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nanasrkives · 2 days ago

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navigation : midnight records! the starlight EP! the mha EP!

"DO YOU FEEL IT TOO ?" — Bakugo Katsuki

a/n : never knew i had it in me to write something this long bakugo being into shojos gives me life content : fluff fluff fluff. a LOT of pining. 3rd year bakugo. f2l i guess. +12k words. blue spring ride references.

Bakugo Katsuki doesn’t read romance for the fluff.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. It’s about structure. Pacing. The way a story builds tension out of glances instead of battles, silence instead of shouts. That’s what he tells himself. But he knows the truth.

What it really is—what it’s always been—is longing.

That ache in the chest when two people stand an inch apart and say nothing. The sharp inhale before a hand is taken, or not. It’s in the words people don’t say. In the space between panels where everything unsaid lives. He reads it and feels seen in a way that pisses him off more than he can explain.

It started with a volume of Blue Spring Ride left in the common room. Someone had abandoned it between cushions. He picked it up without thinking, without planning to. He read the first chapter standing. The second while pacing. By the third, he was sitting on the floor, the book open in his lap, heart tightening with every page.

Now he has the full set. And more. Stupid shit with pastels and sparkles and characters that cry too much. A box of feelings he can’t name shoved under his desk.

No one knows. No one’s supposed to.

Which is why tonight is a mistake.

Inviting you over to study always is. You’re too comfortable in his space. You sit on the floor like you live there, flipping through the textbook you’re not even reading and every time your knee bumps his, he has to pretend he doesn’t feel it like a static shock to the ribs.

He leaves the room too fast. “I’m getting snacks. Don’t touch my stuff.”

You hum. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But when he gets back, he stops in the doorway like he’s forgotten how to move.

You’re kneeling on the floor, half-turned toward his desk, and in your hands—one of the volumes from the box he swore he’d hidden better. His brain stalls. There’s the blanket, shoved to the side. The cardboard lid askew. The spines of half a dozen shojo mangas catching the light just enough to betray him completely.

You’re holding Blue Spring Ride. Of course you are. He knows the cover by heart. He knows exactly which scene is bookmarked, too. The one he reread three times before closing the book like it might say something out loud if he stared hard enough.

You don’t laugh. Don’t look smug or surprised or ready to tease him. Your fingers hold the book gently, like it’s something fragile. Like it matters.

“I didn’t know you read this kind of stuff,” you say, your voice quiet—not mocking, not even curious, just... soft. Careful.

His feet finally move, but only because he forces them to. He crosses the room with a grunt that lands somewhere between a warning and a deflection, and drops the water bottle onto his desk with more force than necessary.

“I told you to not touch my crap,” he mutters, heat already crawling up the back of his neck.

You lift a pen in your other hand—the one you dropped, apparently—and glance back at the box with a small shrug. “Well, sorry if it was in the way.”

That should make it better. It doesn’t. His chest is tight, heart thudding in the kind of silence that feels louder than yelling. You flip the book open. The page is still folded. Fucking chapter twenty-three. Of course you find it. Of course.

“This part,” you say, eyes scanning the page like you’re revisiting something old and intimate, “this one always hit me.”

His mouth is dry. He can’t decide if he wants to grab the book back or walk out of the room entirely.

“She’s trying so hard to get through to him, though she knows even if he doesn’t say it.” you go on. “But he doesn’t know how to let her in yet. Not because he doesn’t care. Because he doesn’t think he can.”

You don’t say it like you’re talking about the characters. You say it like you’re reading him.

He sinks slowly to the floor beside you—cross-legged, arms folded tight, like he’s trying to hold something in place. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps his gaze fixed on the page as if it might rescue him from the way your voice softens when you speak.

“He’s bein' a fuckin' coward,” he mutters, the words falling out like they’ve been waiting there, unsaid, for too long.

You tilt your head slightly, not pushing, not correcting him, just letting your voice land somewhere softer. “He’s scared. That’s different.”

The pause that follows feels like breathing underwater—slow and thick, full of things neither of you will touch directly. You turn another page, and this time your thumb lingers at the edge of the panel like you’re touching something fragile.

“This moment right here,” you say, quieter now, but still with that strange, steady certainty you always seem to have, “it’s my favorite.”

You don’t point to it, but he knows exactly which one you mean. The close-up of Futaba’s face, words floating just above her expression.

"Beacause I like you" I just want to hear you tell me that

You don’t elaborate. You don’t press. But the weight of it hangs there between you, not heavy, not demanding—just quietly waiting to be understood. And when your shoulder brushes his as you shift slightly to lean back, it stays there. No recoil. No excuse. Just warmth, still and deliberate.

He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t move away either.

It doesn’t come up again that night. You go back to studying like nothing happened, like you didn’t just brush fingertips against the deepest thing he’s been hiding since he was fifteen. But something’s changed. You can feel it in the air, in the way he doesn’t complain when you lean your arm against his or when your laugh gets too loud in his room. He doesn’t roll his eyes anymore. He just watches, and he’s quieter than usual, but it’s not the kind of silence that means distance. It’s the kind that listens.

A few days later, you leave a new book on his desk. You don’t say anything. You don’t ask if he read the one before. You don’t press. Just the soft sound of a cover meeting wood and your back turned as you leave his room. When he picks it up later, there’s no note. Just a folded corner two-thirds of the way through, and that’s somehow worse. Or better. He’s not sure yet.

He reads it in one night.

Doesn’t mark it this time. Doesn’t fold anything in return. But when he hands it back, he does it slowly. He doesn’t meet your eyes, but his fingers hold the book like it’s something delicate. Like he’s afraid you’ll notice the way the spine is softer now, or how he paused on that chapter more than once before letting the ending reach him.

You lend him another. He reads that one slower. It becomes a rhythm you never name. The exchange of folded pages and lived-in dialogue. Notes in the margins. Underlined phrases. Sometimes they’re funny. Sometimes they’re devastating. Sometimes they feel like code. And he starts wondering, around the fourth or fifth book, whether you’ve been saying something in them the whole time, and if maybe, just maybe, you’ve been waiting for him to answer.

He tries to. In his way. A small pencil mark beneath a line that says You don’t have to say it out loud for it to mean something. A sticky note, blank except for a question mark next to a panel where a character walks someone home without saying why.

He doesn’t ask you to meet him outside the gym, but you’re always there. He doesn’t offer to walk you to the dorms, but he always ends up at your side. You don’t say thank you, and he doesn’t tell you he wants to stay longer, but neither of you rushes those steps.

One night, he gives you a book you didn’t lend him. One from his own collection, older, more worn. There’s a quote faintly marked near the end: You were the only thing that made staying feel worth it. He doesn’t say anything as you read it, but when you look up, he’s already watching you like he’s bracing for something to fall.

You don’t ask.

But you don’t forget the page.

And when you hand it back the next week, there’s no new book in your hand.

Just a quiet, expectant pause as you sit beside him.

It should feel normal by now—the silence, the weight of books between you—but something in it hums differently. He knows you’re about to say something, but you don’t. Instead, you shift forward slightly and slide a thin paperback across the carpet between you. He picks it up. Turns it over. It’s familiar, but new. Not one he’s read before. You don’t explain.

He flips it open. Finds a folded page before chapter one.

Sometimes I think if I say it out loud, it’ll become real—and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

He reads it three times. Closes the book without a word.

That night, when he walks you home, he doesn’t say anything at your door. You turn like you always do, waiting for a smart comment or a sarcastic farewell. You blink. The hallway light buzzes behind you. He’s standing with one hand in his pocket and the book tucked under his arm like a shield. His face is unreadable.

He doesn’t say anything else. But you swear you heard your name echo all the way down the hall as you close your door.

He reads the line again that night. The one you folded. He flips to it so many times he doesn’t need the crease anymore. The words burn into his skull until they feel like his own. If I say it out loud, it’ll become real—and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

The truth is, it already is.

He’s already ruined himself a little for anyone else. You’re in everything now. In the way he thinks. In the way he breathes. In the way he starts to reach for your hand without realizing it and has to curl his fingers into his palm before it gives him away. He stares at the folded page, pencil in hand, and mutters under his breath, “Why the hell would you give me this one?”

He tries to write something in the margins. His pencil hovers over the paper, tip faintly pressed to the edge of the dialogue bubble. But nothing comes. Every word feels like too much or not enough. Eventually, he gives up and just draws a small dash beside it. Not even a full mark—just a pause. A breath. His version of a maybe.

The next time he sees you, you’re already on the floor when he walks in. You glance up, then down at the book in your lap—the one you gave him—and ask, “Did you get to the part I folded?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

You wait, but he doesn’t offer more. Your eyes linger on him like you’re trying to decide whether to push, or just let it sit. “I thought it was... kind of relevant.”

Bakugo snorts, but it’s not sharp. “To what?”

You raise a brow. “You tell me.”

His jaw flexes, and for a second he looks like he might actually say something. But then he mutters, “Dumb line anyway,” and sits down beside you like the conversation didn’t happen.

You don’t call him on it. But your hand stays closer than it used to. Close enough to touch if either of you moves just slightly.

He notices. He doesn’t move.

You're not sure how long you’ve been sitting in silence. Ten minutes. Maybe more. The book is still open on your lap, but neither of you has turned the page in a while. Bakugo’s beside you, legs stretched out, his fingers twitching near his knee like he wants to say something and can’t. The quiet isn’t tense, exactly. It’s just heavy. Like both of you are holding something in your mouths and waiting for the other to make it easier.

You should say it. You know you should. You’ve been sitting with it for weeks now, maybe longer—this soft, aching thing in your chest every time he underlines a sentence or walks you home or says your name like it means something.

So you breathe in, slow. Then you blurt out, “I really like you.”

He doesn’t react at first. Just blinks once, like the words didn’t land right. Or like he didn’t expect them to sound like that—so simple. So final.

You keep your voice steady. “I’ve been trying not to say anything because I didn’t want to make things weird. Or make you feel like you had to say something back. But I just—I couldn’t not say it anymore.”

He exhales like he’s been punched. Not loudly. Just enough that his shoulders drop a little and his fingers go still against the floor.

“I thought I was gonna be the one to say it first,” he mutters, barely above a whisper.

Your head turns before you can stop it. “What?”

He doesn’t look at you. “I was gonna. I’ve been meaning to. Every time you gave me a new book or looked at me like—like that.” He shakes his head, jaw tight. “I’d open my mouth and then I’d just... freeze. Like a fucking idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

“No, I am,” he says, sharper now. Not angry—just embarrassed. “You don’t get it. I’ve never felt like this. Not for anyone. Not like this.” His fingers rake through his hair, rough. “You give me these lines and scenes and looks and I know they mean something and I still—I still choke, damn it.”

You’re quiet for a second, watching him fall apart quietly beside you, the way he always does when he’s feeling too much at once. You shift slightly closer, enough that your knee brushes his, and he doesn’t move away.

“I didn’t give you those books to say something,” you say gently. “I just hoped maybe you’d feel it, too.”

He lets out a laugh that’s more breath than sound. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I felt it.”

You swallow. “So what now?”

He finally looks at you. His eyes are darker than usual—focused. Honest in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I want this shit. I want to try. With you.”

Your chest loosens. Just a little

“I’m not gonna be good at it,” he adds quickly. “I’m gonna overthink everything and probably mess up and say the wrong shit—” You reach for his hand.

He stops. And then, very slowly, he lets you hold it.

“You don’t have to get it perfect,” you say. “You just have to mean it.”

“I do.” His voice is rough now. Lower. “I really fuckin’ like you. It’s annoying.”

You laugh into the quiet, and he squeezes your hand once like a question. You squeeze back like an answer.

Neither of you moves for a while. The book is still open, the page folded neatly in the corner, and there’s a line sitting there that neither of you points out.

Then, slowly, his thumb shifts against the side of your hand. You feel it before he speaks, the way his breath changes—like he’s on the edge of saying something else, or doing something reckless. You turn to look at him and find him already watching you, gaze heavy but uncertain.

“Can I—” he starts, then cuts himself off. He doesn’t need to finish it.

You nod.

He leans in carefully, like he doesn’t trust the floor to hold the weight of it. His free hand hovers awkwardly at first before settling lightly against your jaw, fingers warm, unsure. And when he kisses you, it’s soft in a way you weren’t ready for. Gentle. Hesitant.

Nothing practiced. Nothing smooth.

Just quiet. And real.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead brushing yours. You’re still holding hands. Neither of you has let go.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” he mumbles, the words almost lost in the space between you.

“I know,” you say, voice just as low. “Me too.”

You stay there, close and steady, the kiss lingering somewhere between your mouths and your heartbeat. It’s not perfect. But it’s yours.

You don’t talk much after that.

Not because there’s nothing to say—just because for the first time in weeks, maybe months, there’s nothing left to prove. The air between you is still full, still warm, but it’s not buzzing anymore. It’s just steady. Like the moment has stopped needing to be chased.

The book lies forgotten on the carpet between you, half-folded against the blanket. He’s stretched out now, one arm tucked behind his head, the other still within reach. You’re lying beside him, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the soft shift of his breathing.

Every so often, he glances at you. Not intensely. Just long enough to check if you’re still there and you are. “Is it weird,” you say eventually, voice quiet, “that it doesn’t feel different?”

Bakugo’s brow furrows faintly, and for a second, you think maybe he took it the wrong way. But then he exhales and turns his head toward you. “Nah,” he says. “It just means we didn’t fuck it up.”

You smile at the ceiling.

“Not yet,” he adds, because he can’t help himself. “Still time.”

You elbow him lightly, and he huffs out a sound that’s too close to a laugh for him to argue it.

It’s peaceful like that for a while. Not exactly sleepy, but the kind of soft that feels like it could lead there. A shared quiet. Familiar and unhurried.

He rolls onto his side at some point, propping his head up on his arm, eyes half-lidded. He looks like he’s about to say something. Then doesn’t. Then tries again.

“You were right, y’know,” he murmurs. “Back then.”

You blink over at him. “About what”

“When you said she can feel it, even if he doesn’t say it” His voice is rough, not from emotion—just from exhaustion. Like something in him finally gave up resisting. “I didn’t say it. But you still knew.”

“I didn’t need you to,” you say. “I just wanted you to feel it, too.”

He reaches over and brushes his fingers against yours. It’s barely a touch, but it says more than anything he could put into words. “I did,” he says quietly. “I do.” And then he lets the silence come back. This time, it settles between you like a blanket.

Not heavy. Just warm.

BONUS :

Your daughter has no chill.

Not when it comes to bedtime stories. Not when it comes to anything, really. She’s all knees and curls and a voice too big for her body, bouncing on the mattress like she hasn’t already stalled for twenty minutes.

“Not the one with the dragon hero,” she says with a groan. “That one’s boring. I want the kiss one!”

Bakugo raises an eyebrow from where he’s sitting at the edge of her bed. “The what now?”

She throws herself dramatically onto the pillows, limbs flailing like it’s the end of the world. “The kiss one! With the guy and the girl and the charm and the love stuff!”

From the hallway, you call out, “My Love Story!!, sweetheart. Volume five.”

“Tch.” Bakugo mutters something under his breath—probably about corruption or sentimental brain rot—but he reaches for the shelf without protest. The cover is faded from too much handling, spine softened like it’s been loved for years. It has. It’s the same one you used to pass back and forth, long before either of you thought about bedtime routines or toothbrush arguments or which sippy cup color would cause a meltdown.

He flips it open and frowns. “Where even is the part with the charm?”

“She says it’s near the middle,” you say, appearing in the doorway with a knowing smile. “She has it memorized.”

“Of course she does.” He doesn’t hide the pride in his voice as he sits back down and adjusts the blanket around her. “Spoiled brat.”

“She’s your brat you know,” you remind him, folding your arms as you lean against the frame.

“Unlucky kid.”

She kicks at his side half-heartedly, already settled against his shoulder, thumb in her mouth, other hand gripping the edge of the book.

He reads, voice lower than usual. Calmer. Every line slow and steady, like the words are still sinking into him after all these years. When he gets to the charm scene—the one she always waits for—she gasps, loud and delighted, and points.

“That’s the part! That’s when he says he likes her!”

Bakugo pauses. Just for a second.

And then he nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It is.”

You don’t say anything. Just watch the two of them: your daughter, curled against his side, and Bakugo Katsuki—gruff, impatient, still pretending he doesn’t like romance—reading a love story with the same kind of care he used to hold his feelings for you.

Later, when the house is quiet and her room is dark, he finds you at the shelf.

You’ve pulled out Blue Spring Ride. You don’t open it. Just hold it, fingers resting over the soft crease of a long-folded page. “I used to think this was where everything started,” you say.

He stands beside you, close enough to feel. “Wasn’t it?” You glance at him. “Maybe it was where we figured it out.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while. Then, without ceremony, he slips the book from your hands and slides it back into place. You don’t miss the way his fingers brush yours.

“I love you,” he says, almost absently, like it’s a habit now. Like it’s something you’re meant to hear at the end of a long day, right between goodnight and I’m home.

You smile. “Yeah. I love you too.” He kisses your temple.

And in the quiet that follows, you both know it was never just about the stories you folded into pages. It was always this. The soft part. The part that stayed.

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

TAGLIST (OPEN). / @cherrysurf @arwawawa2 @itsmeaudrieee @g-h-o-s-t-b-a-b-i

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ssuperrnnovaa · 2 days ago

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— WHEN THEY FALL IN LOVE..

or, when there's no turning back for the first years.

a/n: first writing post.. AHH edit 1: i forgot to add things I DIDNT PROOFREAD SORRY

when ace trappola falls in love..

he's still the same guy. but almost sweet, almost kind.

but he's a master of his secrets. parts his mouth just to spew another joke about your appearance or how you did on that potionology test the other day - that same glint of hesitation in his eyes, that unsure croak of his voice just before he delivers another nasty quip about your face. like a punchline stuck in his throat - too funny to laugh at, too funny to acknowledge.

funny how he'd said he'd "rather hang out with his friends than find love", and here he is; laying in his bed. at 3 am. head filled with nothing but thoughts of you.

he'll let it simmer. wait for you to realize - wait for you to notice him, not just the facade he puts up. not the prankster he is in class, or the troublemaker you have to put up with.

wait for you to love him back.

when deuce spade falls in love..

he's trying his very best.

deuce was never much of a charmer - the guy's been a delinquent for most of his life; feared, not loved. he only sees (romantic) love in the movies - terrible rom-coms, poignant love stories.. you name it. deuce has no idea about love.

(his lack of knowledge gets worse with you.)

deuce tries - keyword, tries to keep his composure in front of you. he fails, miserably. his face? turning red. words? none. palms? sweating. and pride? absolutely crushed.

he apologizes to you later, blames it on the heat or how he forgot about another ridiculous rule. calls up his mom and his mouth is a dam - like he suddenly gained the ability to talk 10 minutes later. tells her all about you, as if she doesn't know your entire genetic code just from hearing him talk.

maybe one day.

when jack howl falls in love..

it's unyielding - unyielding, but quiet.

jack doesn't date for fun; never has, never will. he doesn't chase anyone.

wolves mate for life - you know it when jack immediately shuts down the idea of even having a crush or having an ex, saying that he's "focused on self-betterment" or "waiting for the right person". you're convinced that not even cupid could get him to fall in love.

but for you? that discipline shatters.

it happens during a study session in ramshackle when you're idly playing with his ears - making fun of that stone-cold persona when in reality he's melting under your touch. he catches himself after five minutes of bliss, thoughts of the future flooding his brain; "what if i won't be a good partner to them? what if i let them down?'

to jack, love isn't a game; love's not the way he feels embarrassingly giddy after you squeeze his hand or poke his bicep. love's permanent. forever. and it terrifies him.

when epel felmier falls in love..

it's fierce.

epel's not soft - in fact, he's everything but. he'd do anything to be seen as strong by you; even if it meant burying his own feelings.

epel was never much of a dreamer - let alone a lovey-dovey kind of guy. he despises those mushy romance stories, calling them "dumb as a box of rocks", grimacing when he watches the leads kiss.

yet.. he can't help but be entranced. by you.

he scoffs a little too loudly for vil's comfort, but in his head, he's repeating the same mantra over and over again in his head - "i'm not some silly little girl moonin' over someone. i've got better things to do with my time. besides, love is for babies."

yet, his defenses crumble when you ever do so much as breathe in his direction, and suddenly, he's back to square one.

when sebek zigvolt falls in love..

it's fervent.

sebek is passionate about a lot of things - his duty as a retainer, malleus, academics, and you.

you, a mere human that could quiet him down with just a finger to your lip. you, a mere human who keeps him awake at night and restless, overthinking. yearning.

it's foolish, he tells himself. tells himself it's just a small crush as if it's not all-consuming, as if he's not avoiding you all together just so he could have peace of mind.

is it the right thing to do? no. will it keep him unbothered? absolutely not. and will he come to terms with his feelings?... unlikely.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst x you #twst fanfic #ace trappola #deuce spade #jack howl #epel felmier #sebek zigvolt #twst first years #angst if you squint

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tsuyalovebot · 2 days ago

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new person, same old mistakes.

minors & ageless blogs do not interact.

xia yizhou / caleb x reader.

cw. drabble (~1k wc, written in one sitting). slightly nsfw (suggestive scenes but nothing explicit). modern au (present times, canon divergent, no evol). military veteran & pilot caleb. non-mc fem reader (use of she/her pronouns at some point). mentions of drinking.

mimi's missive: hello... i am back. also, please disregard any typos or errors. i wrote this in one sitting, in one hour because i needed to get this off my chest. also, this is probably the closest thing to a non-mc reader piece that i will ever write. knight caleb is on its way i promise, i've just been so busy. please have these crumbs instead, idk if i'll expand on it though. U( . . U)

Fuck — that's the first word that comes to Caleb's mind when he wakes up in his apartment to the faintest smell of a foreign perfume on his pillowcases and the memories of you from last night.

Caleb doesn't sleep around. Even before he was drafted and entered the Air Force, he never once fooled around with girls in middle school, high school. The most it ever reached was something beyond friendship but less than lovers with a girl. With her.

Something tender yet never tangible. Slipping through his fingers like morning dew that disintegrates at sunlight's first rays, he never once dreamt of anyone that wasn't her. From childhood to adulthood, the chambers of his heart were distorted to pump her name in morse code. A childhood friend, something more.

When he returned from his service, years and years of continual deployment, what greeted Caleb wasn't the arms of the girl he kissed when he had to leave. He was greeted by her, sure, but there was another man at her side. And she'd been beaming, eager to introduce him to her boyfriend.

A boyfriend. A boyfriend he didn't even know of from the rare times he could contact her. And Caleb would contact her. How could she fail to mention that she's now entangled with another guy?

It takes a while before he could recover from the shock of it all. PTSD weighs heavy on a veteran's mind, years and years worth of service that exhausts him beyond the physical and mental. Not even from that alone, but the sheer heartbreak and emptiness that came with seeing who he thought was the love of his life find her happiness with someone that wasn't him. Years worth of yearning for a girl who was always in his reach yet he never latched onto. What could he have done when he was seventeen and entered active duty with dreams of glory and clouds on blue canvases?

But he gets back on his feet, at the insistent voice in the back of his brain.

It'll take a while before he can get used to the hollow sensation of emptiness around his neck, a silver necklace that sits somewhere in his desk drawer neglected. A long while, before he could rediscover a purpose in life that wasn't inherently tied to her smile. He's still young, honorably discharged from his service with talented piloting skills under his belt. A passion for the skies, a love for aerospace engineering.

He'd find that spark again. And he did.

Caleb goes into civil aviation after a couple of years. Becomes a pilot, laughs it up with his crew and the countless connections he's made in the industry whenever they'd ask about his past career. After all, it was probably the most cliche thing a person could do after being in the Air Force. Really? Airlines?

In his thirties, he thinks he's healed. She doesn't haunt him as much as she did years ago. His chest feels lighter in the rare occasion she'd cross his mind. He could even go out with Gideon and his friends without hesitation now — though it's an entirely different thing to actively seek out partners.

The most he could fathom was sexual partners. Even then, he doesn't quite get it. Not until you.

And you're his worst fucking nightmare. Meeting at a club, catching a few drinks together. You aren't alone; you had girl friends, a full squad that kind of merged with his own on a night of him and old military mates catching up. Hypnotic yet casual, the conversation between the two of you felt natural. Right, and oddly comforting amidst his painfully blank resumé in the romance department.

He learned you graduated from a nice university in the state, tourism management or something along those lines. Caleb tells you of his time in Air Force, the time he spent in piloting school for civil aviation preparation. Banter here and there, a few casual touches of skin. A dance to the strobe lights on the dance floor.

Maybe it was the alcohol speaking to him, maybe he was simply craving some sort of physical intimacy, but he sleeps with you. Jumps the gun a bit. Hours ago he'd been assured that he'd go yet another club night without sleeping with anyone or swapping spit. What a joke.

The next morning, you weren't in his bed. You most likely left far, far earlier than when he woke up, because your scent was practically fading away from the sheets when he sniffed the place where you slept. Totally not in a creepy way, by the way.

Truth be told, he doesn't remember every detail of that passionate night — the important tidbits, yes. The taste of you on his tongue, the softness of your body against his, how you looked up at him as you ran your mouth over his abdomen.

It was arguably the best night of his life. Ever. It was a thousand times better than what he ever dreamt of, the image of sex glorified and something he used to associate with her. But what transpired last night felt oddly intimate, shared breaths over ghosting lips. A rawness to a passion without bounds.

If it weren't for the several hastily placed bills on his bedside, Caleb would've gotten a hard-on right there at the memory.

You left money. Not even a note. Nothing else, simply money. Like he was some sort of cheap service worker pleading for a tip. Caleb scoffed a disbelieving laugh, yet he wasn't really mad about it, for some odd reason. He should feel offended at the implicit jab, but instead, he feels curious.

Unfortunately for him, not even Gideon nor his other friends knew your name. When he rang them up, they simply said stuff along the lines of you didn't even get her name before sleeping with her? or I got the names of her friends but none of their socials. It's disappointing, but he eventually gives up. Simply thinks of your face every now and then, fresh and memorable in his mind as the girl who rewrote some part of him in a one night stand.

But the thing is, he does meet you again. But it isn't at some club, late at night with a sultry ultramarine and fuchsia light glimmering over your face. It's a week or two after that night, when you're decked out in a flight attendant's uniform and he's the captain. He does a double take when his eyes land on you during the pre-flight briefing, stuttering momentarily when your eyes meet and his heart seems to pause.

Caleb doesn't know why he's panicking — he doesn't even know you. Isn't even sure if it's you, or if he's misremembering because you don't even bat an eye at him. Your gaze simply going to your fellow crew members, nudging elbows sometimes to exchange refreshing smiles with a tilt of your head and a windchime-like laugh.

His heart does that thing again. Arrhythmia. It is you.

Gideon laughs up a storm when Caleb calls him in a panic, and really, he isn't helpful at all. Caleb groans into the receiver, running a hand through his hair in exasperation as he paces around the crew room. Even then, he can't stop the odd smile tugging at his lips. He's found you. He doesn't know why that makes him happy — again, he doesn't even know you — but it does and he goes with it.

As per the airline, you all will be staying at the same hotel. Different rooms, of course, but same hotel nonetheless. More opportunities to potentially talk to you. He drowns out Gideon's harping laughter; the idiot was probably rejoicing over how Caleb was finally "getting some," as he so eloquently put it. Why were they friends again?

Regardless, after the flight, he does muster up the courage to talk to you. He walks up to you when you all are dropped off at the hotel lobby, his heart racing and mind spiraling despite his resolute expression. You're in the middle of talking to another flight attendant when Caleb taps your shoulder.

You earn a curious look from your friend, but you seem to take it in stride. You smile and accept his offer for a chat, telling your friend that you'll go up to your room in a bit. She leaves you, saying she'll go to one of the hotel cafes to wait for you, while the rest of the crew goes to the elevators. Leaving you and him in the lobby, your luggage in one hand and Caleb's luggage in his own.

Shit. His brain's blanking. What does he say?

"Ahem." He clears his throat with a cough, suddenly sheepish. His nerves claw at his nape in heated pinpricks, like the scalding sun. "Sorry to take up your time like this."

"It's nothing. Did you need something, Captain?"

The way you were looking up at him was polite, but dear God, it had Caleb thinking back to that damn night. Your smile of glossy pink, your eyes peeking from your lashes and your hand over his on the countertop. He wills himself to smile, albeit awkward.

"Uh, yeah, actually. It's— I'm not gonna ask you to do anything, of course," he rambles. God, he has absolutely no idea how to do this.

He clears his throat again. "But, I wanted to ask, have we met before?"

Caleb feels the visceral urge to gouge his own eyes out at that very moment. Really? Have we met before? The corniest sounding pick-up line in the history of flirting? He wants to cry, feels his embarrassment well up in a way it hasn't since he tripped over his own two feet in middle school but he somehow manages to keep his calm expression.

You, however, don't falter. Instead, you're remaining placid. Polite. Distant. He gets it — technically, this is still a working environment. But something about your nonchalance only exacerbates his flustered mentality.

You hum, tapping your nails on the handle of your luggage. "I don't think so."

His heart drops to his chest. Inhaling sharply, Caleb shakes his head despite the sting of rejection. His chest warms with newfound determination. "No, no. I think we have."

There's a bit of challenge in his tone. Something like assertion. It sparks something in you, clearly, because you narrow your eyes and something licks at the back of Caleb's neck at the scrutiny in your face.

"Then why'd you ask if you already had an answer?" You reply, dry.

Oh. Well. Caleb coughs, hacking like an old asthmatic man. He lifts a hand, rubbing the back of his head.

"It's just— I wanted to confirm. You look familiar, and I think we slept together?" He blurts out. Smooth, Caleb. Real fucking smooth. She's really gonna want to talk to you now. "And you kinda left money on my bedside table, so as much as I'm flattered that you think I was good enough to pay, I think I should return it, at least."

Your brows lift in surprise, like you didn't expect him to outright say it. Before you could reply, Caleb extends his phone to you with one hand.

"And I also wanted to ask if... I could get your number?" He adds your name on at the end, testing it from his mouth. He likes it. He's grateful to have learned it today by some odd serendipitous encounter in airlines and plane flights.

But then he notices it. The way your brows furrow deeply as you gaze at his phone, eyes flickering between something disbelieving and bitter before you scoff and look up at him.

"Are you serious right now?"

Caleb nearly flinches at your tone. It's biting, but he settles for a slight frown instead. "Did I say something wrong?"

The mysterious animosity comes off of you in ways as you cross your arms, pointedly glaring at him now. He feels like he's missing something, like he's forgotten something. Gone was the polite customer service smile, the warm look in those eyes of yours that drift in and out of his dreams. It makes him tense; you're looking at him like you can't stand him and he has absolutely no reason why.

You then sigh, breaking him out of his confused state. You turn your attention away from him, testing your grip on the handle of your luggage. "You know what, keep the money."

"What?"

"Keep it. You should put it into your therapy funds," you tack on, and Caleb feels some of his confusion fray into something more frustrated now. You aren't looking at him and giving him any answer.

"What are you— who are you to tell me that?"

You laugh, the sound grating on his ears. It isn't the charming one. Yet this one still feels as authentic as the other. Sparing him a glance, you take his phone from his hands and he's once again confused. Why did you seem so upset if you were just gonna put your number in anyway? Was this some new flirting tactic he wasn't aware of? Does he have that little game?

But then you're flipping his phone over, and in his clear phone case is a polaroid picture of him and her. He hasn't changed his case nor that photo in years. It was something as easy as breathing, someting natural and regular. Even though Caleb feels almost nothing when he sees it nowadays. He never once thought it would bite him in the ass like this.

His blood runs cold, blanching. Oh, fuck.

The smile you give Caleb is tight-lipped, not an ounce of mirth in your expression. "Next time you sleep with someone, try to not be a cheating asshole."

As you start to walk past him, you pat his chest while he stands there, dumbfounded.

"Maybe you could put the money into getting some Viagra too," you offer, faux sympathy and all. "They'll probably give you a discount if you mention how you moaned her name when you finished after fucking me, Cap."

The last thing Caleb thinks when you're long gone and off to the hotel café and he's finally snapped out of his mortification is, also, fuck.

#𐙚 ; bǎo bèi.#mimi.writes #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads #lads x reader #lnds #lnds x reader #love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace caleb x reader #lads caleb #lads caleb x reader #lnds caleb #lnds caleb x reader #caleb smut #caleb x reader #caleb fluff #xia yizhou #xia yizhou x reader

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ilgalantuomo · 2 days ago

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Adding to this -

For fucking real, it's the least they could do. I've been unemployed for the last 2 years, and I've applied to, probably, 1000. I don't keep track in a spreadsheet or anything, because that's not worth my time. Why? Let me tell you.

I applied through Indeed, LinkedIn, Workday, independent websites, recruiter emails, references, and a few of the other smaller jobs applying websites. Out of those, about 1/3 rejected me (through LinkedIn or Indeed), cold and impersonally, and frankly not worth the effort of writing a cover letter.

In fact, I applied to a position at my alma mater, and got a semi-"personalized" rejection email opening with "Dear Applicant," and ended with "Warm regards, Dean X X of Whatever College". Being an alum, I was kind of let down. I at least expect my name in the rejection letter. It's not the rejection, I can take that. But at least do me the decency to call the "applicant" by their name. Not just me, anyone.

And look, I still got the rejection letter, that's nice, I guess. But that wasn't even personalized to me. But of the remaining 2/3 of of the rejections I've gotten have look like this. The rejection note comes (between 3-5) months later, or not at all.

I've applied to government, corporate, and non-profit. I have an MBA, a bachelor's in Modern Languages (emphasis in Mandarin and Spanish), project management experience, and experience in the service world as a leader. Moreover, I really have no idea what in the hell it takes to get a job, nay response, from someone.

Work also is bullshit. My partner and I were laid off because of budget cuts and strikes (spoiler alert: the entertainment industry). They told me there wasn't going to be anymore lay-offs after they laid it off my partner and team. Then 3 weeks later I was laid off, too. The irony? They made her team to accommodate my team's workload in our project pipeline.

Basically, it's all bullshit. And we/they know that. But at least give me a fucking a email with my name on it and treat like a fucking person, not another cog in the bullshit machine.

not having the courtesy to send rejection letters should count against your reputation as a company and i’m so serious about that

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luvsicktyun · 3 days ago

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𝒮TAY 𝐹OR 𝒯HE 𝒲EEKEND l.hs

ᨳ ׄ ׅ ꒰ 6K ꒱⠀ ‎ູㅤ ‎ིྀ ⸺ word count.

𝓅airings ⠀͙ࣳ plug ! stoner ! heeseung ៹ rich ! good girl ! reader ᧁ ; smut ˒ angst ˒ socialites

𝓌arnings ៹ drug use smut parental angst

𝒾n 𝓌hich 𓍼 ׄ ོ money, reputations, social standings. It meant nothing to you. You were tired of living by your parents rules. It was time you had fun, and in what better way than to spend the night with Lee Heeseung, the worst influence around.

𐔌 rain's mic is on ͡꒱ ۫ fun fact; when I wrote my plug!taehyun fic diet pepsi, it was almost heeseung! I couldn't get plug heeseung off my mind so what better way than to write a socialite reader and bad influence heeseung. hope you enjoy!

The chandelier above you drips with golden light, casting fractured reflections on crystal glasses filled with vintage champagne. Laughter, high and practiced, flutters through the grand ballroom, a symphony of wealth and pretense. Your mother’s gloved hand tightens around your wrist, her perfectly lined lips curving in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You should’ve worn the Dior,” she murmurs through her teeth, barely moving her lips. To the outside world, it looks like she’s complimenting you, a mother’s affectionate whisper at a grand affair. But you know better.

Your dress—custom-made, designer, expensive beyond reason—is still not enough. The neckline dips too much. The color washes you out. Your posture isn’t graceful enough, your expression not demure enough. Nothing is ever enough. You take a sip of your champagne just to have something to do, just to keep yourself from rolling your eyes. The bubbles fizz on your tongue, and you wish they could dissolve this growing frustration in your chest. Around you, the world moves in careful, deliberate steps—socialites twirling in their designer gowns, men in tailored suits exchanging handshakes worth millions. The whole room smells of money, power, and carefully concealed dissatisfaction.

"You’re slouching," Your mother continues, tapping a manicured nail against your forearm. "And stop fidgeting with your dress. People are watching."

You straighten instinctively, shoulders snapping into place. "Yes, Mother."

Her gaze flickers to your hair, her mouth pressing into a thin line. "I told you to wear it up. It frames your face better."

"I thought this looked more effortless," you reply smoothly, though you know the word effortless does not exist in your mother’s vocabulary. She exhales through her nose, barely suppressing a sigh. "And that shade of lipstick—too bold. You don’t want to look... desperate for attention."

You swallow the sharp retort that rises to your tongue. "Of course." She studies you for a moment longer, waiting—waiting for a mistake, waiting for an excuse to fix you. But you stand there, perfectly composed, playing the role of the good daughter as you always have. Finally, she sighs. "Just—try to be pleasant tonight. Make conversation. Smile. You have an image to uphold."

"Understood," you say, tilting your lips into the kind of polite smile she’s trained you to perfect. Your mother lingers a second longer, as if debating whether or not to find something else to critique. But then a familiar voice calls her name from across the ballroom—one of her actress friends, just as elegant, just as watchful—and she’s whisked away in a blur of silk and champagne.

You exhale, the weight of her presence lifting from your shoulders. But it leaves behind something heavier—something simmering beneath your skin. You drift toward the drink table, fingers curling around the stem of a champagne flute just for something to do. Around you, the night continues in glittering, rehearsed perfection. You watch couples glide across the dance floor, men exchange handshakes that mean millions, and women smile through painted lips while whispering behind jeweled hands.

Then— "God, you look miserable," a voice drawls beside you. You blink, turning just as Sunghoon slides up to the drink table, smirking as he grabs a flute of champagne. His dark hair is swept back effortlessly, his tux perfectly tailored, his presence both sharp and lazy at once.

"More like exhausted," Sakura corrects, appearing on your other side. Her floral perfume lingers in the air as she links her arm through yours, tilting her head toward you. "Though I don’t blame you. Your mother’s been on you all night."

Sunghoon raises a brow. "What was it this time? Your dress? Your posture? Your very existence?" You huff a quiet laugh, swirling the champagne in your glass. "All of the above."

Sakura groans dramatically, leaning her head against your shoulder. "I don’t know how you do it."

"Decades of training," you joke, but there’s an edge to it, something weary beneath the words. Sunghoon clinks his glass against yours, lips curling. "Well, if you’re looking for an escape, I hear the real fun starts once this whole charade winds down." Sakura’s eyes glint mischievously. "And I heard Heeseung is behind it."

Your fingers tighten around your glass. Heeseung. Of course. If anyone knew how to disrupt the delicate balance of these perfect little soirées, it was him. And maybe, for once, you wouldn’t mind being part of the chaos. You barely have time to react before the tension in the room shifts. A ripple, subtle at first, then unmistakable. Conversations falter, gazes flicker toward the grand entrance. A few audible gasps.

Then you see him. Lee Heeseung. And he is a disaster. His suit, likely custom-made and costing more than most people’s yearly salary, is disheveled—his tie loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His dark hair falls messily over his forehead, his pupils blown wide, lips curled into a careless smirk.

Even from here, you can tell—he’s drunk. No, more than that. There’s a slowness to his movements, a glint in his eye that suggests something stronger than alcohol is swimming through his bloodstream. The room goes silent. And then, Heeseung laughs. It’s loud, sharp, entirely inappropriate for the setting. He strides forward, grabs a glass of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray, and downs it in one go before tossing the empty flute onto the table. The sound of shattering crystal rings through the ballroom.

Someone gasps. His mother’s expression twists into something mortified, his father’s jaw clenches, hands curling into fists. "What the hell is he doing?" Sunghoon mutters, his amusement flickering into something closer to disbelief.

Sakura bites her lip, eyes flicking between you and Heeseung. "This is bad." And it is. Heeseung stumbles forward, arms outstretched. "Why does everyone look so miserable?" His voice rings through the hall, loud and slurred. "We’re at a party, aren’t we?"

No one responds. His father takes a step forward, but Heeseung moves first—he swipes an entire bottle of champagne from the table, popping the cork recklessly. Foam spills onto the pristine marble floor as he grins, tilting the bottle toward the ceiling. "Live a little!" he shouts, spinning, sending golden liquid flying. You hear your mother’s sharp inhale. Your father mutters a curse. Someone calls for security. Heeseung’s parents look furious. Embarrassed. Disgusted.

So do yours. Your mother grips your arm suddenly, nails pressing into your skin. "Don’t you ever go near that boy," she hisses, voice sharp as glass. "Do you understand me?" You should nod. You should say yes, Mother, just like always. But you don’t.

Instead, you watch Heeseung—his reckless grin, the way he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, utterly unbothered by the chaos he’s caused. He looks free. Unhinged, but free. And for the first time in your life, you feel something close to admiration. Your mother’s warning wasn’t a caution. It was an invitation. An idea blooms in your mind, slow and thrilling. If there was a way to defy your parents, to shatter the perfect little image they had built for you—this was it. Lee Heeseung was exactly the kind of mistake you wanted to make.

The tension in the room is suffocating, thick with barely restrained fury. "Heeseung." His father's voice is sharp, slicing through the stunned silence like the edge of a knife. The way the room hangs onto the sound, frozen in anticipation, makes it clear—He is not a man accustomed to being embarrassed. And tonight, his son has humiliated him in front of their entire world.

Heeseung tilts his head lazily, dark eyes glittering as he lifts the champagne bottle in some mock toast. "Father," he drawls, slurring just slightly. "Enough," His father snaps, jaw tight. "You're making a fool of yourself."

Heeseung just smirks. "Isn’t that the family specialty?" Gasps. A few murmurs. His mother covers her mouth, her eyes darting between her son and husband, a silent plea for him to stop—stop before this gets worse, before they become the gossip of every tabloid in the city tomorrow. But it’s too late for that.

"Leave. Now." His father’s voice is final, biting. Heeseung holds his father’s glare for a moment longer before laughing, low and breathless. "Gladly." And then he turns, walking toward the exit without another glance back.

“Never make a fool out of me like that.” Your mother says one more time. She barely waits for your answer before sweeping off toward a cluster of guests, ready to salvage the night with carefully placed smiles and reassurances that everything is under control. But it isn’t. Not for Heeseung. And, you realize as you set down your untouched champagne and slip through the crowd unnoticed—not for you either.

Outside, the night air is crisp against your flushed skin. The estate’s grand driveway is empty aside from a few sleek black cars and a pair of security guards stationed near the entrance. Heeseung is there, pacing, fingers tugging impatiently at the buttons of his suit jacket. "You got kicked out of your own family’s event," you muse, stepping onto the stone path. Heeseung turns sharply at the sound of your voice, his expression flickering from surprise to something unreadable. His eyes sweep over you, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re here to scold him like everyone else.

instead, you just raise a brow. "Impressive." A slow smirk tugs at his lips. "Didn’t know you were a fan of public disgrace."

"I’m a fan of watching my parents squirm," you admit. "And you just gave them an absolute heart attack." Heeseung huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "Glad I could be of service." He tugs his loosened tie off completely, shoving it into his pocket. His eyes find yours again, darker this time. "So? What now? Did you come to lecture me?"

You take a step closer. "No."

“Then?”

You tilt your chin. "Maybe I just wanted to see what happens when the infamous Lee Heeseung self-destructs." Heeseung watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable. Then, suddenly, he steps forward—closer than before, close enough that you can smell the sharpness of expensive cologne beneath the lingering scent of champagne and something warmer, more intoxicating. "You tell me," he murmurs, voice dropping. "What do you think happens next?" Your breath catches.

You should step back. You should say something clever, something teasing. But you don’t. You stay right where you are, the heat of his gaze making your pulse jump. Then, Heeseung leans in, one hand lifting to brush his knuckles against your jaw. It’s barely a touch, but it sets your skin on fire. And then— He kisses you.

It’s slow at first, teasing, like he’s waiting for you to stop him. But when you don’t—when you let out the faintest sigh against his lips—he deepens it. His hands settle on your waist, pulling you flush against him. The world tilts. His lips are warm, insistent, coaxing a response from you that you shouldn’t be so willing to give. But you are. You press closer.

He groans softly against your mouth, fingers tightening on your hips. His lips part, deepening the kiss, making your head spin. His hands roam the expanse of your body, gripping your tits over your dress. A small whine slips past your lips. Heeseung drank up the sound, if getting drunk on your moans was a thing heeseung would be a goner.

Just as quickly as it starts, you force yourself to pull away, your chest rising and falling unevenly. Heeseung watches you, pupils blown, lips slightly swollen. "That wasn’t very ladylike," he murmurs, teasing.

You huff a soft laugh, still catching your breath. "No, it wasn’t."

Heeseung smirks. "I like it." You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. Then, tilting your head, you say, "You should come over this weekend."

He blinks. "What?"

"My parents will be gone," you say simply. "And I have a feeling you’d enjoy making them furious." Heeseung stares at you for a moment before letting out a low chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. "You’re something else."

You shrug. "So is this a yes?" His smirk is slow, wicked. "Of course, it’s a yes."

The weekend arrives, and with it, the rarest of luxuries—silence. Your parents are gone, swept off to some extravagant retreat with other socialites, leaving the house empty save for the staff, who know better than to question your whereabouts. And now, you’re waiting.

It’s just past sunset when you hear the low rumble of an expensive engine purring up the driveway. You slip out onto the balcony, leaning against the railing just in time to see him step out of a sleek black car. Heeseung. Even in the dimming light, he’s impossible to ignore. He moves with that same lazy confidence, the kind of carelessness that only comes from knowing you have nothing to lose. He’s ditched the usual tux and crisp dress shirts, instead wearing a simple black hoodie, the sleeves pushed up just enough to show the veins along his arms.

He glances up, spotting you instantly. A slow smirk tugs at his lips. "Well, well," he calls. "I was starting to think you set me up." You roll your eyes, pushing off the railing. "And have you show up at my parents’ party just to embarrass me instead? No, thanks." He chuckles, slipping his hands into his pockets as you make your way downstairs to meet him at the door.

Up close, you catch the faint scent of cologne and something sweeter, something earthy that clings to him like a second skin. "You really live in a palace, huh?" Heeseung muses, glancing past you at the massive chandelier overhead, the glossy marble floors stretching into endless hallways. You sigh dramatically. "Tragic, isn’t it?"

He grins. "Devastating."

You cock a brow. "Want a tour, prince charming?" Heeseung steps closer, eyes flickering over your face like he’s trying to decide something. Then, lips curling into that wicked little smirk, he murmurs, "Actually, I was hoping for something a little more fun."

You pause, watching him carefully. "How fun?" He reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a small, sleek metal case. When he flicks it open, the unmistakable scent of weed drifts between you. You hesitate. You’ve seen people do it before—at parties, whispered about in dimly lit rooms. But you’ve never actually tried it. Your mother would die before letting her perfect little daughter ruin her reputation with something so improper. Which is exactly why you’re tempted.

You meet Heeseung’s gaze, heart drumming against your ribs. "Will you smoke with me?" For a second, he just stares at you. Then, something dark flickers through his expression, a challenge, an invitation. "You’ve never done it before, have you?"

"Does it matter?" Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Not really." He pulls out a neatly rolled joint, tucking it between his lips as he searches his pockets for a lighter. When he finds one, the small flame flickers, catching the tip. Smoke curls into the air. He takes a slow drag before exhaling, then holds it out to you. "Here."

You hesitate only a second before taking it. The paper is warm between your fingers. You bring it to your lips, inhaling like you’ve seen in movies—only to immediately choke, coughing as smoke burns your throat. Heeseung laughs, reaching out to steady you. "Okay, yeah, definitely your first time."

You glare at him between coughs. "Shut up." He watches you, amused, before stepping behind you, his chest just barely brushing your back. His fingers skim yours as he takes the joint, then murmurs near your ear, "Here. Let me show you."

He lifts it to his lips, inhaling slow, deep. Then, before you can react, he turns your face toward his— And exhales. The smoke passes from his lips to yours, warm and heady, and before you even realize it, you’re inhaling without choking. The world shifts, something electric crackling between you. Heeseung watches you through lidded eyes, voice lower now. "Better?"

You exhale slowly, letting the smoke drift from your lips. The warmth spreads through you, sinking into your limbs, your chest. Your head feels lighter, the world just a little softer at the edges. You look up at him, smirking lazily. "Not bad." Heeseung grins. "Atta girl."

Heeseung watches you, his smirk lingering as he takes another slow drag, eyes flickering over your face. His gaze is heavy, dark with something unreadable, and when you shift under it, he lets out a quiet chuckle. "You’re cute when you're high," he muses, exhaling smoke into the space between you.

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest only grows. "Shut up." Heeseung tilts his head, considering you. Then, without warning, he reaches out, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. The touch is light, teasing, but it sends a spark straight through you.

"Make me," he murmurs. Your breath catches. The challenge in his voice, the way he’s looking at you—it’s intoxicating, more than the high, more than the rebellion curling in your veins.

So you don’t hesitate. You grab him by the hoodie, pulling him down to you, crashing your lips against his. Heeseung lets out a low sound, surprised at first, before he melts into it, hands immediately gripping your waist, pulling you against him. The kiss is hot, messy, all tongue and teeth and something desperate. You can taste the smoke on his lips, feel the heat radiating off him.

His hands slide up, fingers tracing your spine through the thin fabric of your dress. You shiver at the sensation, your body pressing even closer to his. "Fuck," he mutters against your lips, voice rough. "You’re really doing this, huh?"

You don’t answer. Instead, you nip at his bottom lip, pulling him even deeper into the kiss. He groans, hands tightening on your hips before he spins you, pinning you against the nearest surface—a wall, a table, you don’t even care. "You're playing with fire, sweetheart," he breathes against your neck, his lips ghosting over your skin. you grin, hooking your fingers into the hem of his hoodie, tugging. "Good thing I like the heat." Heeseung laughs, low and wicked, before kissing you again, harder this time, hungrier. And this time, neither of you stop.

Heeseung’s hands find the hem of your dress, pulling up the thin material until you’re under him with only your panties on. Braless. Heeseung shivers above you. With a smirk on his face he shimmeys his pants and boxers down to his ankles, leaving his hoodie still on.

“You’re not a virgin, are you?” He asks with a heavy breath against the skin of your neck. His lips peppered kisses along your jaw as he awaited your answer.

“No, I'm not.” You answer truthfully. Although you weren’t a virgin you also weren’t very experienced either. You’ve only had sex maybe three or four times with your ex boyfriend, Yeonjun.

“Fuck.” Heeseung said with a hiss. His hands found your thighs, roughly spreading them apart to reveal your slit. “Pussy so pretty, baby”. Heeseung grips his cock in his hand, pumping himself a few times before lining his tip at your entrance, slowly moving up and down collecting all of your wetness in his wake.

“God.” He moans, tipping his head back, his eyes screwed shut. It was almost euphoric to see him this way. In such a state of bliss that he has to take second to compose himself before he’s even instead of you yet. You whine impatience clawing at you like a lion in a cage. You needed him to do something, now.

Your hips lifted slightly bumping your heat against his tips to create the slightest amount of friction. A squeal leaves your lips at the sensation, the band in your belly already stretching thin. “Please.” You whispered desperately, lifting your hips up again. “Please, put it in.”

“Stay still.” Heeseung grits out. His hands find your hips gripping them firmly with white knuckles. “You’re killing me sweetheart.”

“Pleaseeee.” Your whines are high pitched begging him to do anything to satiate the need inside of you.

Your whining was not needed any further as finally Heeseung pushed himself in slowly. The stretch of him was a delicious kind of pain. It had you gasping and withering under his touch. Heeseung tried his best to keep his composure as his cock reached unspeakably deep parts inside of you.

“Oh fuck.” He groaned, his eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly agape. “Fuck, fuck.” Heeseung’s hips began to rock against yours, meeting your skin like a cacophony. Your mouth opened but sound won't come out, the pleasure coursing through your veins almost too much to bear.

“Hee-” You moaned, gripping his arms in your hands. “Don’t stop please.”

Heeseung’s thrusts were harsh but consistent; the constant whack of his hips against yours served as a catalyst to your impending orgasm. “God, you’re so pretty like this.” Heeseung mumbled. “So sweet and tight and mine.” His thrusts were emphasized with each word, your moans getting louder and louder the hard Heeseung’s hips smacked against yours. His hands left bruising marks on your thighs as his grip tightened the closer he was to his orgasm.

“Are you gonna cum sweetheart?” He asked breathlessly. Words failed you, the only response you could muster was a small nod of your head.

“Uh-uh.” Heeseung smirked. “Cum for me.” He hissed.

Your legs shook in his grasp as your orgasm hit like a title wave pulling a gasp from your lips. Your chest heaved as Heeseung soon followed, his groans like a melody in your ears.

“Holy-” Heeseung pants. “Holy fuck.” Blissful.

The night was a blur in a haze of smoke and heat, of whispered names and tangled limbs, of hands exploring, lips trailing, breathless gasps and quiet moans. It was the most fun you had in years. By the time the high fades, the world is different. You're different. You didn’t stop there, round after round in all parts of your house. Until eventually you collapsed onto your bed, bones made of jelly but a smile on your face.

Lying beside him, skin still buzzing, you turn to meet his gaze. Heeseung smirks lazily, reaching out to brush his fingers over your jaw. "Your parents would lose their minds if they knew about this," he muses. You grin, stretching, utterly unapologetic. "Then I guess we’ll just have to do it again."

Heeseung lets out a slow, pleased hum, tugging you back into him. "Careful, sweetheart" he murmurs against your lips. "I might start thinking you're dangerous." You just smile. Let him.

The room is quiet now, save for the distant hum of the city beyond the estate walls. The dim light from the balcony door casts long shadows across the bed, illuminating the lingering mess of discarded clothing and tangled sheets. You stretch lazily, still catching your breath, your body pleasantly sore in a way that feels dangerous—not just because of what happened, but because of what it means.

Beside you, Heeseung lies on his back, one arm draped over his forehead, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His usual smirk is gone, replaced by something unreadable. For a while, neither of you speak. Then, breaking the silence, you sigh, "You’re going to get me into so much trouble."

Heeseung lets out a breathy chuckle, turning his head to look at you. "That’s the plan, sweetheart." You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. Instead, you prop yourself up on your elbow, studying him. The sharp angles of his jawline, the way his lips part slightly like he’s about to say something but thinks better of it.

"You really don’t care, do you?" you ask after a moment. Heeseung shifts, his expression unreadable. "Care about what?"

"About ruining your reputation. About—" you gesture vaguely, "—this whole socialite world." He scoffs, rolling onto his side to face you. "And why would I? It’s all bullshit, anyway. A game our parents play to convince themselves they’re important."

You purse your lips. "That’s easy for you to say. You’re the one making a mess of it on purpose." Heeseung’s gaze flickers, something darker passing over his features. "Yeah? And what, you actually want to be one of them?" You hesitate. it’s not that simple.

You don’t want this life, not really. But at the same time, you don’t know anything else. You were raised to smile, to be polite, to wear expensive dresses and stand beside your mother like a perfectly curated accessory. You were taught how to impress people, how to make them like you. Even if it meant suffocating in the process. But before you can answer, Heeseung sighs, running a hand through his already-messy hair. "Look," he mutters, "it’s not like I could ever live up to my brother, anyway. So what’s the point?"

You blink. "Your brother?" Heeseung huffs a bitter laugh. "Sunghoon. The perfect son. Ivy League graduate. Dad’s golden boy. Meanwhile, I’m just the fuckup." His jaw clenches. "No matter what I do, I’ll never be him—so why bother trying?"

You watch him carefully. It’s the first time you’ve seen him like this—unguarded. Not the cocky heir who waltzes into parties half-drunk, not the boy who kisses you like he wants to devour you whole, but this. A boy whose whole life has been measured against someone else’s. You know what that feels like. "You don’t have to be him," you say softly.

Heeseung exhales sharply, like he wants to argue. Like he expects you to tell him he should try harder, be better. But when you don’t, when all you do is reach out and trace your fingers over the back of his hand, his expression softens—just a little. "You ever think about running away?" he murmurs.

You tilt your head. "Where would I even go?" Heeseung smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Anywhere. Anywhere but here."

You hum, considering it. "And what? You’d come with me?" Heeseung watches you for a long moment. Then, his lips quirk, slow and lazy. "If you asked me to, yeah." Your heart stutters. You don’t know if he means it. But for now, you let yourself believe he does.

On Saturday night, the house feels different. Maybe it’s because you know your parents aren’t coming home anytime soon. Maybe it’s because Heeseung is still here, lounging on your couch like he belongs, like he isn’t the kind of boy your mother would clutch her pearls over. Or maybe it’s just because, for once, you don’t care.

Dinner is simple—nothing extravagant like the meals your family’s private chef prepares, just something you threw together with whatever you could find in the kitchen. It’s a little burnt, but Heeseung eats it without complaint, grinning at you like you hung the moon when you glare at him for laughing about it. "You tried," he teases, stabbing a piece of overcooked pasta with his fork.

You huff, tossing a balled-up napkin at him. "I hope you choke." Heeseung only laughs, dodging it effortlessly. "That’s not very ladylike, sweetheart"

"Good thing I don’t care about being a lady." His smirk lingers, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. Later, after the dishes are left abandoned in the sink, you decide dinner wasn’t quite enough. You lead Heeseung down the hallway, pausing at a locked cabinet in your father’s private lounge. He watches as you stand on your toes, reaching up to the top shelf, fingers curling around an ornate key hidden behind a row of useless decorative books.

"You would know where they keep the good stuff," Heeseung muses. You flash him a grin, unlocking the cabinet with a satisfying click. "I’ve spent years listening to my parents drone on about how forbidden this is," you murmur, scanning the expensive bottles inside. "So obviously, I know exactly where they hide it."

Heeseung lets out a low chuckle. "Rebellion looks good on you." You don’t answer, too busy pulling out a heavy crystal bottle filled with something dark amber. It smells strong—stronger than whatever cheap liquor you’ve sipped at parties before—but that only makes it more tempting. Back in the living room, you pour two glasses and settle onto the couch beside Heeseung. The television flickers with some movie you aren’t really paying attention to, the low hum of background noise filling the space between you.

it doesn’t take long for the warmth of the liquor to seep into your veins. You’re buzzed, just enough for the world to feel a little softer, the weight of expectation a little lighter. Heeseung stretches beside you, one arm slung over the back of the couch, fingers idly playing with the hem of his hoodie. His eyes are lidded, his usual smirk a little lazier than before. "You know," he muses, tilting his head toward you, "I think I like you like this."

You raise a brow. "Like what?"

His lips curl. "Loosened up. Not so… perfect." You scoff, swirling the liquor in your glass. "I was never perfect. My parents just liked to pretend I was." Heeseung hums, considering you for a long moment. Then, shifting closer, he plucks the half-empty glass from your hand and sets it on the coffee table.

You blink at him. "Hey, I was drinking that—" But before you can finish, his fingers are tipping your chin up, and suddenly, his lips are on yours. This time, there’s no hesitation. The kiss is slow, lazy, the kind of kiss that sinks into your bones and leaves you weightless. He tastes like whiskey and something sweet, something undeniably him. His fingers skim along your jaw, then slide lower, tracing the curve of your throat, your collarbone.

Your breath catches. You don’t stop him when he moves closer, pressing you back against the couch. The warmth from the alcohol has nothing on the heat curling in your stomach, the way his body fits so easily against yours. Heeseung pulls away just enough to murmur against your lips, "You sure you want to play this game, sweetheart?" You meet his gaze, breathless, heart drumming wildly against your ribs. And then you smile. "Try me."

The night passes in a haze of warm, lazy laughter and the soft hum of the city outside your window. The room feels small, cozy, and for the first time in a long while, you feel at peace. The alcohol still buzzes in your system, just enough to make the edges of reality blur. You fall asleep beside Heeseung, his arm draped across your waist, his steady breath warm against your skin. The sheets are tangled around both of you, and the sound of his soft snores is oddly comforting.

But peace, it seems, is fleeting. It’s hours later—deep into the early morning—when the sharp, jarring sound of the bedroom door slamming open rips you from your sleep. Your heart stutters as you blink awake, disoriented. The sharp, angry voices that follow the bang are unmistakable. Your parents.

"What is this?!" your mother’s voice shrieks, like an animal in distress. "This is my house! You are not allowed to bring that kind of person under my roof!" Heeseung groggily shifts beside you, his eyes fluttering open. A lazy, mischievous grin spreads across his face when he hears the raised voices.

"That kind of person?" you whisper to him, already sitting up in bed, trying to push the tangled sheets off your legs. You try to keep your voice steady. "What does that mean?" Heeseung stretches, rubbing his eyes as he laughs softly, the sound half-amused, half-bored. "Guess we’ll find out."

The door bursts open again, and there they are—your parents, standing in the doorway, both red-faced with fury. Your mother is glaring at Heeseung, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, while your father stands behind her, trying to maintain his usual composed facade. "You!" your mother hisses, pointing an accusing finger at Heeseung. "Out of my house! Now!"

You can’t even hide the flash of annoyance that crosses your face, but it’s quickly replaced with a strange, rebellious satisfaction. Heeseung, on the other hand, just sits up, completely unaffected. He gives them a lazy wave. "Hey, how’s it going?" His voice is thick with sleep, yet there's an undeniable amusement in it.

"Don’t how’s it going me, you insolent brat!" your father snaps, his voice surprisingly loud. "This is unacceptable. We will not tolerate this kind of behavior in our home."

"Behavior?" Heeseung raises a brow, leaning back against the bed's headboard with a nonchalant air. "I was just hanging out. Relax. No harm done." You see your mother’s face redden even further, and for a moment, she looks like she might explode. But instead, she only steps forward, voice clipped with fury. "You are not welcome here. I want you gone. Immediately."

Heeseung yawns, pushing himself up from the bed in one fluid motion. He stretches, running a hand through his messy hair, still unfazed. "Alright, alright. No need to get dramatic. I’m leaving." He stands, glancing back at you with that same smirk, the kind of smile that makes your pulse race. But just before he steps toward the door, he pauses. Turning back to you, he winks—so casual, so confident—like the chaos surrounding him doesn’t even touch him. "Call me later," he says, his voice low, playful. “Sweetheart.”

With one last glance at your parents, who are now looking like they’re about to burst into flames from sheer rage, Heeseung steps toward the door. "Later," he repeats, his tone filled with mischief. Then, without another word, he’s gone, his footsteps echoing down the hall as he leaves the house. The silence that follows is deafening.

You sit there for a moment, your heart still racing, adrenaline making your head spin. The anger in your mother’s eyes is unmistakable, but there’s something else there, too—a flicker of disbelief. Maybe she’s starting to realize that her perfectly planned world is starting to slip. And maybe, just maybe, you like it that way. "You’re never going near that boy again," your father says through gritted teeth.

You don’t answer. Instead, you slip out from under the covers and stand, your body feeling light, your movements almost carefree. You walk past them without a word, glancing back at the door one last time before heading for the bathroom. Their voices, still shouting, fade into the background as you close the door behind you. In the stillness, it’s easy to forget the weight of expectations, of the gilded cage you’ve lived in.

Because for just a moment, you felt something else—a freedom that no amount of money, no amount of influence, could ever buy. And as you stare at your reflection in the mirror, lips still tingling from Heeseung’s kiss, you realize just how much you want more of it.

`~ { taglist. } ". _ @izzyy-stuff , @beomiracles , @filmnings , @dawngyu , @hyukascampfire , @saejinniestar , @notevenheretbh1 , @hwanghyunjinismybae, @ch4c0nnenh4, @kristynaaah , @simj4k3 , @sangiewife , @hyunj00

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haniette · 2 days ago

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right at the fingertips. // ln4

pairing | lando norris x fem!reader

genre | angst, friends to ???, childhood best friends au, unrequited love, hurt-comfort

word count | 2.1k

warnings | no use of y/n, panic attack, emotional distress, themes of regret and longing, jealousy, use of alcohol, slow burn heartbreak, cursing, crying.

inspired by: sombr — back to friends

summary: once, they were childhood best friends. but one missed chance has changed everything. at sixteen, she stayed silent, and he chose someone else. love slipped through her fingers—before she even realized it was there.

a/n: i am in my angst mood rn im sorry 😭😭 this is definitely NOT inspired by a real situation taken right from my life haha- :’) just thought it might be nice to somehow write about it as it had a potential lololo but still hope you’ll enjoy !!

Oh, how you wished you could turn back time and not come here tonight.

The house was alive. Music pulsed through the air, the bass thudding in time along with your heartbeat. Laughter and conversations overlapped, a chaotic mix of voices shouting over the noise. The smell of alcohol, sweat, and too-sweet perfume clung to the air, making everything feel thick and heavy.

Inside, people were packed together—red solo cups in their hands, pressed into corners and against the couches, bodies swaying in the rhythm of the music. The lights were dimmed, just bright enough to catch the occasional flash of a smile, the flicker of someone’s gaze across the room.

Somewhere in the kitchen, a game of beer pong was met with loud cheers. Someone else cranked the volume on the speaker, sending vibrations through the floorboards. And the others had a good time, partying on that Saturday night. The world around you was drenched in chaos, color, and movement.

But none of it mattered, because all of your focus was locked on him.

Lando was leaning against the wall, one hand holding his half-empty drink. But that view—breath-taking view—wasn’t what had your chest tightening, your stomach twisting into painful knots.

It was his phone.

The glow of the screen illuminated his face, reflecting in his slightly parted lips as he grinned down at whatever message he had just received. His thumb moved across the screen quickly, typing something before stopping, waiting. And then, the softest chuckle left him as his phone buzzed with a reply.

You didn’t need to see the name to know who it was. Olivia. His new girlfriend.

Something in you snapped. You tore your gaze away, the weight of it unbearable. It was like being punched in the ribs, the breath stolen from your lungs in one swift motion. You shouldn’t feel like this. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t want to walk over, snatch the phone out of his hands, demand why he was giving her the attention that used to belong to you.

But you did care. And you hated yourself for it.

Your chest felt tight, heat creeping up your neck as emotions you had spent months suppressing began to crawl back up. You couldn’t sit here and watch this. You couldn’t let yourself spiral in the middle of this suffocating, crowded room with the music reverbing through your body.

So you left. You didn’t think much about it—you just moved. You weaved through the group of bodies, ignoring the calls of your name, the outstretched hands trying to pull you back into conversation.

The second you stepped outside, the air felt different. It was sharp and cool, a stark contrast to the suffocating warmth inside. It bit at your skin, but you welcomed it—anything to ground you.

You walked around the house, your hands gripping the sleeves of your sweater, your heartbeat still uneven. You needed to escape, to be alone, to let the tension drain from your body before it consumed you.

A small ledge near the fence caught your eye. It wasn’t much—just a flat piece of concrete, probably some part of the foundation—but it was away from everyone. That was all that mattered. You sank onto it, pulling your knees up to your chest and tilting your head toward the sky.

The stars were scattered across the darkness, tiny pinpricks of light, so far away they barely seemed real. It was quiet here, save for the faint hum of cars in the distance and the muffled thumping of the music inside.

It should have been peaceful. But it wasn’t. Because no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t push away the image of Lando’s smile. Not the one he used to give you. Not the one that made your chest warm and your stomach flutter.

No, the one he gave his phone. The one meant for her.

A lump formed in your throat. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to take slow, even breaths, but it didn’t stop the sting behind your eyes.

God, you were so fucking stupid.

How had you not realized it sooner? How had you been so blind when he was standing right in front of you, waiting—hoping—for you to see it?

A few months ago, he had literally told you.

“You know.. I think I might like you more than I expected.”

And you—stupid, teenager you—had just rolled your eyes, nudged his shoulder, and said something like, “Shut up, Lando. It’s not funny.”

You had waved it off like it was nothing just because it was Lando—always joking, always teasing. It had never even crossed your mind that he would have meant it.

But he had.

Yet, you hadn’t let yourself realize it, because you had never even considered the possibility that he could love you in the way you were now aching for him to.

And then, a few years later came the infamous Instagram post.

You were scrolling absentmindedly when the picture popped up on your feed. Just a casual picture of him and Olivia in his new car. Her legs draped over his lap, his hand resting on her knee like it had always belonged there. The caption was simple— an orange heart.

At first, you felt… weird. Off-balance, like the ground had slightly tilted underneath you. But then, a second later, as if someone had taken a knife and driven it straight through your ribs, you felt an unbearable pain. Your breath caught in your lungs, your stomach twisting in anxiety.

You reread the caption once. Twice.

No.

No, he would have told you. Right..?

He would have told you. It wasn’t like Lando to not tell you about his secrets. You were sure he had told you about everything, yet it turned out not to be true.

You remembered how your hands had started trembling, how you had immediately called your best friend, breath shallow, chest tight, panic clawing at your throat.

“Hey, what’s up?” Her voice came through the speaker. You opened your mouth, but no words came out. You were shaking, and your chest felt tight. It felt like something was crushing your ribs.

“Hey—are you okay?”

“I didn’t know.. he never told me— … why didn’t he tell me?” You were choking on the air, first hot teardrops rolling down your cheeks.

“Oh, sweetheart...”

It wasn’t enough. The space felt too tight, your lungs too small. You collapsed onto your bed, clutching your chest as the world tilted. Your breath came in shallow gasps, and the room spun around you like a sickening carousel.

The screen of your phone still glowed in your hand, but you couldn’t focus on it anymore. The next picture of the post was the image of Lando and Olivia, their faces warm with affection, that kept spinning in your mind. You felt like a weight was pressing down on you, drowning you in a flood of emotions you couldn’t process.

Why didn’t he tell you?

You felt your heart pounding in your throat.

Why didn’t you see this coming?

Then the tears began to spill uncontrollably, hot and heavy. It wasn’t just the pain of losing him. It was the feeling of failure, of being too late, of missing every signal he’d sent and completely ignoring them.

The world felt so small now. So empty.

Your breath caught as you tried to force the panic back, but it wasn’t working. Your chest heaved. That’s when your phone buzzed again. You almost didn’t see it—didn’t want to see it. But when you finally gathered the courage to glance at the screen, you saw her name flash.

Olivia. And that was your breaking point.

You slammed your phone down and grabbed the blankets, pulling them tight over your head, suffocating yourself in the darkness. But then, through the haze of your panicked thoughts, your best friend’s voice cut through like a lifeline.

“Hey, calm down. Just breathe with me, okay? Focus on breathing, you’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

You clung to her words like a drowning person reaching for a rope, and slowly, the trembling stopped. Slowly, your heartbeat returned to a more normal pace, but the pain—the ache—didn’t go away.

And the thought of Lando with someone else…

You squeezed your eyes shut and tried not to let the tears fall again. But even after the panic faded, the silence in your room felt deafening. You couldn’t stop thinking about him.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he hadn’t chosen you. You hadn’t let yourself believe it.

And now? Now, you have lost your chance.

Your eyes burned. You blinked up at the sky, desperate to keep the tears at bay, but the ache in your chest was suffocating. You had let him slip away, straight into the arms of someone else. And now, all you could do was sit here, under the same stars that had once witnessed your late-night conversations, your laughter, your unspoken moments—and mourn.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Your breath caught as you stiffened at the sound of an oddly familiar voice, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Lando stood a few feet away, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, curls slightly tousled like he had been running his fingers through them. His expression was unreadable—soft, curious, maybe a little concerned.

“You left.” He said simply, taking a step closer to where you sat, observing your face.

You swallowed, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Just needed some air. Got a bit overstimulated.” He hummed in response, nodding slightly.

Lando took another step forward, then crouched in front of you, resting his forearms on his knees. His eyes flickered across your face, studying you. “You okay?”

No.

“Just tired, I guess.” You murmured, turning your head away to break the eye contact between you two.

He exhaled, shifting his weight. His gaze was soft while searching yours. “Hey, talk to me. What happened? You’ve been very distant lately.”

Your stomach clenched at his mention of the last few weeks. You hesitated, then chose your words carefully. “You have a girlfriend now, Lando. I didn’t want to interfere or anything.”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head slightly. “That’s nonsense.”

“Is it?” You questioned, finally looking at him again and meeting his hurt but also frustrated gaze.

Lando’s jaw tightened, but then he sighed. “You’re my best friend. You’ve been in my life for ten years now, and I’ve only known Olivia for eight months. There’s a difference in who I prioritize.”

The words struck something deep inside you, something raw and aching. And suddenly, you hated how much you wanted to believe him and his words.

But it didn’t matter. She was the one he eventually chose, and not you.

Your breath hitched as his words settled over you like a weight, heavy and suffocating.

“Does she know that?” You asked softly while playing with the sleeve of your sweater.

He hesitated for a while before answering, and for the first time that night, you saw something flicker in his eyes—uncertainty. But then, he shook his head slightly, brushing the thought away. “It’s not like that.”

Your chest ached. Because it was. And you had no right to say it, no right to fight it, no right to want him to see what was so obvious to you now. But it was too late.

The weight of it all—the regret, the longing, the unbearable ache—crashed over you in waves, and before you could stop it, the first tear slipped down your cheek.

Lando’s eyes widened slightly, and then, without hesitation, he reached forward, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him.

“You’re crying.” He murmured, amusement lacing his voice, like he was trying to lighten the moment.

But if only he knew. If only he understood that you weren’t crying because of the exhaustion, the school stress, or anything else. You were crying because of him. Because he had once been right there, waiting for you to notice him. And now, he was right here, too—arms wrapped around you, heartbeat steady beneath your cheek—but still just out of your reach.

“Lando, come take a shot with us!”

The distant call snapped the moment in half. Lando turned his head toward the noise, and for a second, you thought he would go. Thought he would untangle himself from you, get up, and leave you alone with the mess of feelings suffocating your chest.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled, tightening his grip around you slightly. “Not now,” He called back. “I need to stay here for a bit. Drink without me.”

That dickhead. How could he play with your heart and mind like that?

Closing your eyes, you pressed your face into the fabric of his hoodie, breathing in the familiar scent of him that you missed so much.

So close — right at the fingertips. But still, somehow, not yours.

reuploads and likes are highly appreciated ♡

#lando norris #lando norris fanfic #lando x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris fic #lando norris angst #lando norris imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 fic #mine #writing #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #fanfic #haniette writing

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pirateprincessblog · 2 days ago

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sixth sense >> j. yunho

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫.: while all of the city loves their superhero and is ready to defend him with their lives, you seem to be the only fool looking at the bigger picture. and the only one to loathe spiderman. 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: jeong yunho x f!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, superheroes and supervillains, spiderman!yunho, villain!reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: loss of a loved one, injuries, bl00d, SA attempt, mentions of suicide 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: this one was in the basement for a year now, thought i'd finish it and see if it helps my writer's block :)

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲.

***

when will spiderman be held accountable for the consequences of his actions?

yes, your superhero saved your city multiple times. yes, he saved that old lady from falling off the building. yes, he fought off an alien giant that threatened to blow up the continent. yes, he saved that school bus from drowning. that's his job. he is a superhero. it is expected of him.

have you people looked at the aftermath? victory and relief blinds you, you fail to see the demolished buildings, wrecked cars, shattered windows of your favourite shops. has spiderman ever stayed to assist firefighters clear up the scene? has he ever comforted people who were still paying off that car that is now on top of a building somewhere? people who just got their apartment? people who have just opened their shops?

no. spiderman doesn't care about those things. he cares about glory, praises and rewards. he vanishes until a new threat emerges, appearing only when the city has already suffered destruction, and sometimes causing further damage himself. what good is a city that you have to rebuild every few months, watching it get demolished every single time?

wake up, people. it is time to hold spiderman accountable.

the publish button is clicked without hesitation. third article this week, and no sight or sound of the notorious hero. your teeth bite the inside of your cheek again, abusing the already wounded flesh as your eyes scan the article one more time. this one should get his attention. it has to. slowly over the past few months, people are starting to understand you. those who once called you a fool are now on your side, demanding at least an apology from the man who successfully hid after every battle.

"leaving early?" your coworker asks, eyes not moving from his own screen.

"yes." you answer, shutting your laptop and safely putting it away in its bag.

"going home to write more mean things about spidey on your little hate blog?"

"not that it is any of your business, but i am going to the cemetery."

the smirk drops from the man's face, and his eyes notice the flowers on the edge of your desk. "oh. sorry."

"yeah. see you tomorrow, wooyoung."

last time you were here, it was still summer. the grass was green, and the sun reflected the shiny letters on the tombstone. flowers decorated almost every grave, lots of colorful bundles and candles making the place less morbid. now, it was the opposite. you haven't visited since august, and it was already october. autumn has made the grass dry and brown, and tombstones grey and gloomy. his name didn't shine anymore. it was just letters on a stone.

"hi, baby." a shaky whisper leaves your mouth, almost disappearing with the wind. you crouch, placing fresh white lilies in front of the stone. fingers reach to graze the silver letters, tracing each one before tears blur your vision. "i brought you your favorite."

he never had a favourite flower. not until you gave him a compliment that made him blush for a week every time he looked at you.

"you're as pretty as a white lily, seonghwa."

"w-what?"

"what?"

"pretty? i am supposed to be handsome." his cheeks are a pretty pink shade, and his eyes are shiny as he looks at you flustered.

"you are handsome. and you're also very pretty. you're my pretty boy."

and he was.he was beautiful in every way. his eyes, his lips, his words, his soul. he was one of the purest people you've ever met. selfless, full of love and so sweet. you met him in a coffee shop where he worked, and lost him there too. three years ago on this day you met him. one year ago on this day you lost him.

"i miss you. i miss you so much its burning me inside out." you sob, fingers subconsciously caressing the stone like you once caressed his face. "he'll pay for it. i promise you. he will."

a week passes, and still nothing. the city hero has retreated who knows where, unaware of the boiling situation inside you. even as you sit in the emergency room, you do not react to the alcohol making your open wound bubble, instead thinking of ways to get to the man behind the mask.

"what happened again?" the doctor's assistant, who had just arrived in the room flushed with papers in her hands, asked as she looked at your leg.

"we were at the zoo, and we failed to hear that there was a viper on the lose. we found it when my crazy sister casually ripped the animal off her leg and tossed it over my head." your sister explains as she holds your niece, bouncing her on her hip to keep her occupied.

"time is crucial. had you come a few minutes later, you'd be dead, young lady."

"okay." you simply reply, emotionlessly watching as the doctor rubs ointment on the exposed flesh before wrapping it up.

your sister sighs. "right, thank you doctor."

"you must rest for a few days. no walking unless you absolutely must. see me again in a week."

you stand, walking over to the assistant and taking the note, as if you didn't hear what the doctor just said. "thanks. bye."

"i am so sorry." your sister apologizes, then rushes outside to catch up with you, struggling to carry her daughter. "wait!"

"i'm not walking fast."

"why are you like this?" she finally grabs your elbow, making you turn around and face her.

"like what?"

"like this! numb! like you don't care whether you live or die! don't you think about your family? your niece who has to see you like this? the only emotions she sees on you are rage and grief, and it makes her sad to see her once happy auntie turn into whatever this is now."

your eyes land on your niece, the five-year-old resting her head on her mothers shoulder and looking at you with sad eyes. with your fingers, you move the bangs out of her eyes, caressing her cheek in the process. "i don't care whether i live or die."

"what?"

"you heard me. i don't. if i live, i get to avenge seonghwa. if i die, i get to be with seonghwa. simple as that."

"listen," she pulls you aside, hiding you from curious eyes. "i hate to be the one to tell you this, but you need to move on."

"no."

"listen to me-"

"leave me alone. don't touch me." you yank your arm from her grip, hitting your niece with your elbow in the process.

the older woman gasps, and so does the child, before her eyes become shiny with tears and lips form a pout. you gulp, stepping back.

"don't ask about me. don't call me. don't visit me. forget about me."

the ground sways beneath your feet as you walk home. brain cluttered, heart racing, and leg aching, you barely make it to the park and fall on the wooden bench. you've never felt this ill before. not even when you got drunk on your last birthday. the autumn sun mercifully warms you as you doze off on the bench, not having the energy to care about whispers and pointed fingers.

when you wake up, you almost have to peel your eyes open. your lips remain shut, and you struggle to breathe. once your eyes gets used to the dark, they lock with other ones. a scream leaves your mouth, but is muffled by a hand firmly planted on your face. the stranger sits on your legs, having full control over your body. fuck, is this how you'll die?

"come on now, sweet thing. you were all sprawled out in the middle of the park. it's basically an invitation. why the sudden rejection?"

you were ready to be wounded. you were ready to be held captive. you were ready to be tortured. you were ready to die. but you were not ready to have another man touch what belonged to seonghwa. his touch still lingers, and you will not allow him to tarnish it.

"there, there. it'll be over quickly. or not. i'll decide how you deserve it."

his other hand doesn't bother to take your clothes off. instead, he unzips your jacket, then rips your shirt open. the cool air hits your clothed chest, and tears graze your cheeks as you realize there might not be a way out of this. he is strong, and big. and scary. the city is full of people, making it easy for freaks to blend in. you couldn't tell whether he was human or not.

his eyes glow in the dark, and they are hungry. hungry for your flesh or your essence, you did not know. you only knew one. seonghwa. finally, you cared whether you live or die. you'd rather die before this man touches you. you didn't want to live to go through this. you'd never forgive yourself.

"you're boring me." he sighs, annoyed. then, he removes his hand from your mouth. "scream, cry, beg. go on."

sharp pain cuts through your head, making you wince and shut your eyes.

"what the fuck?" you hear him say, then get off you.

when you open your eyes, your vision is... colorful. you no longer see the man, but a shadow that glows red, yellow, green and blue. you gasp, blinking a few times. it stays the same, and it scares you. what did he do to you?

"are those fucking fangs?"

your fingers reach to touch your mouth, and indeed: fangs.

"stay the hell away from me." he steps back.

"no- wait!"

the man you ran from is now running away from you. and you chase him, seeking help in danger. you follow the figure, soon catching up to it and knocking it to the floor. "no! get off me, you monster!"

"what did you do to me?!" your hands grip the fabric of his clothes, shaking his body for answers. "what did you do?!"

he spits in your face, causing you to fall back and give him a mere second to get up. thinking he is faster than you, he stops behind a tree to catch his breath. but you see him. you smell him. and you'll kill him.

"did you just fucking spit on me? after trying to rape my unconscious body?"

a choked gasp leaves his mouth, seeing your figure appear in front of him. "i'm so-"

before he can finish his pathetic apology, your fangs sink into his neck, causing him to shriek in pain. a foreign force takes over your body, making your nails plunge into his stomach, and fangs release liquid inside his flesh. once his squirming stops, you step away, letting his lifeless body fall to the ground. you no longer see vibrant colours, and your vision turns normal.

you don't get the chance to be surprised by your own actions, because you feel a rock hit your back, causing you to shift your attention to a family behind you, fingers pointed and jaws dropped. "viper!"

***

when you called in sick, everyone rushed to your door to make sure you're alright. you had never called in sick before, except the week when seonghwa passed away, and since then, you've been a raging workaholic. working for yourself, for him, and for spiderman. for his destruction. for his misery. you wanted him to feel what you felt that day. you wanted him to feel what you still feel every day. dying little by little, hoping to reunite with your lover but not having the confidence to do anything about it. you wished to see the hero grieving and miserable.

and it might be possible now more than ever. you stand in front of the mirror, finally gaining control over your vision. you could switch to infrared whenever you wanted, and you were quickly learning what exactly is happening in your body. it took you waking up and seeing your changed face in the mirror to finally visit an old friend.

"a radioactive viper." the scientist explained after examining your vitals. "gave you its powers. so cool."

"mingi, nothing about this is cool."

"is too! you can see infrared, you have venom in your fangs, and, uh, you have fangs! you just need to learn how to control all of it." he pokes your forehead, then makes his way to his desk and sits. you follow, desperation evident in your voice.

"mingi, please-"

"knock-knock!"

you run to mingi's closet, not wanting to show your fangs to another poor soul and scar them.

"you don't have to- oh what the hell." the blonde man gives up, letting you hide. "come in!"

"you free?"

"sort of. what is it?"

you watch through the crack as another tall man enters the office, a backpack loosely hanging from his shoulder. he is dressed casually, in loose black jeans and a red and blue college jacket. his hair is dark and falls over his brown eyes, which are curiously examining mingi's messy lab.

"experimenting? i've never seen your lab this messy."

"i just finished a research. nothing of importance so far. what's up, yunho?"

"i was hoping you'd help me with an assignment."

"come on! i finished college ages ago!"

while they're busy bickering, you slip from the closet and carefully make your way to the door. they sit at the round table, mingi finally obliging to help with the assignment. as the student reaches for his notebooks, he catches your figure by the door.

"hey, aren't you that journalist?"

fuck.

"you haven't dropped anything in a while. is everything alright?"

you can't tell if he is worried, or just thirsty for more of this one sided drama you have with the spiderman. you turn around, and your fangs retract in time. he also fully turns around, spinning on his chair in the process and eyes locking with yours.

"yes, it is. just... a writer's block. i'm taking a break from..."

"hating spiderman?" he finishes for you, causing you to furrow your eyebrows. "jeong yunho, nice to meet you."

"jeong yunho?" you repeat, name familiar in your ears. "the spiderman photographer?"

"guilty." he replies, a smile dancing on his lips.

mingi watches from aside as the tension thickens between the two of you. not many words are spoken, but each one feels like drawing a weapon and wielding it. a duel of words.

"say, why exactly do you dedicate all your time to him?"

"i thought you were a fan of my work. how do you not know?" you bite back, a sour smile decorating your equally sour face.

"oh, i know. i just wanted to hear it from you. after all, i am a fan of your work." yunho folds his arms across his chest, then leans against the table with his back. "but i am also a fan of spiderman. after all, he pays for my bills and tuition."

"i am not repeating what i wrote. countless times. you are free to visit my blog or read the newspaper. i have to go."

you turn around, angrily stomping towards the door. mingi sighs, relief washing over his body too quickly.

"i hope i cured your writer's block. i'll be waiting for your article, miss journalist."

you don't have to look at him to know that he is smirking. and you don't have to look at yourself in the mirror to know that your fangs are fully visible again.

it was the second time since the bite that you had the urge to kill someone. and it was the last time you looked normal. now, as you looked at your reflection in the mirror, you didn't know whether to be worried or excited. your fangs and vision were fully controlled, but the scales on your neck and jawline and viper eyes not. you don't seem to have any kind of power over them, and it limits you.

or frees you.

you are yet to decide. do you stay inside and learn to hide it, or do you unlock your full potential.

your eyes land on the opened article on your laptop screen once again.

viper - new threat or an escaped lunatic?

it's been a little over a week since the park attack. the family who witnessed it referred to the woman as the viper, describing how her eyes shined and fangs were smeared with blood when she turned around to look at them. they also described her way of moving and speed as something they'd never seen before, even though they all had encounters with heroes other than spiderman.

speaking of spiderman, will he wait for another attack to happen before he reacts? we all know of the uproar my friend and colleague received after calling him out. she has disappeared, called in sick, and never returned. is it possible that he has intervened? after all, she was onto something.

tick-tock, spiderman. lots of questions, accusations, and whatnot awaits you, yet you hide somewhere in your lair, letting all of this happen. letting the people you once helped to turn against you. it's time you stepped out and stood up for yourself.

if the viper is indeed a new threat, you have an opportunity to prove that you are not what she says you are.

wooyoung has unknowingly taken your side with this article. and it is all the encouraging you need.

it doesn't take you longer than a day to sew a hooded outfit for yourself, in order to blend in with the darkness and help you move easily. and it takes you less than a week to get spiderman's attention in a way that could've been avoided. you have raided almost every jewelry shop, broken cafe windows, destroyed parks. simply, you made everything you laid your eyes upon wilt.

at this point, you loved the thrill. cries for help were music to your ears, tearful faces pretty to look at, and your name on many articles and news stroking your ego. you could only imagine the look on spiderman's face as he watches people begging him for help. but you are yet to reach the main goal of this show.

you couldn't wait to show yourself to him. to finally make him see for himself what power you possess. to not only see it, but to feel it, and to beg you to stop.

and it happens on a late night as you sit on the edge of your building, legs hanging above the still busy streets. the dark hood covers the scales on your neck and jaw, but leaves your bright yellow eyes exposed. you scan the city, looking for a particular swinging figure. and you spot him, coming this way. he doesn't seem to notice you, taking his sweet time shooting webs and swinging from the buildings. until his web catches your leg instead of the brick wall, and you swiftly break it.

his sixth sense works in his favour, because he is quick to shoot again, this time next to you. you let him be, watching as his rhythm gets disrupted and he hangs from a single web before regaining control. while he takes his sweet time to adjust, his gaze seems to lock with yours, and you see the way the big white shapes widen in shock, representing his eyes. you only smile, then turn around, as if walking away. he skillfully lands in front of you, in his usual spider stance.

"who are you?" he doesn't hesitate to ask, taking slow steps towards you.

"come and find out." you reply, stepping back. little by little, you reach the edge of the building, your heels hovering above the streets. "if you dare."

with that, you let your body fall. the cool air and gravity envelop it, sending shivers down your spine. and surely, in no time, the masked man is in your vision. he catches up to you, shooting a web and swiping your body in the air with a single hand. your hands hold onto his shoulders, gripping the red and blue fabric as anger boils inside of you. finally.

"gotcha." you hiss into his ear.

"what?" he asks, not sure if he heard right. but once your teeth sink through his suit and into his neck, realization hits him.

he almost drops you, pain ripping through his body as he struggles to reach any kind of surface around him. you don't release any liquid inside yet, rather choosing to keep him on the edge. but the pain of the bite is enough to break him, and he loses control of his webs and becomes dizzy. just in time, you jump on a nearby fire escape, leaving his limp body hanging from a single web and hitting the brick wall. even for spiderman, that must've hurt. and you are not sorry for it.

he'll take this as a warning.

you have him where you wanted him since day one: unconscious, powerless, and vulnerable. all it would take is a single bite again, a proper one this time. and you'd be happy and content. but not before breaking him, little by little.

"i'll stomp on you, you little insect. i'll feed on your pain and misery." you seethe as you watch people open their windows and try to help him, pulling on his limbs and almost tearing him apart, trying to be the one to save the hero. with a nearby fire extinguisher, you break the single web by throwing it his way, making his body fall to the ground. you turn to leave, but not before spitting on the floor where he lays and people are gathered around him.

***

you lay awake at night, thinking of your next step. he doesn't know who you are, and you plan to make it clear. so much that when he sees you in your human form, he'll stay away from you. you want his fear, his tears, his grief. you'll feed on it like a starved vulture, not stopping until he wails under your touch.

sitting on top of the building has become your new favourite spot. you could go higher for a better vision, true. but this one has the cafe. this one feels like seonghwa and the memory of him. you can almost smell the soft vanilla that lingered on his skin, and the coconut that made his black hair soft and shiny.

a lily lays in your palm, its petals pearly white with a few red stripes. it reminds you of his face, before he took the last breath. pretty pale face, with blood streaming on the side of his head and coating his cheeks and neck, white sweater soaking it up.

you don't know how many times you've replayed that memory in your head. but you know you'll do it many times again. it is your biggest motivation.

"it's a bit cold tonight for sitting here, don't you think?"

if his plan was to catch you off guard and scare you, he failed miserably. "it is perfect."

he hums behind you. "you could've killed me. you didn't. why?"

you pull at a petal, ripping it away from the bud. "it would've been too easy."

"who are you?" he is persistent.

"careful." you warn, pulling at another petal and watching it fall on the street below. "you know how it ended last time you asked that question, spidey boy."

"what do you want from me?"

you sigh, feeling bored of the conversation already. you rip out another petal, and another, until there is only one left. "what makes you think i want something from you?"

"you've been causing trouble left and right. robbing places, but returning everything after a few days. as if you wanted to get my attention. or are you simply that sick in your head and you love to play god with people?"

"i don't want anything from you. i want you."

he is taken aback, lips struggling to form a sentence.

you feel him step closer, but you don't budge yet, back still facing him. "tell me one thing, spiderman."

"what?"

"do you feel sorry for the damage you're doing to this city?"

"wh-" his word comes out broken, and his breath hitches as you throw you head back, yellow eyes looking right into his. a wicked smile dances on your lips, your hood falling from your head and finally revealing your face to him. "you."

"peekaboo." you rip the last petal, and in a swift motion, stand up and latch yourself onto him.

he falls to the ground with a grunt, arms planted on your waist in order to keep you away from him. your nails dig into his wrists, and his fingers dig into your flesh. his grip is as strong as yours, causing you to wince and pull away.

"i asked you a damn question. you know who i am, you're familiar with my work. tell me, do you feel- oof!" he tackles you to the ground, this time him being on top.

"you think i care about pretty cars and fancy shops when i need to defeat an alien army?" his long fingers wrap around your neck, squeezing its sides and ridding you of oxygen. "you think i have time and energy to stop and think before attacking or dodging?"

your nails reach for his neck, finding the hem of his mask and trying to pull it off his head. once he realizes what you're trying to do, he takes both of your hands in his single one and pins them against the cold concrete above your head.

"how about this: next time, you come up with a solution. i'll gladly let you handle it, and i'll stand aside and take notes. is that good enough for you, doll?"

"let go of me." you foolishly demand.

"hmm... no." his grip on your neck intensifies, until your vision starts to darken. "good night, my little journalist."

you had hoped it was just a dream. how could you let your guard down? instead, you are awoken by cold water splashing your face. you find yourself in a foreign room and a cozy bed.

"oops. did i wake you?"

your head turns to the figure that sits on the bed. "you."

"me. and your bestie." the photographer points at the scientist who stands at the door.

"where am i? why am i here?" you take in your surroundings, forgetting that yunho has now seen your true nature.

the bedroom you're in is a simple one; with a bookshelf, a gaming table, and a comfortable bed. you haven't slept in such a soft bed in a while. once you finish examining the room, your eyes lock with the photographer's, and you finally realize. you're in his room.

"it's okay." mingi assures, stepping in before your fangs dip into his neck. which is covered by a turtleneck. "you can trust him. i do."

"trust someone who just poured water in my face?" you grumble, wiping the liquid with your sleeve. you then notice you are not wearing your clothes. instead, you wear a blue and red college jacket you've seen once already. the colours that make you sick to your stomach. "why am i wearing his clothes?"

"i'm right here, journalist. you can talk to me, i don't bite."

the way he calls you journalist is familiar to you. but mingi calls you that too, so you drop it. "why am i wearing your clothes?"

"well, in case aunt may barges in the room, it's easier to explain the scales than the whole inej ghafa aesthetic you had going on."

"in what world is that easier?"

"guys," mingi sighs, "i really have to go. promise me that you won't kill each other."

"where are you going?" you ask, disbelief evident in your voice. he can't possibly leave you alone with the photographer.

"believe it or not, i have a family and a job." the blonde man says, putting on his leather jacket. it is odd to see him wearing anything other than a white lab coat.

"and i don't?" yunho raises an eyebrow at his friend.

"you," mingi walks over just to flick the photographer's forehead, "have a day off. i'll be back tonight."

"but-!" he doesn't let you finish, waving and slamming the door of yunho's room on the way out. "asshole."

silence envelops the room, and you didn't know how much you needed it until now. the vengeful voices in your head have taken a break, letting you enjoy peace for the first time in a while. you lay in a stranger's bed, wearing his clothes, and listen to him breathe.

"you have questions." he wakes you from your meditation.

"i do."

"go on." he turns his body towards you, still sitting on the edge of his bed. "i'll answer truthfully. i promise."

you pull your legs close to your chest, hugging your knees and resting your chin on top of them. "how did i get here?"

"mingi found you unconscious in his lab when he returned from the toilet. then, he brought you to my place. you know he has a big and loud family. he assumed you'd like the peace and quiet here."

he isn't wrong. you do like the peace here. and you also like the coziness of the jacket and the soft blankets, no matter who they belong to or the colours. "you know what i am?"

"you're not a what, journalist. you're a who. and i know who you are. you are y/n, my favourite journalist from nexus daily, and viper, my new favourite villain."

"so i'm a villain?" you scoff.

"well, yes. anyone that harms civilians is considered a villain." he tilts his head slightly, trying to maintain eye contact with you as your eyes stay locked on the silver rings on his fingers. "go on. ask."

"why haven't you handed me over to your spidey friend?"

yunho hums. "i guess i could. but it is not my fight. it is none of my business. he can come find you yourself."

"you say mingi found me in his lab. i had an encounter with spiderman last night. he choked me until i passed out, so he could've handed me over to whatever forces. or destroy me himself. i doubt i found my own way there." you're puzzled, memories of last night flooding your brain.

"maybe he wanted to give you a chance to rethink your decisions. a chance to change."

"nothing will change my decisions and goal." you glare at him. he nods, disappointment evident on his face. "have you snapped any pictures of me? sold them? how much am i going for?"

"no, i haven't. do you take me for that kind of person? to take pictures of you while you are unconscious and vulnerable?" he is now even more disappointed, furrowing his eyebrows as he looks at you with intense eyes. "you think mingi would drop you off here and leave me alone with you if i was like that?"

"you can't be mad at me for asking."

"i'm not mad, i just..." he sighs. "i'm not mad."

you're silent for a while, as is he. your gaze is locked on his slender fingers that play with the rings, similarly to how you play with the hem of your top when you're thinking or nervous. when a light breeze brushes your cheeks, you realize that his window is tilted open. you wrap yourself in his jacket, and he notices. without a word, he stands up to close it, letting you take in his whole figure. he is taller than mingi, and his black turtleneck shows off his slender figure. wonder why he hides it under oversized hoodies and jackets.

"your turn." you say as he sits back on the bed, averting your eyes from his body before he catches you staring and teases you.

"why do you hate him?"

"you know-"

he interrupts, "no, i don't. i only know there's more to it than your articles tell. there's more to it than a demolished city."

instead of answering, you opt for avoiding his gaze. you stare at the spiderman photographs on the wall above his desk, resentment growing with each picture you notice. "it's none of your business."

"true, it isn't. but if you want me on your side, you'll have to tell me. what is it that he did that has you using your powers against the city?" he sits closer to you, and for a moment, you think he wants to take your hands in his. but they only move for an inch, before resting back on his lap. "you're not a bad person. at least you weren't, that's what mingi tells me. he still believes that you are not a villain. and i wish to believe it too."

"he made me a villain." you finally lock eyes with him.

"spiderman did?" yunho tilts his head again, confused. it reminds you of a curious puppy.

"yes. he took everything from me, that reckless bastard. and i intend to take everything from him, before i take him. and i'll keep protecting the city from the foolish avengers, i'll take down each one of them if i can't keep them away, and i won't stop until i am done. then, i'll surrender. i'll rest."

at the mention of avengers, yunho tenses. "tell me."

"they don't care about anything when they fight. they ruin whatever they touch. they ruined my life, he ruined my life! he took my lover away from me." tears prick your eyes, announcing their glorious arrival. you grit your teeth, brain replaying the horrid memories of the day. "we were at a cafe, celebrating the anniversary of the day we met. foolish, i know. but it was special to us. everything was normal, until the news announced that we stay inside wherever we are and do not exit. we could see a giant swinging a bat or something left and right, and spiderman just throwing anything and everything at him."

tears have soaked your cheeks already, just like then while you both crouched under the table that day. you shook from fear, and he held you, kissing the top of your head and assuring you that everything would be okay while stroking your hair.

"when they were in front of the cafe, that idiot of a hero swung a car at the villain, and fucking missed, sending it through the window and-" you hiccup, burying your face into the sleeves of the soft jacket, "and-"

"it's alright." yunho hushes you as he stands up and sits next to you, resting his back against the headboard. he carefully pulls you into a hug, caressing your hair as you cry into his chest. when you don't push him away, he rests his head on top of yours. "you don't have to-"

"and it landed on him. on seonghwa. everyone ran away, they left me alone with him. half of his body was stuck underneath, and i couldn't pull him out. he didn't feel his lower body, he just begged me to leave him there and save myself. but i couldn't. i went out on the street, didn't care about the fight going on, and called for help. even foolishly thought spiderman would hear me and just lift the damn car. but he didn't. he kept throwing vehicles and whatnot around, above my head, into the buildings, and so on. he saved the city, but he killed the love of my life. my reason to live."

if you weren't violently sobbing and shaking, you would've heard his heart beat faster where your head rested against his chest.

"i am so sorry, doll."

and if you weren't swallowed by the veil of an opened wound, you would've heard how familiar that nickname sounds.

the photographer assured you that you could stay as much as you wanted. and you appreciated it. you enjoyed the coziness of his room, the cooking of his aunt, and the company of jeong yunho himself. he was kind and funny, and didn't push you like mingi did. you felt like your old self with him. until you'd catch your own reflection in the mirror, and the shiny scales brought you back where you were.

you didn't forget about your goal. but yunho's company made your heart calm and brain clear. he kept you occupied while he was there, and charged his aunt with it when he wasn't. yunho also didn't push you to forgive spiderman, or anything similar. he never spoke of it again, wouldn't even mention him when he came back from work.

"i brought treats!" he came earlier one day, just when you were changing into your clothes. he stopped with a box of muffins in his hand, eyes looking at his discarded jacket and brows furrowed. "where are you going?"

"i'm leaving, yunho."

"what? why?" he pouts subconsciously.

"i overstayed my welcome. and i am delaying my goal. the sooner i do it, the sooner i get to rest."

while he attempts to formulate an argument, you pick up the jacket from the bed and approach him. the brown eyed man observes with curiosity as you place the jacket into his free hand, then rise on your tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek.

"thank you. i felt like myself the past few weeks. like the old me. and thank you for listening and not judging. it means a lot to me."

he blushes furiously, the tips of his ears turning hot and red as you step back and smile at him. "i- i- don't go."

"i must."

"isn't there another way?" he shoves the jacket back in your hands, as if that'll make you stay. "the avengers will crush you."

"this is the only way. he needs to learn. no amount of talking will save him. i gave him many opportunities."

"please don't go. i- i grew fond of you. i don't want anything to happen to you." he admits. he puts the treats aside, then grabs your shoulders. "i can talk to him for you."

you scoff. "you're cute. no."

dropping the jacket on the floor, you turn your back on him, and make your way to his window. you hear him huff out of frustration.

"even if i stayed, yunho, my heart still belongs to seonghwa."

"journalist?" he calls when you step out of the window.

"yes?"

"go easy on him. he may not be as strong as you were."

"no promises."

and when you jump out, he whispers to himself: "i know i am not as strong as you were."

***

finding the hero was a challenge once again. you didn't practice any fighting. you didn't have to. your venom was enough. it had to be. what was he compared to your bite? you have also shortened your goal. you won't go down on his level. your plan was to kill someone he cared about, but killing him would do enough harm to his family already. if they knew what he was.

"finally," you breathe out, seeing the blue and red figure swinging through the streets.

but before he can properly land on the rooftop, another figure jumps on top of him, pushing him to the ground and delivering a punch. you step back, watching as the creature relentlessly hits his masked face, all while he struggles to fight back.

"oh, no you won't." you rush to them, jumping on the stranger's back, pulling him away from the man on the floor. "he is mine to kill!"

"who the fuck-" the figure throws you on the floor, pinning your hands to the ground and yanking your hood off. "you."

"you- you bastard. how are you alive?" you stare at the eyes that you first saw that night. the eyes that were once lifeless. because you were the one who drained the life out of him.

he smiles disgustingly, then looks over at the hero. "he saved me."

you were wrong. it wasn't your essence or your flesh, it was both he craved. and you won't give it to him. not then, not today.

"he saved you only because he didn't know what a sick and twisted bastard you are!" you push him off you with your feet on his chest, sending him flying to the other end of the rooftop.

the hero that was once on the floor runs over to you, helping you stand. "are you hurt?"

"get your fucking hands off me." you push him away, but he doesn't budge. you try again, punching his chest, kicking and screaming. he simply takes both of your hands in his, and cups your jaw so you can calm down and look at him.

"help me get rid of him, then we can solve this. torture me, kill me, do what you want. but help me kill this whoreson."

"why? who is he?"

"he is a shapeshifter." he seems to hesitate a bit before continuing," and a rapist."

a faint grunt is heard, and you both look his way. he stands there panting, no longer in his human form. he is hairy, and has taken an almost werewolf-like appearance. then, he looks at you with the most evil smile you've ever seen. and you know you have to move. but your legs stay on the ground, frozen and disobedient. his figure speeds up, sharp teeth gleaming under the faint city lights and red eyes hungrily taking you in. just before he can jump on you with his jaw wide open and his pointy tongue peeking out, the hero grabs you by your waist once again, shielding you with his body.

the creature latches onto spiderman's back, digging its claws into his back, causing him to yelp. even though that's where you wanted him, it makes your heart twitch with pain. he doesn't let go of you, still hugging you close to his chest and shielding you from the blood thirsty claws.

it is not until they break through his back and chest, and almost pierce through you, that the hero pushes you away from him. he falls to the floor once again, fingers digging into the concrete and pained moans and groans leaving his mouth.

"go! leave!" he yells at you.

"no!" you yell back. "i am not leaving without at least one body tonight!"

the creature retracts one of his hands, only to point it at you and make a gust of wind pull you close to him. his open hand catches your body by your neck, raising it from the floor and squeezing it. you gasp for air, nails desperately clawing at the hairy hand, but to no avail.

"silly little viper." he growls. "it will be me who will leave with not one, but two bodies tonight. you and your little friend."

the hero uses the moment of distraction to hit the werewolf, making him release you. in a split second, spiderman skillfully avoids the kicks and punches, as well as the bite attempts. one bite must've taught him enough.

"please, leave!" the hero begs.

"no!" you refuse, joining him in the fight.

your speed allows you to dodge the attacks, as well as landing them. you are not as strong, but you have found his weak points. his sides, crotch, and neck. then, he pushes you away with a gust of wind once again, and focuses on the masked man. when you stand back up, you are tired. sick and tired of being tossed around so easily. bruised, hurt, and angry.

you look at the two, ready to give it your all this time. then, you stop. blinking a few times, you wonder if you're seeing right. there's two red and blue heroes in front of you, both in an equally bad condition. suit ripped, blood seeping through the fabric, and heavy breathing.

"what the fuck?" you breathe out.

"please, you have to go. we'll solve our issue another day, i promise." one of them shouts, stepping over.

"no! i told you we'd solve it once we get rid of him! don't leave, we are so close!" the other joins.

they both sounds identical, look identical. and you are torn. if you leave, the real one might get killed, which would fulfill your goal. but the fake one stays, still terrorizing the women and girls in the city. if you stay, you'll have to choose which one to save. and how can you possibly know which one is the real one? their masks are ripped in a few places, identical as well, but it doesn't help. even if they took off their masks completely, you couldn't tell. you have never seen spiderman without his mask on.

"i don't-" you stutter, looking between the two. "i don't know what to do."

"i am the real one, journalist."

"no, i am! you work for nexus daily and-"

"your boss is ruby allen!"

"we met on this rooftop twice already!"

"and you threw yourself off it the first time!"

"you had lilies in your hand the second time!"

the other one quiets down. and it confuses you. if he were the real one, wouldn't he keep talking? you raise an eyebrow, looking him up and down. "aren't you going to keep proving you are the real one?"

"i don't have to." he whispers, then steps closer.

you step back, confused as ever. "and why not?"

"because," he sighs, then, with his bloodied hand, takes the ripped mask off. "the lilies were for seonghwa."

"yu-" you choke on the word. "yunho-"

"i am so sorry, doll. i am so sorry it had to be this way."

"that's not- you can't-" at a loss for words, you put a hand over your mouth.

your biggest comfort for the past few weeks was your biggest enemy. the person you swore to kill. the person who killed your lover.

"don't do this to me." you cry.

"i'm sorry, journalist."

"the hell with you two!" the shifter turns back into the werewolf, running full speed at you.

"save yourself. please. i'll find you afterwards. i promise." he smiles at you assuringly, eyes glossy with tears, as much as yours.

"i will kill you, jeong yunho. maybe not today. but one day i will."

"i know, doll. and i won't fight back. i'll make it the easiest kill for you."

taking one last look at his beat up face, you hiccup and hide a sob, then run. run until you can no longer, collapsing in a narrow dark street, face buried in your bloodied hands. you finally free the sobs that have accumulated in your throat, tormenting you, and heart aching as the brain processes the newfound information.

how are you to kill jeong yunho?

***

among all the shapeshifter headlines, one of spiderman catches your attention.

spiderman missing!

he has been missing for weeks now, and no amount of hanging at the rooftop, by his window or at the lab could bring him back. you hated spiderman, but you liked yunho. and each thought of yunho was betrayal to seonghwa. your heart wished to move on, accepting defeat, yet your brain was stubborn. you wanted to carry out your plan. you wanted to destroy spiderman. but how can you, when he has the kindest eyes and the sweetest smile you've ever seen since seonghwa's passing?

the cool air does nothing to you as you walk on the edge of the building, hoping to see the familiar red and blue swinging among the skyscrapers. he must be holed up somewhere, recovering all by himself. when you left him, he was already in a bad condition. he heals faster, you know it. but how fast can one heal when someone has had their hands pierced through their body?

with a sigh, you climb back into your room, and suddenly, a hand finds its way over your mouth. another one holds your waist in place, while the person lowers their head on your shoulder, lips brushing against your ear shell.

"it's me, journalist." his breath is hot against your cheek. "i'll let go now. don't scream, doll."

once he does, you don't hesitate to jump to the other side of the room, grabbing the nearest object to shield yourself. the floor lamp is yet to prove effective, but you hold it pointed at him just in case. "how do i know it's you?"

"he doesn't know you hate my guts. relax. it's really me."

your eyes finally take in his form. he is still in his ripped suit, holding his side, blood seeping through the fabric and leg limp. his face is swollen and full of cuts, and his breaths shallow.

"what are you doing here?"

"i didn't know where else to go." he admits.

"so you came to the death's door?"

"window, technically."

you scoff in disbelief. "you're a fool, jeong yunho."

"my fate is inevitable. it is only a matter of time when i meet my end, but before that, i need you."

ignoring the fuzzy feeling in your stomach, you set the lamp down, not breaking eye contact with him. you need to have him in sight at all times. "where are your little avengers?"

"someone told me you didn't like them. besides, i want you to get your revenge. i promise i didn't know what he did to you, otherwise i'd never-"

"you seem so relaxed about the fact that i'll kill you." you interrupt him. "why is that? what are you planning?"

he limps over to your bed, dropping on it on his side and letting out a hiss in pain. "i had time to think. seonghwa's death is the only death i know of. how many more are there? all because of my reckless fighting."

you wish to say that he doesn't deserve to utter seonghwa's name. but his face scrunched in pain and bruises, and blood covering his body are enough for you to swallow your words. he really had nowhere to go?

"after-" he coughs, then yelps, holding his side, "after we kill the shapeshifter... you can come find me in mingi's lab. i thought i'd make it look like a suicide, so you don't have anyone on your back and you can live freely."

"stop that. go to sleep, we'll talk in the morning."

were it not for his current state, you wouldn't let him stay inside this long, let alone sleep over. but you still have a heart, and you still remember that beneath the ripped mask is jeong yunho. the man that made you feel human again. the man that made you not visit seonghwa's grave in a while, because his name shined in your face as if yelling cheater. but seonghwa would never do that, even if you had found someone else by now. don't stop living because of me, he said with his last breath.

but how can you live with all the damage you've done by now, under the excuse that it is for him?

upon exiting the room, you miss the way yunho's warm brown eyes follow your figure, lips curved in a light smile. if he was going to die, he was glad that you would be the one doing it. at least one person will be at peace.

***

"i don't want it to look like a suicide." you say as you sit on the edge of the building, legs hanging above the city street.

"what?" the masked man asks. "why?"

"i want them to know i did it."

conveniently, the hood covers your eyes, which are burning as tears announce their arrival. with each hour that passes, you pray that the shapeshifter doesn't appear. if he does, you pray that he kills you, so that you don't kill yunho. and if he doesn't, you pray that he kills yunho instead of you doing it. not because you don't want the city to hate you, or the avengers after you, but because you don't have the heart to do it. not after those weeks with him, and not after last night.

not after you had climbed into the bed sleepily, forgetting that you have company in it and forgetting that it was the reason you were sleeping on the couch in the first place. cold, shivering and a mumbling mess, you had found your way into his arms, nuzzling your head into his bare chest and soaking up his warmth. he smelled like blood and sweat, but felt like the fluffiest cloud on the sky. the cloud just before the sun sets; the orange and pink one, the prettiest one. the last one.

you woke up before him, cursing yourself for getting in there. to make things worse, you got up fast, accidentally elbowing him on his side and causing him to grunt in his sleep. wherever he was hiding and whatever he did must've tired him, because he doesn't wake up. it gives you a chance to properly look at him. and when you finish examining his flushed face, his bruised cheekbones, his cut lips and jaw, and his fluttering lashes, it gives you a chance to change your mind.

you sit on your window, sewing his suit. the blue and the red suddenly pretty shades, and no longer waking anger inside of you. and you hated yourself for it. you hated yourself so much for it that you considered jumping off the building you're sitting on right now. but you know he'd catch you, and you'd have to explain.

"if you do that, the whole world will hate you." yunho whispers.

"they can't hate me if i'm dead."

"no-"

"we have company." you interrupt, not wanting to hear anymore.

the shapeshifter is back in its spot again, glimmering eyes piercing through you like the sharpest knives. yunho gulps next to you. "there's something different about it."

you hum, examining the creature. it is in its werewolf appearance, teeth on full display and dripping with blood and saliva. "the insect and the reptile. the party can now begin."

"yeah. it seems to be..." you examine it as it leaps at you, "glowing."

just before he latches onto you, yunho pulls your body into his, then wastes no time in throwing you on the creature's back. fangs yearning to pierce his skin, and fingers pulling at his hairy head, you hold onto him for dear life. one wrong move and you're dead.

while yunho distracts him, you still struggle to bite him. not because he's moving too fast, but because his skin seems too thick for a bite. and then, fear swallows you whole. maybe you bit off more than you can chew.

the shifter senses the change in your demeanor, as does yunho. it's almost as if you can see his eyes widen under the mask right before you feel unbearable pain on your neck. its singular hand wraps entirely around it, and you swear you hear your bones crushing under his grip.

no amount of yunho's distracting works on the being. its eyes stare deep into your soul, and it's the last thing you see before your vision blurs and finally darkens.

seonghwa, here i come.

***

you always thought that seonghwa would be waiting by the gates for you.

not only is there no seonghwa, there is no gate either. just endless light. no corners, no ceiling. just a vast floor and space. you thought dying would be... well, you didn't think about that part much. you only thought of reuniting with your lover. and if you did think about it, you didn't imagine it so dull.

where was the pain? the suffering? the regret? the desire to be alive again?

"darling?"

ah. there it is.

the guilt.

eating you up alive as you turn around, eyes locking with familiar ones that you've missed with your entire being. up until recently, you cried yourself to sleep, wailed and tortured yourself, wishing to gaze upon those brown eyes one more time. yet why can't you look at him right now?

"what are you doing here?" the sound of footsteps bounces off the non existent - or invisible - walls, and make you bite the inside of your cheek.

your gaze is fixed on his white attire; a loose white linen shirt and white pants, along with a simple white bracelet with a familiar flower as a charm.

"my love," he calls, voice so soft it has you melting on the floor. literally. he crouches in front of you, holding you by your shoulders while your legs feel like jelly. "oh, darling."

your face rests in his warm palm which holds your head up for him to see. finally, you look at him again. he still smells of vanilla. "seonghwa."

"what did the world do to you, my sweet?"

you smile into his touch. "it doesn't matter now, does it? i'm here."

you expect him to smile back. yet he doesn't. he examines your bruises and cuts, gently feeling them under his thumb as he holds your jaw in his hand. "what troubles you?"

he summons the guilt once again. he knows. he has to know. why does he make you say it out loud?

"i think i fell in love with your murderer."

that's when he smiles. not mischievously, not condescendingly, and not in any way that would make you feel worse. the smile is soft and genuine, just like his whole being. do you even deserve park seonghwa, even after death?

"say something." voice a mere whisper, you beg. "please, hwa."

thoughts race, and hands shake. you can't seem to hold eye contact longer than two seconds. yet seonghwa simply presses his plush lips against your forehead, erasing every thought you had for a split second. he gives you peace.

"it's not as if it matters anymore. i'm dead anyway."

"that's where you are wrong, darling." he helps you stand.

"what?"

"you're not dead. you are unconscious."

"then why-" you step back, making seonghwa's hands fall from your body. suddenly, you feel cold and empty. you wish you could jump into his arms and bury your face into the crook of his neck, just to smell and feel him properly one more time. "why are you here?"

"i came to tell you that you need to let go."

"never." you gasp in disbelief. "i could never let you go."

"i'll always be in your memories. but, sweetheart, you need to move on. you need to let me rest as well."

you never thought of it that way. by holding grudge and seeking revenge, you didn't let his poor soul find peace. "this isn't just about you or me. it's about countless others who died the same way."

"the sooner you realise that i died so that thousand others could survive, the sooner you'll be at peace."

"but why you, seonghwa?" your voice cracks. and it shatters seonghwa's heart, you can see it. it makes you feel even worse, causing him pain when he should be resting in peace. "why did it have to be you?"

"because if it wasn't me, then it would've been you. and all deities know that i wouldn't be able to survive losing you."

"hwa-" you cry out.

"you have to come back, journalist."

"don't call me that." you step back, furrowing your eyebrows.

seonghwa's expression shifts. he doesn't look at you with a loving gaze anymore. as if he wants to anger you, scare you away back into life. "journalist."

"stop."

his facial features start melting, taking a different shape. eyes, nose, lips, hair. no longer your seonghwa. "don't die on me, doll."

"stop it! stop! don't call me that!"

"god, please, wake up." his voice is the last one to change. "come back so you can kill me, dammit."

you didn't know you were holding back a scream. a painful shriek, rather. one that has you almost stop breathing, but it wakes you up from the deep slumber.

"seonghwa." you pant.

"i got you." the voice says, and you feel arms wrapping around your shaking figure.

back at the rooftop. seonghwa gone. yunho alive. chest painful from sobbing. scratch marks all over your face. your own hair between your fingers. bloody insides of your cheeks. how long were you hurting yourself subconsciously?

"why would you wake me up? i was finally with him." you feel betrayed.

"you had unfinished business." yunho replies, still holding you in a hug which prevents you from further hurting yourself. "you have a hero to kill."

the sooner you realise that i died so that thousand others could survive, the sooner you'll be at peace.

why did he have to be so good, even after his death? why did he make everything so much harder?

in the corner of your eye, you see the creature. he is back in his human form, all beat up and very much dead. yunho himself doesn't look great, either. his mask is barely holding together, and there is claw marks all over his body. you were supposed to help, and you let him down.

"i'm ready whenever you are." the dark eyed man interrupts your thoughts. "i won't tell you to make it quick or painless. i'm sure it wasn't like that for you. you don't have to go easy on me."

your eyes watch as he rips his mask apart, then fidgets with the fabric as he awaits your decision of his fate.

"you are really ready to die for a stranger?"

he scoffs to himself. "not only for you or seonghwa. for everyone else i've damaged and haven't taken accountability for."

he died, yet thousands survived.

the sooner i make my peace with it, the sooner seonghwa will rest in peace himself.

"any last words for me?" he offers, tilting his head to look at you. puppy-like. just his style.

"actually, yes." will the self hatred and guilt go away by themselves? "there's a fried chicken place that works until late."

"huh?"

"i'm not waiting for you or carrying you." will seonghwa regret what he said to you?

"oh." yunho is confused more than surprised. he isn't sure whether this is one of your games or you are genuine. until you turn around as you reach the edge of the building and smile at him.

"hurry. i'm quite hungry."

yunho can't help but roll his eyes and smile as he watches your figure fall from the building. he will catch you. he always does.

he even forgot he wasn't wearing the mask anymore.

maybe you spared him so that you can plan his demise without anyone interfering. maybe you had a change of heart. or maybe, he was dead already, and was given the punishment of falling in love with you but never being able to have you.

whatever it was, he wouldn't give up the current moment for anything in this world; the two of you sitting on his window, eating crispy chicken, ignoring the fact that you tried to kill each other not that long ago, and the sneaky glances.

if this was his fate until the end of times, he won't complain. he will embrace it with arms wide open. he'll fall from the building again. he'll willingly let you bite again. he'll take claws through his body again. all of it, if it meant it guaranteed your happiness.

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jupote · 1 day ago

Text

This one got away from me but I had a ton of fun writing this!

Human were so useless that you could find no use for them aside for your little toys. You'd taken blood bags and lovers both, most of the degenerates weren't picky to which they were. A cute plaything here, a roughish boy toy there. Sometimes multiple at once, just for some variety. Never had they produced offspring, with your rather poor constitution you figured it was impossible to do so.

So imagine your surprise whenyour scent is found wandering the streets. You had to pause, debate whether this was some kind of trap to lure you out.

It wasn't until you heard a sniffle, the tiniest sound you've ever heard, that you ventured after the smell. After your smell. As you followed the trail, you could smell the differences in it. While it wasn't yours entirely, the other scents were completely overpowered by yours.

As you followed the trail, it led you to an alleyway. A dirty, disgusting, trash filled, sex drenched alleyway. But still you went on, wrinkling your nose and finding the trail.

It was hard to pinpoint the exact moment you saw her. One second you were staring straight ahead and the next, you were face to face with a familiar set of eyes. Ruby red almond shaped eyes stared at you, unshed tears providing a glossy finish to the orbs.

"You, child," you spoke, voice commanding attention. "Why do you smell like me?" You asked.

The child, so tiny you could hold her with one arm, looked away and gave a small shrug. "Where are your parents? I demand to speak to them." You ordered, watching the child flinch from under you.

"Pa 'ied m'nths ago." The little thing mumbled, words slurred. "'ama lef' days ago. J'st Apa now."

You stared at the dirt covered, sickly pale child in front of you. You could kill it, quite easily in fact. Nothing could stop you from sinking your fangs into the tiny neck and having a little snack before heading home.

Scoffing at the idea, you grabbed the child and held it against your chest. There was barely enough blood to support the child, much less fill you with anything but boredom.

With the child resting on your elbow you found that yes, you could easily hold it with one arm. The thing couldn't have weighed more than 30 pounds, if even that. "Well that won't do. Come with me, I shall get you cleaned up, fed, and then we will discuss why you look and smell like me." You said, even as the child all but slumped against your shoulder.

"Apa w'nt be 'lone 'ny more?" The child asked, head burying itself in your neck.

Your answer was swift, taking no time to come up with the lie. "No. Apa won't be alone anymore," you lied as you brought the sleeping child back to your home.

---

It was hours later that the child woke up again. In the time, you took a rag and wiped away all the dirt from her face, neck, arms and legs. You'd rather not have any dirt brought into your house but waiting for the child to wake up was the best course of action, lest you set off any kind of reaction with her.

So wait you did, meditating on the chair next to the bed you laid the child on. It was quiet, almost peaceful. If it wasn't for the insistent stare glued onto your form, you could even call it the most restful meditation you've had in years.

"Why must you stare at me." You asked the owner of the stare, opening your eyes to see the child fully.

She sat huddled under the blanket, forming a cacoon around her with only her big eyes pearing through. "Who 're you?" She asked, words less slurred although there was still a hint of exhaustion.

"My name is-" you paused, wracking your brain for your name. You hadn't heard the word in years. Your little playthings had taken to calling you master, so much so that you gave up trying to get them to call you your name after the first couple of years. "Cyrus. You may call my Cyrus."

"Why'du stop?" She asked, eyes curious is the mischievous way only a toddler can have.

"I hesitated because I forgot my name." You explained, standing up from the chair and dusting yourself of invisible debris.

"Why'du f'rg't your name?" Another question left her as she followed you with her eyes.

"No one has called me by my name for years longer than your bloodline has been alive. Speaking of your bloodline, who were your parents?" You asked, standing in front of the child and staring down at her.

She seemed to shrink in on herself at the question, lowering her eyes away from yours. "Papa 'ied wh'n it was cold cold. N mama w'nt to get Apa food wh'n Apa said she was hungry. Apa made mama go 'way." Tears filled the childs voice as she hiccuped the last few words.

You stared at the child as she shook in grief. Judging by how skinny and dirty she was when you first picked her up, she'd been alone for more than a few days. Either that, or they were already in a shitty situation to begin with.

"Are you hungry child?" You asked, surprising yourself with the question. You were looking for answers to your questions, not another pet to look after.

Nodding, the child quickly got up from the bed and shuffled off the bed. "Mhm! Apa di'n't eat for- for..." She trailed off, seeming to think on the answer to her question.

You sighed and shook your head, walking over to the door. "I shall feed you. Come, let's see what I have for human children."

"Ok!" The child easily forgot the question, following after you as you opened the door and walked out. "D'you have peanut butter?" She asked not a second after the door was closed.

"I'm not sure, I have to check the pantry to see if there is any." You answered, trying to remember if any of your other humans were in the manor today.

"What's a pantry?"

"A place you put dry goods."

"What's a dry goods?"

"Anything that doesn't need to be kept cold. Cans, bread, boxed foods, rice, and pasta to name a few."

There was a blissful moment of silence as you made your way through the halls before ending up at the stairs. You had started to make your way down when you realized you weren't being followed. Turning around, you have the child and expectant look. "Are you coming child?"

Looking down the stairs, the child frowned at you. "How do I get t'you?"

You sighed, making your way back up the stairs enough to grab the child. "You will learn one day to go down stairs but that day will not be today." You explained as you carried the child down the stairs.

Instead of setting it down at the bottom, you continued to carry the child until you go to the kitchen, unwilling to keep your slow pace the it couldn't surpass.

Reaching the kitchen, you set the child on one of the chairs so you could easily grab something simple for it to eat. You had some, bread. Bread as well as peanut butter and jelly. That will do, until you can figure out what you were going to do with the child.

You got a plate and all of the ingredients, lathering on a thick layer of peanut butter and grape jelly.

"What're you making?" The small voice from behind you asked.

Setting the completed sandwich in front of her, you leaned against the table. "A peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Eat before it goes stale."

Watching the child happily dig into the food, you couldn't help but worry about the faint beat you felt in the back of your chest.

As a centuries-old vampire, you thought you'd grown detached from humanity, not caring about its ultimate fate. That is, until you learned that you had a single living descendant, a child whose parents had just died. Turns out you do care.

#jupite #writing prompts #vampire short story #short story #vampire story #at fiest i had steam #and i do wanna continue this #but im using these prompts to get back into the groove of writing and near the end i felt #like i was forcing myself to write and think and thats not what the point of these #writing exercises is #sorry about the half-baked ending lmao

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whosashan · 1 day ago

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Hello, hi! Sorry for my bad english.

Can I request Jealous!MC where there’s a new colleague whom everyone respects (lets say shes only in Linkon for a week for a short mission) but MC sees how that colleague lowkey and subtly flirts with Xavier? (y’know how guys can be dense at times)

he sets boundaries though, it’s just “colleague” tries to push her luck— for the ending m not so sure, how about Xavier catches on and bluntly turns her down and makes it up for MC? :3

thank you!!!!!! you r very talented🫶🫶🫶

Me? Jealous?

PAIRING: Xavier x mc!reader

SYNOPSIS: Watching your new coworker grow a little too familiar with your boyfriend sent a sharp, unwelcome heat curling in your chest—an emotion you’d never dare to name, let alone admit.

A/N: Thank you for the request. I twisted it a little, so hope you won't mind. I'm not really good at writing jealousy-related stuff, but I hope I'll get better with time!! Hope you enjoy!

Xavier - your sweet, devoted lover. A man of quiet strength and effortless charm, wrapped in an air of aloof detachment that only made people want to be closer to him.

Somehow, despite his reserved nature, he had a gravitational pull. Perhaps it was his unshaken confidence, the way he moved with the quiet assurance of a skilled hunter who had nothing to prove. Or maybe it was that face—carved with sharp angles and softened by golden strands that always seemed to fall just right. Whatever the reason, people wanted him close.

You never minded. In fact, you were proud. Admired, respected—a man like that was yours, after all. And Xavier was never one to indulge in unnecessary conversations or fleeting acquaintances. His world was small, intimate, built on a foundation of loyalty and shared trust. You had never been given a reason to worry.

Until now.

Standing next to Tara, your stomach twisted as your gaze locked onto the scene unfolding across the room.

A woman—tall, poised, exuding an effortless confidence—stood by Xavier’s desk, leaning in just enough to blur the lines between casual and intentional. She had the look of someone who had never been denied, her gaze slow and deliberate as it traced the sharp lines of his face before slipping lower, taking in every inch of him like he was something to be appraised.

Like he was something to be claimed.

Your jaw tightened.

She wasn’t subtle. Her eyes lingered, drinking him in like a fine wine, her expression betraying nothing but intrigue and unspoken intent. If you didn’t know any better, you would have mistaken her for a predator, circling its prey with the patience of something that had never known hunger.

“Who the hell is that?” Tara’s voice was low, hushed, but tinged with the same disbelief you felt.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

“She’s the hunter Jenna assigned for the new mission,” Simone’s voice cut in, her sudden presence making you jolt. “They say she’s one of the best in the field.”

Your lips parted slightly. “The captain of the aviation department?”

Simone nodded, watching your expression carefully.

She was young for such a high-ranking position, but that wasn’t what unsettled you. What unsettled you was the way she carried herself—like she already knew the outcome of a game you hadn’t even realized you were playing.

And the worst part? Xavier seemed oblivious.

His responses were polite, clipped, maintaining the professionalism expected of him when speaking to a superior. He didn’t return her lingering gaze, didn’t acknowledge the subtle shifts in her tone, the way her lips curved when he spoke.

And yet, it still made your blood simmer.

You hated it—the feeling curling in your chest, the way it coiled around your ribs like something dark and unspoken. You didn’t want to name it. Didn’t want to admit that, for the first time, you felt something dangerously close to threatened.

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Xavier. Quite the opposite.

It was her.

"She’s supposed to be here for a week or so,” Simone added, eyeing you warily as if she had just glimpsed a side of you she wasn’t quite sure how to handle.

Tara shot her a nervous glance. You didn’t miss the way they exchanged looks, as if silently agreeing that this was unfamiliar territory—you were unfamiliar territory.

Finally, your feet moved before your mind had time to catch up.

You wove through the room with careful, measured steps, every movement precise, controlled. By the time you reached Xavier’s side, you had already tucked away the wildfire burning beneath your skin, smoothing out the edges of your expression into something unreadable.

Xavier turned at your approach, and in an instant, everything about him changed.

His guarded expression softened, his posture easing as that rare, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Warm. Familiar. Yours.

The woman noticed.

“Ah, Y/N.” Her voice was smooth, practiced. She straightened slightly, taking you in with an unreadable gaze. “I’ve heard about you.”

Your eyes met hers, searching, assessing.

“All good things, I hope?” Your words were polite, but there was something beneath them—something carefully measured, just shy of warning.

She didn’t answer. Not really. Instead, a slow smirk curled at her lips, her amusement flickering like the first embers of a fire.

She turned back to Xavier, dismissing you entirely.

“Well, Xavier,” she mused, her voice taking on a honeyed lilt, “I hope you’ll consider my proposition.”

And then she walked away, hips swaying just enough to make her intentions clear.

Your fingers curled at your sides.

“What was that about?” You turned to Xavier, making no effort to hide the edge in your voice.

He blinked, glancing between you and the retreating figure. “…She wanted to meet up to discuss something about the mission.”

Casual. Dismissive. Utterly oblivious.

Xavier reached for your hand, his thumb brushing over your skin in that familiar, grounding way. It was instinctive, absentminded, as if he had done it a thousand times before and would do it a thousand times again.

It was enough to ease some of the tension in your shoulders. Almost.

Because while you trusted Xavier implicitly, one thing was certain:

You were not about to let someone like her think she had a chance.

And with the welcome party set for later that week—a gathering meant to formally introduce the aviation captain to the association - it was the perfect moment to make sure she knows he's yours.

Yes. This was going to be fun.

...

Having heard about the party, you weren’t about to let the opportunity slip through your fingers. This was your chance to ensure the captain understood something crystal clear—Xavier was not, and never would be, one of her playthings.

With Tara and Simone’s help, you looked nothing short of lethal. Your makeup was flawless, enhancing every sharp edge and soft curve of your features, making you appear both untouchable and irresistibly tempting. Your hair was styled to perfection, cascading in a way that made you feel like a walking temptation, and your skin glowed with the scent of the perfume Xavier adored—the one that always seemed to awaken something predatory in him, darkening his gaze whenever you wore it.

And the pièce de résistance? A dress—the dress. Baby blue, the color of summer skies and lingering daydreams. It clung in all the right places, teasing with just enough skin to drive anyone who laid eyes on you to the brink of madness, yet leaving enough to the imagination to make them crave more. You knew the effect it had on Xavier. Knew the way his eyes darkened, how his hands twitched as if resisting the urge to pull you close and claim you on the spot.

And tonight, you planned on making sure everyone knew it too.

You had chosen to surprise him, arriving separately so he wouldn’t have a chance to drag you back to the safety of his arms before you had even stepped through the door.

The club was dimly lit, pulsing with the deep bass of music that thrummed beneath your skin. The scent of alcohol, expensive cologne, and faint traces of smoke clung to the air, mixing with the hum of conversation. Association members littered the room, some drinking, others caught in quiet discussions about missions and assignments.

And then you saw him.

Xavier was easy to spot—even in a crowded room, he stood out like something carved from myths, his golden hair catching the glow of the overhead lights. Dressed in his usual understated yet effortlessly attractive manner, he leaned against the bar, engaged in polite conversation.

But then his eyes found yours.

For a moment, he stilled.

And then—oh.

It was subtle at first. The slight parting of his lips, the way his grip on his drink tightened ever so slightly. His gaze dragged over you, slow and deliberate, before snapping back to your face, sharp and hungry. If he had been holding a conversation, you wouldn’t have known—it was as if the world had ceased to exist around him, leaving only you.

Your lips curled into a knowing smile as you strode toward him, reveling in the way his pupils dilated, his usual composure slipping for just a fraction of a second.

You were used to catching Xavier’s attention. But tonight? Tonight, he was absolutely enthralled.

And of course—your lovely new colleague took notice.

She had dressed for the occasion as well, a deep crimson gown hugging her form, exuding confidence. Perhaps she had the same plan you did—to steal Xavier’s attention, to lure him in with beauty and presence.

But she had made one miscalculation.

Xavier’s attention wasn’t hers to steal.

You reached him just as she did, her voice silky as she tilted her head, a charming smile gracing her lips. “Xavier, I must say, you clean up well.”

Xavier, who had just barely managed to tear his gaze from you, turned toward her with his usual polite indifference. “Thank you, Captain.”

She placed a hand on the bar beside him, inching just a little too close, feigning casual conversation. “You know, I never did get a proper answer about my earlier proposal. A meeting—just the two of us. I think we could make an excellent team.”

Your blood simmered. The sheer audacity.

But before you could even open your mouth, Xavier did something that made your heart skip a beat.

He stepped back. Just enough to create space, his movements smooth yet unmistakably intentional.

“I appreciate the offer,” he said, voice calm but firm, “but I’ll have to decline. I don’t mix work with anything that could be… misinterpreted.”

The captain faltered for a fraction of a second, clearly not expecting such a direct rejection.

Still, she recovered quickly, letting out a light laugh, as if amused rather than deterred. “Oh? And here I thought you’d at least consider it.”

Xavier’s gaze flickered toward you then—brief, knowing, filled with something warm and unshaken. And then, with the faintest hint of amusement lacing his voice, he spoke again.

“There’s nothing to consider.”

The words were final. A dismissal. A line drawn in stone.

The captain seemed to realize that any further attempts would be futile. With one last lingering glance, she lifted her drink to her lips, her expression unreadable, before turning away and disappearing into the crowd.

You exhaled, finally allowing yourself to breathe.

And then—Xavier’s hand was on your waist, his grip firm as he pulled you flush against him.

“Enjoying yourself?” His voice was low, edged with something darker, something teasing.

You tilted your head up at him, pretending to consider. “Hmm. Maybe. Though, I was a little concerned for a second there.”

Xavier’s lips twitched, his free hand tracing idle circles against your lower back. “Oh?”

You smirked, eyes gleaming with something playful. “I mean, she’s confident, gorgeous, highly respected—”

Xavier cut you off with a quiet scoff, his thumb brushing over the exposed skin of your waist. “So are you.”

Your laughter was soft, but before you could say anything more, he leaned down, his lips ghosting just below your ear.

“I only see you,” he murmured. “I only want you.”

A slow shiver ran down your spine.

You turned to face him fully then, hands resting against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingers. “Good.”

He smirked. “Good?”

You leaned in, your lips just barely brushing his before whispering, “Because you’re mine.”

Xavier’s breath hitched—just barely, just enough for you to catch it—before he let out a quiet chuckle, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I am.”

And with that, he kissed you—slow and deep, in a way that left no room for doubt.

A statement. A promise.

And a reminder to anyone who had dared to think otherwise.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #xavier x mc #lads xavier #xavier love and deepspace #xavier x reader #loveanddeepspace #lads #love and deepspace headcanons

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stxary · 1 day ago

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「 ✦ 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒘𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 ✦ 」

❤︎ pairing : ex-bf!jungkook x fem!reader

❤︎ genre : non idol au, porn w a lil bit of plot, smut, angst

❤︎ word count : 2k

❤︎ warnings : yandere jk, jealous jk, possesive jk, obsessed jk, hes terrible but reader is still practically in love w him. extremely toxic relationship (dont be like them) degradation, car sex, rough sex, hate sex, love bombing, manipulation, obsession, creampie

❤︎ a/n: hellooo im finally back with another fic after a very long month.. my motivation has been in the dirt but its slowwwly coming back, im debating writing a multichapter fic but ik i would not stay consistent with it 😭😭 im not sure if this really counts as yandere but im js gonna tag it as that js in case.. let me stop yapping i hope u guys enjoy!! ^_^

you could barely hear your own thoughts in the crowded club. the music pounding in your ears along with your the light buzzing in your bones was making you feel sick, and you wanted nothing more than to leave.

“you should come.” your friends told you when they mentioned coming to the club earlier that day. they said itd be good for you, that you needed to loosen up and have a little fun.

at first you wanted to refuse, but after thinking on it (and your two friends begging) you decided it wouldnt hurt to come. they were right, you did need to have a little fun.

so here you were now, sitting at the club bar alone, on your fourth drink of the evening, regretting even coming at all. you rubbed your temple as you checked your phone, sighing at seeing that you had only been there for an hour. fuck, why was time going by so slow?

you were just about to order another drink when you saw someone sit down next to you in the corner of your eye. “negroni, please.” he met your gaze, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “and for the lady..” he dragged the last word out as he gave you an expectant glance.

you were a little stunned at first, surprised that he was offering to buy you a drink, and a little flustered by himself. you blink your attention away from the man, looking at the bartender. “oh, um.. ill just do whiskey.” the bartender nodded before moving away to help the people on the other side of the bar.

the man sitting next to you gave you another smile, breaking the silence between you two. “i hope you dont mind. you seem a little startled.” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

you blinked, realizing he meant you were staring. partly because you were a bit startled, and partly because the guy was hot. really hot. maybe your friends were right, maybe this is what you needed.

“o-oh.” you say, shaking your head and laughing nervously. “im sorry. i just didnt expect anyone to come up to me, let alone buy me a drink. so thank you..?” you tilted your head as you dragged your last word out, urging him to say his name.

“hoseok.” he said, taking his glass that the bartender handed to him, and handing you yours.

hoseok. thats a nice name. and he seemed like a nice guy. thats usually hard to find in places like this.

“im y/n.” you say, taking a sip of your whiskey. you felt a little shy all of a sudden. you didnt want to mess this up.

“y/n.” he repeated, as if he was testing it on his tongue. “thats a pretty name for a pretty girl.”

youd be lying if you said that didnt make you want to smile. yes, that phrase might be overused, but somehow when he said it it didnt sound corny. or like he was trying too hard. it just seemed natural.

you smiled at him, hoping he wouldnt notice how flustered that simple sentence got you. “thank you.”

as you guys continued to talk, the time finally began to start moving, and your earlier nervousness faded away. so it wasnt really a surprise when you ended up dancing with hoseok.

you had only known hoseok for about an hour but it felt like you knew him for a year, maybe more. the way he talked to you, looked at you. like you were so important. it made it easy to get lost in him.

and he was a great dancer. a really fucking good one, it was like the music flowed through him when you were together. you never thought someone could sexy dance so well, but here he was.

you wouldve almost thought you were in a dream, the way your night instantly turned around as soon as he made an appearance. maybe hes like a guardian angel, you thought. protecting me from all these drunk assholes who would have bothered me.

hoseok leaned down and whispered something in your ear, the pounding of the music mixed with the alcohol making you unable to hear him. he repeated himself.

“do you want to get out of here?”

hell yes, you did. you nodded eagerly, his hands moving from your waist before one of them grabbed your hand and started to guide you off the dance floor.

then another hand wraps around your free wrist, yanking you out of hoseoks grip. you turn around to see who the fuck did that, ready to slap them.

but then your eyes land on his face and your stomach drops.

no.

why is he here? how did he know you were here?

why were you surprised? it was like he was always where you went. no matter how much you tried to avoid him, he was always there. you tried to remove him from your life, but the grip he had on it was too strong.

two months. you broke up with jungkook two months ago. but he wouldnt let you go. and deep down, a part of you knew it was your fault. because you kept letting him slither his way back into your life. because every time you saw him, it always ended the same. and of course, that night was no different.

“do you really think i’d let another guy fuck you?” jungkook rasped, his hips ramming into you from behind.

you whined in response, fingers clutching at the leather of his car seat. you wanted to say something, anything.

he had yanked you away from hoseok, all the way out of the club, ignoring your protests and weak attempts to pull away. he didnt stop until he shoved you into the backseat of the car, not even speaking a single word before his lips were on yours, already working at your clothes before you got a chance to say anything.

“dumb fucking slut.” he mused, fingers digging into your hips harshly as he watched the way you fell apart under him. he wanted to engrave the image in his brain forever.

he honestly couldnt believe you were about to let another guy fuck you. see you in the way only he could. touch you the way only he could. the thought of it made him push his cock deeper into you, your eyes rolling back from the feeling.

“youre mine. and mine only. you know that. dont know how many times i need to fuck you to get that in your dumb head.” he punctuated his last words with harsher thrusts, as if he was trying to prove something to you.

you whined again, nails digging further into his car seat. “f-fuck you..” you whimpered out, turning your head so that your cheek was pressed against the seat, looking at him behind you.

fuck, you were a mess. and you were all his. nobody elses. definitely not hoseoks.

jungkook smirked at your weak insult, slowing down his thrusts. “baby, you need to stop acting like you hate me.” he murmurs, his smirk growing as he sees you struggle to form words.

“i-im not pretending- shit, i do hate you.” you gasp out, trying to ignore the way his cock was sliding in and out of you perfectly.

he tilted his head, raising his eyebrows a bit. “really? if you really did hate me, you wouldnt be letting me fuck you right now. unless you dont care who gets to use you, which is what it seems like. you were about to let that guy in the club get in your pants.”

“t-that.. thats not true.” you whine out weakly. you hated how he was right. you didnt truly hate him, otherwise you wouldnt be in this position right now. you hated the fact that you couldnt hate him.

and he knew that he had that effect on you, and used it to his advantage. so every time he found his way back to you, it always ended like this. it was a neverending cycle, and as much as you wanted to remove him from your life for good, a part of you still loved him.

jungkook pulled out of you abruptly, flipping you onto you back. you yelped, not having time to react before he slammed back into you. it was then when you realize how close you were to cumming.

he leaned down, his breathing hot against your face as he panted. “you dont hate me. you love me.” he said, his voice rough. then, it changed to almost desperate, pleading tone.

“fuck, i-i love this pussy, i love you. nobody can even compare to you. youre the best thing thats happened to me, baby. i dont understand how you could just leave me like that. d-didnt you feel the same?”

jungkook was just rambling at this point, like he always did when he got close. his whole demeanor would change and his earlier anger would wash away, getting replaced with neediness.

if you didnt know better you would believe his words. but luckily you did. he didnt love you. he was obsessed, and it led to him not letting you breathe. its the reason you broke up with him in the first place, thinking if you cut it off, it would stop.

but it didnt.

after you broke up, the amount of text, calls, and voicemails he left you was insane. you tried blocking him, but he kept trying. then eventually he stopped, just to find you in person. you had to change your daily routine to avoid him, and he would still find ways to get to you.

“y/n, stop running from me, please. baby, i love you. im sorry, please talk to me. youre all i want. i cant live without you.”

no matter how much you tried to avoid him, or asked him to leave you alone, he wouldnt. then when you tried talking to other guys, is when whatever you would call this started.

“i love you- fuck baby, dont you see that? i cant let you go.” his talking was getting frantic, along with his thrusts, and you knew he was close too.

“jungkook, i-“ he cut off your words by bringing his hand down between you to rub at your clit, causing you to moan out.

“i know, babygirl, i know.” he cooed, his breathing labored against your face. “youre so fucking lucky i need to cum right now, otherwise i wouldve edged you for hours for being a dirty slut.”

you clenched around him at his words, nails scratching at his arms. his hips stuttered, and he let out a loud groan before filling you up, his cum shooting straight inside your fluttering cunt.

you followed right after, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you let out a moan to match his. he leaned down and cut off your moan with a sloppy kiss, swallowing the small whimpers that followed when you came down from your high.

jungkook pulled out of you with a raspy moan, leaning his back against the car door. he lifted your leg up to stare at your cunt, biting his lip ring when he sees his cum dripping out of you.

it was then when you finally gained your consciousness, and at least a little bit of common sense. you pulled your leg away from him and began to search for your clothes, trying to ignore the way he watched you as you put them back on.

you got out of his car, only saying a simple 'bye' before doing so. and as you walked back to your own, a wave of shame washed over you. because once again, you let jungkook have his way with you. all because you were still in love with him.

you always felt guilty after the fact, but a part of you still felt like it was right, even though it was wrong. so wrong. you should tell him to stop, but you already tried that, and he won't listen. and honestly, you didn't want him to stop. you would let him in your life over and over again, because he could. it was the effect he had on you.

#jungkook fanfic #bts #bts fanfic #jeon jungkook #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #bangtan #bts smut #bts x reader #bts imagines #jungkook x you #jungkook yandere #stxary #jungkook imagine

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