. “I just need to claim you.”

And in that moment, it didn’t matter that she was far beyond the scope of any mortal; her power only made him want to own her more.

Thragg noticed the subtle shift in her expression. Her eyes, once full of serene power, now carried a trace of sadness—a sadness that didn’t belong to her divine nature.

“Your pursuit to godhood will be your demise,” she whispered, her voice a soft echo of truth he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear.

His grip tightened instinctively, but not in anger. There was something in her words that unsettled him, something in her that made him pause.

“What do you mean?” Thragg’s voice was low, his usual arrogance replaced by a rare vulnerability. He leaned in, searching her eyes for answers he didn’t know he needed.

Y/N met his gaze, her expression filled with a quiet sorrow, the weight of her knowledge pressing down on her. “You can claim me, Thragg. You can take me as you wish, but your hunger for power will consume you. I’ve seen it. The path you walk—it leads only to destruction, for you and everyone around you.”

Thragg scoffed, a smirk crossing his face as he pulled her closer. “I will not be consumed. I am Viltrumite. I am strength incarnate.”

She shook her head slowly, a soft, sorrowful smile curling on her lips. “You don’t see it, do you? You think strength will protect you. But in the end, it will be your downfall. I am not your answer, Thragg. I am only a warning.”

Her words stung more than he expected. But still, her proximity, her aura, everything about her beckoned him to ignore it all—to take her, to keep her. For his own sake.

“I don’t care about your warnings, Y/N.” His tone was sharp, but the vulnerability lingered, hidden beneath the layers of his resolve. “I will make you mine, no matter the cost.”

Her gaze softened, and she lifted her hand to gently trace the side of his face. “Then let that be your choice. But know this: I love you, Thragg. And it terrifies me.”

The tension between them thickened, as Y/N’s soft touch lingered on Thragg’s rough, battle-worn face. Her fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the contrast between their hands—the delicate curve of hers against the harshness of his skin—was almost painful. She was so gentle, so soft, like the calm before a storm. And he? He was a tempest, a violent force that nothing could contain.

“I am not afraid of you, Y/N,” Thragg growled, but his voice lacked the certainty it usually held. His chest rose and fell with a deep, uneven breath, as if the softness of her touch was slowly unraveling him.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “But you should be.”

The words hit him like a shockwave, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he hesitated. Thragg, the Viltrumite warlord, the destroyer of worlds, stood still, caught in the gravity of her ethereal calm. It was a softness that pulled him in, that made him feel something—something human.

“You’re too gentle for someone like me,” Thragg said, his voice dark and rough with uncertainty. “You should fear me.”

Y/N’s eyes softened even more, her lips curling into a small, bittersweet smile. “I do fear you. But my fear doesn’t change the truth.” She reached up, cupping his face with both hands now, as though trying to steady the storm that churned inside him. “You’re strong, Thragg. But you’re not invincible. Not to me.”

Her words weren’t a challenge. They were a plea.

Thragg closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her hands against him, the heat of his own rage battling with the inexplicable calm she offered. “You think I’m invincible?” he muttered, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips.

“I think you’re trying to be,” she replied softly, her thumbs brushing over the roughness of his skin. “And that’s what will break you. Not your strength, but your need to prove you’re untouchable. You can’t fight your way through everything, Thragg. Not with me.”

He opened his eyes slowly, meeting her gaze, the vulnerability now raw and unmistakable in his own. He was used to being feared, admired, worshipped. But with Y/N, he was something else entirely. And that scared him more than anything else ever could.

“Then what am I to you?” he asked, the question dripping with raw emotion he never allowed himself to show.

“You’re everything to me,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his, her breath mingling with his. “But I will not let you destroy yourself. I love you, even if you don’t understand it. Even if you can’t accept it.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence between them—his strength and her softness, two forces colliding and yet somehow holding each other up. Thragg could feel it now, the weight of her love, the pull of her softness. It was undeniable, something he couldn’t fight, even if he tried.

“I don’t know how to be loved like this,” he admitted, his voice rough.

“You don’t have to,” Y/N whispered, pulling him closer. “You just have to let me.”

#x reader #reader insert #x female reader #thragg x reader #invincible thragg #grand regent thragg #thragg #st trina

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everrinsly · 1 day ago

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a/n; thank you, everyone, for reading and the sweet comments! i don't have a vision for this series haha, just whatever comes up in my life that could also fit with the boys' too (and to practice 'crack' level writing that makes me giggle after a long day). this one reminds me of miss kiyoko (mrs. tanaka) heheh

a momager and her silly olympic team vibes.

missing shoes, olympics version. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

more olympic team shenanigans | part 1 | part 2 | part 3