#his brow furrowing. “This is ridiculous.”

[unabletonotlovesatoru]

you walk into the room, mid-sentence about something entirely unimportant, and then—you see him.

nanami, standing near the mirror, adjusting the hem of a fitted black turtleneck.

your brain malfunctions.

your words die in your throat. your hands twitch at your sides. your vision blurs at the edges, because holy hell.

nanami notices the abrupt silence and glances at you, brow slightly raised. “what’s wrong?”

you inhale sharply, gripping the nearest surface for support. “you—” you point at him, dramatically, accusatorily. “what is this?”

he looks down at himself, then back at you, visibly confused. “a turtleneck?”

“a turtleneck,” you repeat in a strangled whisper, staring at him like he just walked off a high-end runway.

because he looks like he did. the sleek black fabric clings to his frame just right, highlighting the broad stretch of his shoulders, the trim fit of his waist. the sleeves are snug around his forearms, and the way the high collar frames his jawline—

you clutch your chest. “nanami.”

he blinks, tilting his head slightly. “yes?”

“you look illegal.”

his brows furrow, his lips parting like he’s about to argue, but you don’t give him the chance. you push off the counter, pacing the room as you wave your hands wildly.

“why did you never wear this before?!” you demand. “who allowed this?! why does it look so good?!”

nanami exhales through his nose, rubbing his temple. “you’re being dramatic.”

“am i?” you whirl around, pointing at him again. “do you see yourself right now? i feel like i need to sit down. no, actually, i need a moment of silence to process this.”

“you’re ridiculous,” he mutters, shaking his head, but the tips of his ears are pink.

you stomp closer, grabbing his arms, squeezing them through the sleeves. “oh my god,” you whisper, eyes wide. “this is life-changing.”

nanami sighs but doesn’t pull away, letting you fawn over him, his mouth twitching like he’s suppressing a smile. “if i knew this would be your reaction, i would’ve worn it sooner.”

“yes! you should have!” you shake him slightly. “this is unfair! i wasn’t prepared!”

he finally chuckles, deep and warm, and it makes your knees weak. “noted.”

“good,” you huff, pressing your forehead against his chest, defeated. “but you’re never allowed to wear this in public. ever.”

he hums, amused, resting a hand on your lower back. “and why’s that?”

you glare up at him. “because i will get arrested for public indecency when i start fighting people for looking at you.”

nanami sighs again, but there’s undeniable amusement in his expression as he presses a kiss to your temple.

“noted,” he murmurs.

you grip his arms tighter, as if grounding yourself, but it only makes things worse because—why are his arms so firm in this? why is the fabric hugging him like it was personally designed to make you lose your mind?

“nanami,” you breathe, eyes flickering between his face and his absurdly unfair physique. “i feel like i’m seeing you for the first time.”

he chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. “you see me every day.”

“not like this,” you argue, shaking your head as you run your hands up his arms, over his chest. “this is different. this is—this is criminal.”

he exhales, exasperated but undeniably amused. “it’s just a turtleneck.”

“just a turtleneck?” you gasp, stepping back like he’s offended you on a spiritual level. “nanami kento, you’re standing there looking like a—a millionaire assassin, or—or a mysterious stranger in a noir film.” you gesture wildly. “you could walk into a high-end bar and steal someone’s wife right now.”

he pinches the bridge of his nose. “why would i want to steal someone’s wife when i have you?”

your brain short-circuits for a second, but you recover quickly, smacking his chest. “don’t distract me with sweet talk! i’m still reeling!”

nanami sighs, stepping forward to pull you into his arms. his hands settle at your waist, fingers pressing into your sides in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“do you need to sit down?” he teases, voice low and warm.

you scowl up at him, but it holds no real heat. “yes, actually. i do. because if i look at you any longer, i might pass out.”

he huffs a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “maybe you should get used to it. i was thinking of getting more.”

you audibly gasp, clutching at his shoulders. “you were?”

he hums, tilting his head slightly. “considering the… positive reaction, yes.”

you grip the front of his turtleneck, staring at him with pure adoration. “you would bless me like that?”

his lips twitch, eyes soft. “i would.”

you dramatically flop against his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist. “nanami kento, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

he chuckles, rubbing slow circles into your back. “all because of a turtleneck?”

“no,” you murmur, squeezing him tighter. “because you’re you.”

nanami goes quiet for a moment, then sighs, resting his chin on top of your head.

“… you’re impossible.” he mutters, but the warmth in his voice gives him away.

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: implied nsfw, implied noncon/dubcon, poly yanderes, sprained ankle, captive reader, apocolypse au, talk of fertility and pregnancy

♡ FEM reader

♡ P1: The Bunker

Your ankle feels better after a little over a week.

The one initially against you staying has been giving you medical check-ups every day—something about wasteland toxins and underlying, possible contagious sicknesses he’d like to keep a weathered eye out for. 

You hadn’t refused. After all, such precautions were only warranted.

When you first encountered them in the wasteland, they were both wearing hazmat suits and gas masks. And though you had already been put through the standard disinfection and the basic check—eyes, teeth, and tongue—before they’d even let you in, you can’t blame them for taking extra measures—no matter how meticulous the check-ups have been since, comprising of endless spit, blood, and urine samples.

Somehow, you actually appreciated the thoroughness. It was just one more thing that reminded you of the past. The way he sat there, behind the desk like a doctor, and you opposite, like a patient, waiting for your results.

You’d gotten more or less used to it now, so it didn’t feel as awkward anymore. And, if you were to say so yourself, you think he’s even warmed up to you a little bit too.

“You’re all clear. No detectable toxins,” he states after a moment, mulling over the data, more or less the same outcome he’d come to for the last four or so days. He scribbled a few things into the file he’d been conducting, a focused furrow between his brows as he worked. You felt inclined to inquire about what exactly he’d been jotting down all these days of running tests but then decided against it—explaining things to you would probably only vex him. He was a man of as few words as possible, after all.

He sighs, then informs, “We can stop checking every day now.”

“Really?” you light up—feeling excited for some reason. Suppose you took it as a sign of improvement even without knowing entirely what any of it actually meant. In any case, lesser checks must be good, right?

“Yeah. You’re way healthier, thanks to all our produce and not consuming any of that wasteland trash.” He pulled a grimace before his face settled back into that constant look of dour solemnity. “Blood pressure, heart rate, vitals—everything looks good.”

It almost seems like such a silly thing to even bother caring about. Only a few weeks ago, you hadn’t cared for any such thing as health as long as it meant you weren’t starving or freezing—and here you are, celebrating such a privileged thing as blood pressure.

You sniffle, can’t help yourself, balled fists quivering in your lap as a few tears start to drop, “Thank you—truly. I’d have died if it weren’t for the two of you.”

He must think you’re ridiculous, too, crying over something so small. You wipe your eyes, only to notice him holding out a tissue for you. You can only laugh at yourself while accepting it.

“You’ll help me in the greenhouse today since your ankle is all better,” he states while getting up.

You spring to your feet, too. This would be the first time you’d been asked to help out. “What about—”

“He’s busy doing inventory,” he answers before you get the question out. “We’ll have to change a few things since you’re staying.”

This stills you, breath caught in your throat. You look at him wide-eyed, scared you’d heard him wrong. Voice weak as if scared to ask, “I’m staying?”

“Tch—” It’s his turn to chuckle, though he does so much differently from you—mockingly, a way he often does at both your and the other's expense. Though, you’d taken to find it rather endearing. He gives you a look—it’s very almost soft. “You didn’t think we’d waste our resources on something we planned on chucking back out again, did you?”

A tug pulls your wobbly lips back into a smile. “I guess that would be silly...” you sniffle again. “Still, thank you.”

This time, as you say it, you rush to hug him—tightly, with both your arms wrapped around his tough midsection and your head tucked against his broad chest.

It’s him who falls still now—stunted by the action and left both speechless and frozen in place. His arms hover mid-air, unsure of where to rest, before slowly lowering to settle atop your narrow shoulders—so much smaller in comparison. It’s crazy to think you’d endured out in the wasteland for so long.

He’s sure you’ve done things in order to stay alive you’re not at all proud of. Still, your survival is no less than a miracle.

He clears his throat. “Let’s hurry up,” He dismisses, then proceeds to nudge you off as if the hug was unwanted, but even you can spot the blush dusting his cheeks as he looks away with another grumble, “We’re making dinner before he’s done.”

The smile on your face is a sight for sore eyes, he thinks. You didn’t smile like that a week ago.

“Yes, sir.” You salute, following him in stride.

You’d said it innocently enough, but by God, if only you knew how it takes everything in him not to bend you over the medical desk right then and tell you all about how you’re in the perfect window for conceiving. 

He manages to steal himself. 

After dinner, he promised himself soothingly, calming the hunger in his gut—after dinner, they’d decided, tonight would be the night they’d finally make use of you the real way they’d intended—have you earn your keep.

When you’re done tilling the gardens, about a couple hours later, the two of you move on to the kitchen. You’d learn that the brash one was in charge of making most meals, as the other one was more than hopeless in the kitchen. It seemed you were replacing him as the helper, given simple tasks such as cutting, measuring, and fetching things.

It felt nice to be doing something again, especially something so trivial. Housework and domestic chores were something one could only reminisce about, and yet here you were, doing just that—cutting carrots as if the outside world wasn’t a badland of people killing each other for a can of expired dog food.

You really were so lucky you could hardly believe it. The tears start bubbling again.

“If you’re finished cutting, go to the cupboard over there,” he jolts you out of your thoughts. Not looking away from stirring the pot, he points with his other hand toward the far side of the kitchen.

You pad over and open it to find two dozen or more bottles of wine, all neatly shelved.

“Pick one out,” he calls out.

You blink, looking between the wine and him. “You mean—”

“Anyone of ‘em is fine,” he says. “Feel free to read if you’re looking for something special, though. It’s you were celebrating, after all.”

This time, you can’t stop the tears as they trickle down your face one after the other, soaking your cheeks.

Hearing you sniffle makes him sigh with rust. Scolding you with military toughness, “Quit cryin’ already—it’s getting old.”

You wipe your eyes and stiffen your lip. “Yes, sir.”

Turning your head back to the shelf, you can hardly believe the sight. It had been all moonshine and slop out in the wasteland. Dangerous stuff you were better staying well away from.

You can’t believe you’re going to drink actual wine again—your mouth waters just at the thought as you pick the first bottle you set your eyes on. But then you stop yourself—a guilty knot in your stomach twisting.

“Is it really okay?” you ask. “Shouldn’t we save it?”

“Tch—” he scoffs disapprovingly again. “You gotta stop doin’ that.”

You’re left looking at him even though he keeps his back turned, still busy stirring the pot. He lifts a spoon for tasting, then adds more spice to his liking before continuing as though he could tell you were confused just from the silence.

“You’re not in the wasteland anymore—” he states. “You can afford to live a little now.”

A concept like that had yet to have reached you. 

Suppose you were still settling in. 

“Besides, there are more in the cellar,” he reveals. “Even if we drank a bottle every day, it would take years for us to finish. So don’t worry your pretty head ‘bout it, a’ight?”

Your grip around the bottle tightens—trying to toughen up to keep the tears at bay. But today was an emotional day, and it seemed there was no end to the blessings you were given. It was all so overwhelming, your heart swelled with happiness—a feeling you hadn’t felt in such an awfully long time.

“Something smells good!” comes a call.

It seems he’s returned from doing inventory.

“Oh no, why are you crying?” He instantly rushes over to you, holding your face to inspect the damage, then snaps his head to the other, who’s still busying himself with perfecting dinner. “Are you being too harsh on her?” he accuses. “You know, not everyone can live up to your cooking expectations—”

“Tch—I haven’t done shit,” he denies. “She’s just emotional ‘cause I told her we’re lettin’ her stay.”

“What!? You told her without me?” he cries then. “We were supposed to surprise her together.” His pout is instantly replaced with a blank look of surprise as you wrap your arms around him like you’d done with the other earlier—hugging him tightly.

“Thank you,” you repeat to him as well.

You still couldn’t believe how nice they had been to you. 

After dinner is eaten, the three of you end up sitting there, chatting—about the past, most of all, how things used to be—how people would live in little houses with next-door neighbors they’d invite over for game night—little families with kids and backyards and pet dogs—college, marriage, careers.

You helped the stoic one clear the dishes while the chipper of the two opened another bottle of wine. You can hardly believe it when they bring out the record player and slide a vinyl on.

You end up crying again as the music plays. You even dance. Laughter fills the bunker while you get completely swept away with the feeling of utter bliss. And as the wine finishes and the conversation turns sloppy, the hands twirling your body to the music get a little touchier, a little greedier, until you’re suddenly kissed.

Between the two of them, the air becomes hot—steamy as you share breathes. 

Busy hands, large and strong and callused from labor, work on your button-up shirt. It’s gone before you know it, then the hands move on to your pants.

Honestly, after all the emotions joined by the wine and dance and being spun between the two, you can’t say you’re completely without lust, but at the same time, you’re just a bit confused. 

Despite not having seen them kiss in front of you, you’re certain they both go to bed in the same room every night—so all this time, you’d been under the impression that they were involved with each other and not interested in you that way. 

Not that it matters much what you thought, you think, you’re not against what’s happening so much as you’re a little hesitant about how it’s about to happen. It’s been a while since you’ve slept with anyone—willingly, that is—you’ve sort of forgotten how to enjoy it. 

If it were just one, you’d maybe find it a bit less overwhelming, but given there were two, you quickly found yourself feeling somewhat claustrophobic.

“Wait—” you stutter. Blocking the advance with your own hands, looking up into drunken and heated eyes and the soft look of arousal painted on the face before you. 

“Don’t worry,” he comforts with that kind smile. “You’re the most valuable thing we have—we’re gonna be gentle.”

You almost bite, almost give in, almost let it soothe you. But even in the drunk haze, the choice of phrasing finds you a little odd. And you’re unable to disregard that feeling that’s been nagging at the very back of your head ever since you stepped foot in the place. 

Something’s not right.

“Valuable?” Sure, you could choose to understand it as them saying they care for you, but somehow, it just doesn’t feel as if that’s all. “What does that mean?”

“You know…” he utters softly—his kind smile curling into something different. His eyes fall downward as he licks his lips before finishing, “This.” 

He’s laid a hand atop your belly where his gaze is set—his palm flat and firm as he rubs tentative circles into the softness.

It takes you a moment before you shudder. “You…” 

You needed to be rational about this. Some part of you always knew there was something going on, didn’t it? Why else would you be here? Why else would they let you stay? The cameras in the bedroom, in the showers, all those medical checkups—you’ve known there was something. And still, you hadn’t left. You hadn’t even so much as humored the thought even once.

There is no life for you out there. You don’t just want to stay—you have to—you need to.

And is it really so bad? Hadn't they been nice? Haven’t they been more than generous? Don’t you owe them so much more than what they’re asking in return?

But what are they asking? It’s not just intimacy. It’s something else—something premeditated.

“You want to use me to…” The realization makes you shudder. “To make you a child…”

Like an incubator.

They don’t deny it.

You want to back up—create space—room to breathe, but the other is just behind you with his big chest pressed stiffly against your back, keeping you close, trapped before the one in front.

“It’s true…” he confesses at your ear. “That is all we wanted from you in the beginning.” 

It sends a chill down your spine.

“It was almost too good to be true when we found you,” he continued while playing with your waist in big hands. “How a perfect candidate fell right into our lap mere days after we decided to go lookin’ for one.”

You suck in a hitched breath as the well of tears breaches, dribbling down your cheeks at the clinical word—candidate.

“But you’re more than that now,” the other reassures, bowing and fishing for your eyes as you’d taken to look down—too horrified to look him back in his. 

“We figured you’d be a savage, havin’ lived out there for so long,” the one behind says. He’d been the most skeptical at first, but he’d come to learn it was rather the opposite—your time out there hadn’t toughened your skin or hardened your heart but only made you timid and soft.

“In all honesty, we weren’t sure we were gonna keep you after the pregnancy…” the one in front whispers upon your lips. “But that’s all in the past now.”

He lifts your chin, taking in the all-too-soft look of despair on your face. It’s a strange thing to say he’d missed. It nearly makes him feel guilty for the hard-on in his cargo pants. But then again, tears are the allure of the gentler sex. It’s only natural for a man to enjoy the sight.

“We want you to stay.” He strokes your cheek, catching the tears on his thumb. “After all, it would be best for the baby to have a female presence—especially one as soft as yours.”

“And, well…” You flinch at the stubble being dragged upon your shoulder and neck, a kiss placed in the nook there along with his words, “We’ve grown to like having you around.”

His hands had fallen from your waist down to rub your hips, swaying you back against his crotch—and the bulge there, that now felt a little more like a gun being poked against your back. 

“It’s been a long while since we’ve had the company of a woman,” he continues while pressing himself against you. “It was unfamiliar at first, but… it’s nice.”

Something urgent takes over your body then—even though it’s beyond stupid. There’s no plan, no further thought than run—despite having no solid clue as to where. And yet, it ends up not mattering in the slightest. You don’t make it far.

You scream as their hands snag you. The grumpier one locks your arms, the chipper one grabs your legs—and they both lift and carry you back—laying you down on the little round table you’d had dinner on.

You struggle, but your wrists are pinned down to the metal with a strength you can’t hope to match.

“Don’t be like that.” He clicks his tongue dismissively like he so often does when you say or do something stupid. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“No—” you cry. “Please—don’t.” Shaking your head while squeezing your thighs shut. 

Never mind having sex, you could endure that much—but having a baby in this mess? They’re the ones who lost their minds down here. 

“I can’t—”

“Of course, you can,” the other insists, prying your thighs apart to make space for himself between them, already with his hands returning to undo the button of your pants, zipping down the fly and tugging them off.

“No—”

He’s back to console you just as quickly, “Shh-sh, don’t cry,” he soothes, cupping your face in both palms. He gives you that kind smile again, but it no longer serves as any source of comfort—now just a mouth full of teeth. “We’ll be gentle.”

♡ BNHA – KiriBaku, BakuDeku, ShinKami, DabiHawks, EndHawks, ErasurMic ♡ JJK – SatoSugu, ItaFushi, SukuIta ♡ HQ – Miya twins, KageHina, BokuAka ♡ CSM – AkiDen, YoshiDen ♡ BLLK – NagiReo

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[tbaluver]

Caught You Staring ꩜ .ᐟ - The Love And DeepSpace Men

pairings in order: xavier x reader, zayne x reader, rafayel x reader, sylus x reader, caleb x reader requested: by anonnie ☕︎ summary: you get distracted from how handsome your boyfriend looks genre: fluff fluff + silly a/n: hihi lovelies ! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ this was requested a while back and i finally finished this ! i hope you enjoy reading (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡ and thank you for beta reading this @ilovemitsuya MWAH (∩˃o˂∩)♡ any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

you both were at the cafe, grabbing a quick bite while trying to finish the last Wanderer report before you both head back to the building. but honestly, how could you focus on paperwork when he was sitting across from you like that?

his light brown hair looked so soft, you wanted to run your finger through them. and his lips? they were slightly pursed, like he was in deep thought and they would always be so soft whenever you pressed your lips on them. they were just naturally perfect.

and those eyes. his blue eyes. they were like the ocean and every time he blinked, his long lashes fluttered so slowly and softly. you swore you could feel your heart skip a beat every time you were around him, it was ridiculous. but when are you ever normal about your man?

it didn’t take long for him to catch you staring but you were too busy admiring him to notice that those same beautiful blue ocean eyes were staring right back at you. for a good couple of minutes, you both stared at each other until it finally clicked.

your cheeks flushed as you blinked rapidly as if you were trying to reboot your brain. you stammered out an apology as you avoided his gaze, “sorry. i..i-”

“i win,” he says softly.

you blinked, confused. “..what?”

“staring contest,” he explains innocently, “i guess it’s unfair you had a head start so..let’s have a new round.”

Zayne:

most of the time, you two just did your own thing as you two spent time together. he’d occupy himself with a book or flip through patient reports, preparing for his next operation that would be in a couple of days. you did your own tasks but you couldn’t focus on anything he looked like that.

you looked up from whatever you were doing, only to get completely distracted by the way his glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, perfectly perched. the way he would occasionally adjust them with those long, slender fingers of his was somehow mesmerizing. you definitely weren’t staring but your eyes just seemed to be glued to him.

the way he was so focused on his work, so intent and serious, was just attractive. his jawline was so sharp, they could cut you and leave marks. the way his brows furrowed in concentration and you couldn’t help but admire how those soft lashes fluttered every time he blinked. and those hazel green eyes of his-

ahem

you didn’t realize it, but you had been staring for a while. so long, in fact he could feel your eyes burning through him as he did his own tasks. “i have a feeling you’re more interested in what i’m doing or perhaps do you need something?” he spoke without looking up.

your cheeks instantly flush. were you staring that long? “sorry i just got distracted..” you mumble as you scramble back to what you were originally doing.

the corners of his lips quirked, closing his book with a soft thud. “i see..” he murmured, adjusting his glasses. “then perhaps you can enlighten me on what was so distracting?”

Rafayel:

thomas had insisted that rafayel should finish his last canvas for the upcoming exhibition and naturally he would procrastinate for as long as he could but with thomas’s relentless nagging, he finally got to work. he begged- insisted that you stay with him for inspiration and support and who were you to turn down that request?

for the past couple of hours rafayel had been silently focused on his canvas, stroking the brush across the surface. meanwhile you stayed out of his way, letting him work in peace. but well, you couldn’t help but look up every now and then. 

he looked good in his white button up shirt, casually unbuttoned to reveal the little mole on his left pec and how his sleeves rolled up just enough to give you a peek of his veins. and those nebula eyes of his were so easy to get lost into.

he seemed to notice this of course but he didn’t bother to say anything though. instead, he lets you stare as long as you want, clearly trying not to let the smirk creep up on his lips. but as minutes passed he couldn’t resist anymore. “if you’re gonna stare cutie, take a picture.”

you blinked rapidly, snapping out of his trance as you scrambled back to what you were doing. your cheeks heated up as you quickly stammered out a quick apology. “sorry i was just..i just wanted to see what you painted so far..”  you knew you were lying and he knew too.

raf, clearly enjoying this, taps the brush innocently against his chin. “yeah? don’t liars get set on fire or something? should i light you on fire or..” he teases, giving you a playful grin.

you rolled your eyes, playfully huffing before walking around him, stepping closer to the canvas. “wait no-!” the teasing tone gone immediately as his hands flail to cover the canvas away from you. but it was already too late, your eyes landing on the canvas to find it..exactly as the same as before. no progress.

“raf..” you said flatly. “were you not painting at all?”

he gave an exaggerated hmph, crossing his arms as he turned away. “i can’t focus when you’re staring at me like i’m some kind of bait!”

Sylus:

you two sat beside each other in comfortable silence. he was cleaning one of his vintage guns while you were pretending to focus on your own task. it wasn’t easy when he was sitting right there, your gaze wandering over to him.

there was no denying your lover was handsome. his gaze was often found intimidating but not to you. his crimson were practically hypnotic to you, like you could lose yourself in them forever and still feel safe. you let your eyes trace his features, his soft hair, nearly swept back and how his lips curve, making it impossible not to imagine how they’d feel against yours right now.

before you knew it, you were completely lost in thought about him, your thoughts melting away as you admired every detail about him. you probably should have been more discreet about it when his voice broke through your daydream.

“if you’re that curious about what i’m doing, feel free to ask. i’m not the one to keep secrets from you.”

you blinked, snapping out of your trance to find him glancing at you with a raised brow. your cheeks flushed once you realize you’d been caught.

“i- um,” you stammered, fidgeting in your seat as you pretended to busy yourself back into what you were doing to avoid the embarrassment.

he chuckles as he watches you. “cat got your tongue?” he teases, closing the gun’s case with a soft click. “there. now i’m all yours sweetie.”

Caleb:

you two were sitting beside each other, working through training reports like old times. but this time it was different, maybe for you. this time you worked on training reports as an official couple. every time you tried to focus, your attention kept wandering back to him.

his dark brown hair looked so soft, you had to resist the urge to reach out and run your fingers through them. his hand rests thoughtfully on his chin and you couldn’t help but notice how his fingers skillfully flip his pen between them.

then there were his lips. a little curved and how much you love how that curve would widen into a full bright smile whenever he was around you. and his eyes, always full with so much longing for you as much as you did for him. you couldn’t help. you continued to stare at him, lost in the moment until his voice broke through your daydreams, pulling you back into reality.

“are you trying to telepathically tell me you need something pipsqueak?” he teases, his lips curling into a smile as he ruffles your hair gently. he rests his chin back on his hand, the way he looks at you was making your heart flutter all over again.

your face flushed. “i-um,” you stammered, shaking your head as you quickly averted your gaze, trying to focus back on the training report in front of you.

“you know,” his hand slides the report away from you. “if you’re tired, you can always lean on me. or maybe we can just take a break? how about that?” you glance back at him, the words getting caught in your throat as he smiles warmly at you, making the entire world pause just for a moment.

[g0r3wh0rre]

ROMANTICISM HANDLED WITH DISCIPLINE ── 박성훈

your professor catches you reading a not-so-safe-for-school book in the middle of his class. in an effort to make things better, you fear that you may have just made them worse.

⧼ 📜 ⧽ 一 pairing༚ ⸝⸝⸝ professor!park sunghoon ✗ student!fem!reader includes ༚ ༚ ༚ jungwon, jay and jake of enhypen, giselle and karina of aespa

genre ༚ ༚ ༚ smut, fluff, porn with plot

warnings༚ ⸝⸝⸝ teacher/student, age gaps, power play, light dom/sub dynamics, dom!sunghoon, masturbation (f. rec), erotic literature, explicit language and sexual content, spanking, dirty talk, pet names, praise kink, name calling (slut), wet dreams, impact play, oral (m. rec), cumming in pants, facefucking, deepthroat, big dick sunghoon, doggy style, sex on furniture, unprotected sex, creampies, talk of contraception (reader is on birth control), alcohol mentions, drinking and partying, hair pulling, size kink word count༚ 12 . 2 k | ⧼ 🗝️ ⧽ 一 to library༚

[notes.] a rewrite of a rewrite of one of the first ever fics i've ever written! this fic was originally written for soobin of txt, but i took that one down when i decided to discontinue writing for that group. but thanks to my lovely mutuals, they asked (demanded) that i rewrite it for hoon <3 this is a romanticization of student/teacher relationships where both parties are consenting adults, but it is important to note that these relationships can be problematic in real life due to one parties authority over another's and unstable power dynamics. banner done by my beloved mootie @heechwe! reblogs and feedback are very appreciated <3 i hope you enjoy!

YOUR FRENCH LITERATURE professor embodies everything you find detestable in a teacher. His classes are a monotonous drone of information, devoid of anything exciting or engaging, though that might not be entirely his fault with how painfully, mind numbingly boring the subject he teaches is. He rarely ever deviates from his tight-lipped script, and he absolutely refuses to entertain any questions or foster any interesting discussion. He never accepted late assignments or gave any extensions, his tests are ridiculously hard, and he’ll dock points off your assignments for the tiniest, stupidest reasons. Sure, it’s a difficult course, and it’s important to your major, but you swear he seems to take some kind of pleasure in making his students miserable. Each class feels like an eternity, and often you find yourself counting down the minutes until you can escape the insufferable, suffocating atmosphere of his classroom.

Yet, for some strange, inexplicable reason, you find yourself absolutely obsessed with him.

Maybe it was because you spent your time in his class focusing more on him than any of the words that came out of his mouth. His irritatingly handsome, angular face and his pouty, kissable lips, the moles on his cheeks framing his tall nose. The way his thick brow furrows and his lip curls when one of your classmates asks a question that he deems too stupid to grace with an answer. His big veiny hands and how they look shuffling papers and twirling pens, filling your head with thoughts of how they would look caressing your body. His tall, fit frame and how he towers over you whenever you come up to him, the way he has to lower his head to look you in the eye, a soldering heat bubbling in your belly from the way he makes you feel so small. You can’t stand to be his student, but you dream at night about being something else to him entirely— it’s a paradox that drives you to detrimental distraction. How can you be so obsessed with someone you loathe? His perplexing combination of qualities was like some kind of mystery you felt compelled to unravel, at the very least to put your own mind at ease.

That was when you found the novel. It was hidden in the romance section of your favorite used bookstore, squished between two old technicolor cover harlequin novels, it’s dark and simple spine juxtaposing against all the bright colors and ornate fonts. It intrigued you enough to pull it from the shelf and look it over, your cheeks heating up as you take in its cover. A headless, well-dressed man sat in a chair with his legs spread invitingly, the smart suit he was wearing disheveled and his undone belt held tightly in his hand, the leather strap resting against his inner thigh. The title Lessons in Attraction was printed where his head would be, vague but provocative enough to make your stomach flip. The man immediately reminded you of Professor Park, from the way he was dressed to the prominent veins in his hands, and when you flip the book over to read the synopsis you understand the connection. It outlines the story of a steamy romance between a strict economics professor and his teaching assistant, an innocent, young virgin who wants nothing more than to please. It was as if the author had plucked your deepest fantasies straight from your head and printed them out on paper, then planted the book in the perfect spot for you specifically to discover. You knew just from skimming through the pages that reading it would only do you more harm than good, but you just couldn’t put it down, drawn to the story like an addict needing a fix. You hid it in your stack of textbooks, and you refused to look the cashier in the eye as they checked you out.

At first, you had intended to keep it hidden in your bedroom, only to be read late at night when your roommates were either out or asleep. But as your obsession with your professor continued to deepen, so did your obsession with the novel; soon you found yourself taking it with you everywhere you went, reading snippets whenever you had the chance and quickly shoving back into your bag anytime someone would walk by or glance over at you. Your dreams devolved into graphic, vivid replays of your favorite dirty scenes, with Professor Park in the place of the professor from the story. You wake up hot and bothered every morning, and his class becomes even more difficult with your head now full of illicit, naughty fantasies. Everything he does makes your belly swirl with need, even something as simple as running a hand through his hair or adjusting his glasses— you can’t even bare to look at him, and instead try your hardest to focus on whatever boring tangent he was rambling on about… until you caught yourself fantasizing about how his deep voice would sound whispering dirty words in your ear.

You couldn’t take it anymore. Professor Park's lectures were beginning to feel more like sick torture— you needed something to keep you distracted before you went insane.

So, against your better judgement, you started to bring the novel to read in class. You sat far enough in the back that you were certain he wouldn’t notice, and your poor classmates were too bored out of their minds to look your way. It was easy to keep it hidden away tucked in your lap, so you could pretend to be writing in your notebook while you read. Something about it excited you, reading about fucking your professor with your real professor standing there in front of you, none the wiser. Being able to admire him as you indulged in your secret desires. If he caught you, you would be humiliated, but you would be lying if you said that the thought didn’t excite you…

"Miss L/N, what are you doing?”

You nearly shoot straight out of your chair, your professor’s sudden call of your name shocking you out of your reverie. You had gotten so absorbed into your novel that you had forgotten to check to see if he was looking your way. “H-huh?”

“You keep looking at your lap.” Professor Park remarks, peering up at you from his spot at the podium with an unamused frown. His thick-rimmed glasses made his pretty brown eyes appear even larger than they already were, blinking up at you like he was studying you through a magnifying glass. “You’re not on your phone, are you? You know I have a no-tolerance policy when it comes to electronics.”

“Oh! No, sir, I’m just…” your startled gaze bounces back to the book in your lap, and you swallow nervously. “Reading.”

“Reading?” Professor Park echoes, raising his brow. “What are you reading? I assume it’s not the textbook, from the look on your face.”

You blanche, trying your hardest to appear nonchalant as you snap the book shut and shove it down into the recesses of your school bag. “It’s nothing!” You reply far too quickly, sounding guiltier than sin.

Professor Park's lips pull into a thin line, his magnified eyes raking over your sweating face before trailing down to your bag, clasped protectively over your lap.

“Give it to me.” he orders curtly, stretching out his hand.

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. “What?! W-why?!”

“Reading anything that isn’t the course material is against my class rules— I have it printed clearly on the syllabus, though with how you can never seem to pay attention I wouldn’t be surprised if you missed it when I went over it at the beginning of the semester. I would recommend looking over it again to see if there’s anything else you’ve forgotten. Now, get up and hand me that book.”

The entire class has turned to look at you now too, dozens of pairs of eyes fixated on your every move. The silence is absolutely deafening. Your heart races and your hands tremble as you squirm in your seat, trying desperately to come up with some sort of escape as if you were in a horror movie; you might as well be, because out of all the ghouls and monsters you can think of, this has to be your worst nightmare.

You consider refusing. Technically, Professor Park couldn’t force you to do anything you didn’t want to— hell, you could walk right out of the classroom right then and there if you really wanted to, with both your book and your dignity intact. After all, you were a grown adult paying to further your education out of your own pocket. Trying to confiscate your belongings as if you were a child was borderline insulting.

But you can’t risk your grade over something like this, as embarrassing as it was, and you wouldn’t put it past him to penalize you in some way for defying your orders. You were already struggling as it was, partly because of how difficult the coursework was and mostly because of how you could never concentrate whenever Professor Park was around. To make matters even worse, passing was a requirement for your degree. Getting even more on his bad side than you already were simply not an option.

It takes every ounce of energy you have to force yourself to stand up out of your seat and trudge down to Professor Park's podium, clutching your novel against your chest like you were clutching pearls. He has to pry it out of your hand with a considerable amount of force, because you can’t seem to loosen your fingers around the cover.

You scamper back to your seat, but not before turning back to see Professor Park eye the cover with a startled expression. It would have been comical if you didn’t feel like you were seconds away from throwing up all over your desk.

He places it gingerly face-down on his desk like he was handling a dead fish, and you’re both grateful and horrified that he noticeably avoids making eye contact with you when he steps back up on his podium. “You can come by my office later to get it back, Miss L/N. I have a free period at six.”

“Yes, sir.” You answer glumly, staring at your shoes.

Luckily for you, he dismisses the class only a few minutes later, muttering about something to do with grading papers. You’ve never ran out of that lecture hall so fast in your life.

“Whoa, what’s up with you?” your friend Jungwon asks when you walk by him in the hall, looking up from his phone and tugging out his earbuds to cock his head in your direction. “You look live you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

You stop just long enough to realize that you were still running, even though you had made it nearly halfway across the building. “I’m so fucked.” You state simply.

“What? What happened? Did you do something to piss off Professor Park again?”

“Yes. No. Kind of?” you cringe inwardly. There’s absolutely no way you’re telling Jungwon about any of what happened; he’d laugh at you to the point you fear you might actually start crying. “I don’t want to talk about it. I gotta go.”

You shuffle away before he can respond, and while you feel bad ignoring him as he calls out to you in confusion, you’re focused solely on finding somewhere quiet and empty to hide out until your next class. And maybe grabbing an iced coffee or something. Just to drown out the tears as you wallow in your own misery.

Against all odds, you manage to make it through the rest of your classes. The wait was almost worse than getting caught, barely able to sit still in your seat as you panic inwardly for hours on end. If it was Professor Park's intention to psychologically torture you, he wildly succeeded.

And you’re absolutely sure it was, because the first thing you see once you step into his office is your professor lounging back in his chair reading your book.

“Professor!” you yelp.

He glances up from your book, a mischievous glint shining in his eyes as he sends you a tight-lipped smile. “Oh, Miss Y/N! You’re just in time. I was just flipping through your book here, it seems awfully… interesting.”

You gulp, your trembling hands clutching the strap of your bag in a vain attempt to ground yourself. “Um, sir!” you squeak, rushing to his side to glance over his shoulder at what page he was on, praying to whatever god that will listen that he hasn’t read anything raunchy. “I think it would be best if you, um, didn’t read that…”

“Oh?” He flips the page and quirks his brow, not even sparing you a second glance as he adjusts his glasses, “What do you mean?”

You rack your brain desperately for a good enough excuse, but you can’t think of anything other than just how mortified you were, watching helplessly as your professor’s keen eyes scan over the pages. “Can I have it back now?” you say instead, your voice small and shaking.

“Surely you can wait just a little longer— now I’m dying to know why you don’t want me to read this.” Professor Park's crooked smirk infuriates you.

Was there any possible way that you could talk your way out of this without telling him upfront that what he was holding in his hands was an erotica, one about a teacher and a student no less? You shuffle nervously, stumbling over your words as you try to stutter out something, anything, “You, um… you wouldn’t like it.”

He turns his head to look up at you again, the look in his eye sharply changing when he takes in your frightened state, into something you don’t recognize and aren’t sure you like. “How can you be sure I wouldn’t enjoy it? I’m a fan of many different genres of literature, though I’ve never read anything quite like this before. Is it some sort of romance novel? If it is, you don’t have to be ashamed, Miss Y/N. I’m sure many young women such as yourself read these sorts of novels, though I strongly discourage reading them while I’m in the middle of a lecture. It’s simply disrespectful. Now, where was I?”

He trails his finger down the page as if he was looking for his place, and you bristle. “Sir, seriously, don’t—!”

“I followed my professor to his office, watching with bated breath as he rounded his big wooden desk.”  Professor Park begins to read aloud. You barely stop yourself from screaming, instead letting out a sort of pained choking sound. “He stopped to stand behind me, looking down my shoulder as if he were looking over my essay just as I was. I had made three errors in my writing, each one circled in bright red ink. He seemed more upset about it than usual.”

“Professor, please.”

“’Put that essay on my desk.’ he said, so I did.” Professor Park continues, ignoring you. He had gave the professor character a stupid, high pitched voice when he spoke, which would have been funny if you weren’t so humiliated. “’Now bend over with your elbows on my desk, so that you are looking directly at the essay. Keep your face very close.’”

“Stop it! Just let me have it!” You hated to talk to him this way, but if he continued reading any further… it took everything you had to keep yourself from running out of his office and crawling into the nearest ditch to die in.

“That’s not how you should speak to me, Miss Y/N. Now you certainly aren’t getting it back.” Professor Park retorted, his evil little smirk growing even wider. You wanted to hit him, or kick or scream, but you couldn’t do anything except stand there and try your hardest not to cry. “I was puzzled, but I followed his instructions, bending over the top of his desk so that my chest, belly and arms were pressed against the hardwood. My nose was merely a centimeter or two away from the letter, which made it difficult to read. My skirt was starting to… to slide up the backs of my thighs, but I was sure that if I moved to tug it back down, I would just get into even more trouble.”

You grimace when Professor Park's voice broke, his smile slowly starting to slide off his face and twisting into something unreadable. But he did not stop reading. “’Now read the letter to yourself. Read it over and over again.’ My professor said. I read: “In today’s rapidly evolving global landscape, the integration of technology in…” and at the word “integration”, which I had misspelled, he— he… um… Oh.”

You began to feel less like wanting to die and more like you were actually dying. Professor Park stares hard at the pages for a painfully long moment, his ears turning bright cherry red, but to your surprise and absolute mortification, he began to read aloud again. His voice had dropped that cheerful quality, however, sounding winded as if he had been hit upside the head. “At the word “integration”, which I had misspelled, he reeled his arm back and spanked me hard. I stopped reading with a loud gasp, shocked— the sting reverberated through my core, fiery hot, and despite my embarrassment I began to soak through my panties. At my silence, I was spanked again, even harder. ‘I said read it.’ My professor reminded me. ‘Be a good girl and follow instructions.’”

Professor Park shuts the book closed abruptly and looks up at you with a very red face and wide eyes. The tears that had been pooling in your lashes threaten to spill down your cheeks, so overcome with fear and embarrassment that your stomach turns like you're going to be sick. That was just what you needed to top off this already life-ruining experience, wasn’t it; vomiting all over your professor after he uncovers your darkest, dirtiest secret.

“This is extremely inappropriate material to bring on campus.” Professor Park finally says, his voice wavering.

“Yes, sir.”

“And that relationship, it’s… wrong. It’s against the university’s code of conduct. I— he could get fired for that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You shouldn’t be reading this. It’ll put... thoughts in your head that don’t need to be there.”

“…Yes, sir.” Part of you wants to argue with him, remind him that you’re an adult and can read whatever it is that you would like, but you don’t have the strength to.

He sighs heavily, like something important is weighing on his mind, and he hands you back your book before turning back to pour over the scattered, forgotten papers on his desk. “Go home, Miss L/N. And get rid of that book.”

You turn tail and scamper out into the hall, but you can’t help but glance back into Professor Park's office as you leave. He’s hunched over his desk with his elbows resting on the wood, his fingers tangled in his dark hair as he rests his head in his hands. It seems like something is bothering him, something bigger than grading papers or your stupid, silly book.

You don’t stick around to find out what it is.

The next morning, you receive a rather hastily written email from Professor Park telling you that he’s cancelling classes for the rest of the week. He’s come down with a cold, he claims— you and the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach know better than to believe that.

You don’t see him until that next Monday, but even then he might as well not have shown up at all. He struggles to get through his lesson plan even more than usual, and he wouldn’t look away from his papers or the projector, even when one of your classmates raised their hand to ask a question. You spent the entire period gathering up the courage to go up to him after his lecture, but when you do he brushes you off with a lame, half-baked excuse about having papers to grade and no time to talk, grabbing his things in a rush and scampering out of the lecture hall before you can call out for him to come back.

The pit in your stomach opens up into a black hole, swallowing up everything except for overwhelming, gnawing anxiety. It’s eating you up inside, manifesting itself in how you’ve chewed your lips until they bled, and then bit your nails down to the quicks— anyone with eyes could see that something was weighing on you, and you became increasingly tired of all your friends asking if anything was wrong, so once you were finished with your classes you took to hiding out in your dorm room curled up on the couch, your favorite fluffy blanket wrapped around you as you sullenly binge-watched a k-drama you’ve seen a thousand times.

While you were more of a homebody, your two roommates were much the opposite. Karina and Giselle loved to go out and party. Tonight was no different, the two of them flittering around the dorm as they got ready to go out to some club, and while they had given up on trying to get you to join them a while ago, something about the way you moped about seemed to reinvigorate Karina’s desire to get you off of your ass and out on the town. She knew you better than anybody, and immediately she could sniff out that something was off.

“Why don’t you come with us? You can borrow one of my dresses.” She offers, rummaging through her collection of high heels. “It’s a Friday night, everyone’s out! We can dance, we can find some boys to take home; it’ll be fun. You look like you need some.”

“I don’t need to have fun. I need to study.” You reply solemnly, scowling, but you make no moves to get up off the couch. It was a shitty excuse even to your own ears; it was obvious you didn’t have any plans to do anything tonight except feel sorry for yourself.

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” She huffs. You don’t even have to look at her to know that she’s rolling her eyes. “Something’s bothering you and you won’t even tell me or Gigi what’s wrong. Don’t you think a drink or two would be good for you? You can vent to us all night, too. I promise we’ll listen.”

“I don’t know if I even want to tell you about it.”

“Why not? We’re your best friends, Y/Nie. You can tell us anything, even if it’s stupid or embarrassing. If it’s bothering you this badly, it’s clearly something serious.”

You peer out from under the blanket to look over at Karina— the worry in her eyes makes your heart sink. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t even consider taking her or Giselle up on their offers, but the way you were stuck running circles inside your head was far from normal. “You promise not to laugh at me?” She smiles warmly. “Nope. But I promise I’ll hear you out regardless.”

The loud, thumping bass reverberating throughout the club did very little to help ease your pounding headache. Your temples throbbed with every beat, the pressure so severe it felt as if your skull was just moments away from splitting in two. You don’t think you’ve ever been this uncomfortable in your life; the dress that Karina gave to you was a size or two too small, the shiny fabric so tight around your chest that you gasp for air. It would be difficult for you to breathe even in properly fitting clothes, the air hot and heavy from the throngs of sweaty bodies that surrounded you. You felt claustrophobic, the crowd closing in on you and threatening to swallow you whole— the only place to escape was to the bar, but even there you’re bombarded with flashing lights, deafening music, and the overlapping voices of everyone around you. You have to strain your ears to make out what Giselle was saying, and she was just on the barstool right next to yours.

“Aren’t you glad you came?” She giggles, sipping on a brightly colored cocktail. She had ordered a round of them for all three of you, and the amount of alcohol mixed in them felt like a sucker punch to the face, even with all the sickeningly sweet grenadine the bartender had used to try and mask the flavor. You watch in abject horror as both she and Karina downed them one by one like they were water.

“No.”  you reply honestly.

“You will once you tell us what’s going on with you!” Karina interjects from your other side. “I meant it when I said I wanted you to vent to us, let it all out and give us the tea! Aeri’s dying to know.”

“It’s really embarrassing…” you admit, staring forlornly down at your own drink. “I’d rather just forget all about it.”

“It can’t be that bad. You didn’t drop your pants in front of everyone or anything, did you?”

You cringe. “God, no. It’s not like that.”

“Then it’s nothing you can’t tell us about.” Giselle shoots you a smile over the rim of her glass.

“It’s… it’s about Professor Park.”

“You and Gigi's lit professor?” Karina asks, cocking her head. “Isn’t he the one you have a massive crush on?”

Your cheeks flush, your drink becoming even more interesting as you avoid looking at either of them in the eye. “Maybe.”

“Ugh, your taste in men is the worst.” Giselle snickers. “I don’t understand why you like him so much. He’s such a dick.”

You fight down the urge to defend him— for some odd reason, you feel a surge of protectiveness over Professor Park, even when you completely agree with what Giselle is saying about him. “Yes, I like him, but that’s not the point. The point is that I totally fucked up and now I think he hates me.”

“What did you do?! Please tell me you cursed him out, he fucking deserves it.”

“No, Gigi, oh my God.” Even the mere thought of doing something like that sends shivers down your spine. “He caught me reading during class.”

“…That’s it? You’re freaking out over that?” Giselle blinks.

“It’s what I was reading that’s the problem.” you lament miserably, gathering your courage with a sip of your disgusting cocktail. “I have this book; it’s about a teacher and a student… getting together, if you know what I mean. It’s really dirty… and he caught me reading it in class. He took it, and then he read it himself right in front of me! He thinks I’m a freak. It’s been two days and he won’t even look at me.”

Karina and Giselle stare at you.

“Why the hell were you reading a smut book in class?!” Karina gasps, her dark glittery makeup making her wide eyes look even wider. “And one about a professor, too— were you trying to get caught? There’s better ways to go about telling him that you want to fuck him.”

“I don’t know— I was bored and stupid, okay?!” You had been asking yourself the same question for days, mentally beating yourself to a pulp every time it crossed your mind. “I thought he wouldn’t notice me since I sat in the back… now he’s going to tell the dean, and I’m going to get expelled, and—”

“Woah, woah, woah!” Giselle stops you in your downwards spiral, grabbing your shoulder to ground you. “You’re thinking too hard about this. He’s probably just a prude. If he was going to do something like that, he would have probably done it by now. Plus, I don’t think that’s really something you can be expelled over.”

You lean into her touch, resting your head on her shoulder as she pats your back comfortingly. “He’s mad at me…” you whine petulantly. “I was trying to get that TA position, too… fuck, I’m so screwed.”

“What would he be mad at you for? Being horny?” Karina laughs, “It’s really his own fault for snooping in your stuff.”

“I think you’ll still get it.” Giselle supplies helpfully. “You’ve really got nothing to worry about. Sure, your grade sucks, but I’ve seen the two of you talking in the hallway before— the way he looks at you is insane. And the way he looks at your ass when you leave is even crazier. You just showed him that you feel the same way about him that he does about you.”

“Don’t say that.” You groan. “You think that about every guy I talk to. There’s no way in hell that Professor Park feels anything for me except hatred.”

“If you’re really that worried about it, you can always just apologize.” Karina says, drumming her long nails against her glass. “It might not do anything, but it’ll make you feel better.”

That was the first bit of real advice either her or Giselle had given you in a while, even if it left a bad taste in your mouth. “I don’t know. I feel like that would just make things worse. I need to go to the bathroom.”

You scramble off the barstool in a rush, teetering on your heels— you weren’t even that tipsy, but every step made you feel like a newborn deer. Karina and Giselle watch you hobble away in pity.

You stumble through the crowd in search of a bathroom sign, quickly getting lost in the sea of bodies. There’s little room to move around, everyone pressed up against each other dancing, too intoxicated to notice you trying to politely squeeze by. They jostle and knock you around, and you nearly trip over your own wobbly feet multiple times. Your headache grows nearly unbearable, your desperation to find an escape leading you to start pushing people out of the way so you can continue to move forward. One particularly drunk woman nearly knocks you to the ground, and she shoots you a dirty look over her shoulder when you shoulder past her roughly. You hate to be rude, but you’re teetering dangerously close to your breaking point. You need to find some peace and quiet, and fast.

But all of that goes out the window when among the countless bobbing and weaving heads, you spot a frighteningly familiar pair of broad shoulders.

“Professor Park?!” you call out in shock, shoving your way towards him. “What are you doing here?!”

Without his suits and big clunky glasses on, you almost don’t recognize him. He was leaning back against the wall with two men who you vaguely recognize as other professors at the university, talking and laughing amongst themselves with beers in their hands. You admire the profile of his strong, angular nose, the way his pronounced collarbones peeked out from the loose linen shirt he wore, the first few buttons undone to show a delicious strip of tan skin. His dark hair, usually gelled back to show his forehead, was left fluffy and untamed, framing his dark, intoxicating eyes. He jumps a little at your voice, turning away from the men to look at you.

His eyes widen sharply, moving slowly from your face down to your chest. They linger there for a moment, blinking owlishly, before he tears them away from you completely, the tips of his ears turning bright red.

“Oh, um. Hello, Miss L/N.” he covers up his stutter with a weak cough, suddenly very interested in the state of his shoes. You make a quick mental note to thank Karina later for convincing you to squeeze yourself into this stupid dress.

“Oh, this is Y/N?” One of the two other men slurs gleefully, a grin stretching across his handsome face. There was a certain hunger in the way he undresses you with his eyes, scanning you head to toe like a predator. You could tell from his flushed pink cheeks that he was very drunk. “I’ve heard all about you! It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

Something odd flashes in Professor Park's eyes and he jerks his head to shoot his friend a deathly glare. He was far too tipsy to notice.

“You’ve… heard about me?” you cringe, your heart sinking. Out of whatever Professor Park had to say about you, none of it could be anything good.

“Oh, not much, just that you’re one of the brightest students that he’s ever taught.” The other man cuts in, chuckling. He tips his head back and takes a swig of his beer, flashing you his sharp jawline. “One of his favorites to have in class, he says.”

“Such a smart head on those little shoulders! You should consider taking my econ course next year, it’d be a gift to see your pretty face in my class.” The first man adds, his crooked smirk widening.

“Jake, Jay, please.” Professor Park grits out through gritted teeth, anxiously running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, what did you say, Miss L/N?”

You splutter as your lips refuse to form words. You?! The brightest student he’s ever had?! That was just a complete and utter lie; if it wasn’t for Giselle helping you with an extra credit assignment you had practically begged him on your knees for, you would be failing his class spectacularly. You couldn’t fathom why Professor Park would say something like that to these two men, when nearly every class he was scolding you for being late, distracted, forgetting your deadlines, a combination of all three and more. Not only that, but with what had transpired the other day still fresh and stinging… they had to be saving face or making some kind of sick joke. As you collect your thoughts, you half expect them to start pointing and laughing.

“What are you doing here?” you repeat, peering up at Professor Park's blushing face. He avoids meeting your eyes, just like how he did in class.

“Am I not allowed to enjoy the start of my weekend?” he retorts, fiddling with the pull tab on his beer. “Clearly, you’re doing the same.”

He spits out the words like they left a bad taste in his mouth. It stung like an insult. “I thought you said you were busy.” you assert, biting your lip to keep from scoffing. The liquor giving you a little too much courage; he was still Professor Park, even if now standing in front of you he looked like just any other guy.

“I… was.” He mumbles, “And now I’m not anymore. It’s really not any of your business.”

It takes everything you have to keep from blurting out that your book really wasn’t any of his business either, but you manage to hold your tongue.

“I’m sorry, I just— Sir, I need to talk to you.”

 “There’s nothing to talk about.” He says matter-of-factly. It’s far from what you were expecting him to say.

“What do you mean?” you challenge, your annoyance starting to turn sour. “It’s about the other day.”

Professor Park continues to play dumb, though he keeps throwing sidelong glances to his coworkers. “What about it?”

“I want to apologize.” You bite hard on your lower lip. For doing nothing wrong.

Professor Park's eyes snap up to meet yours, inky dark irises wide in shock. “Y/N—”

“Apologize?” Professor Park's friend— Jake, you think— butts in, raising an eyebrow. “What happened?”

All the color leaves Professor Park's face, even the blush that was slowly trailing from his cheeks down his neck. He awkwardly clears his throat and averts his gaze, putting on a show of cupping his ear and pretending to be confused. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over all of this noise! If you have a question, I’ll be in my office tomorrow afternoon. Go on and have a good night.”

“Wait, Professor—!”

“Have a good night!”

It takes you a long time to find your way back to the bar, drunk, defeated, and stewing in your own thoughts. You’re pleasantly surprised to see that Giselle and Karina have been sat waiting for you all this time, but you don’t have it in you to feel happy or grateful as you plop yourself back onto your empty barstool. Their irritation quickly shifts to confusion and worry, both shooting you odd glances as Karina tentatively hands you another cocktail.

“Are you okay?”

“Did you get lost or something?”

You take a long sip, the disgusting sweetness and the bitter liquor overpowering your senses enough to calm your racing thoughts. “I think I’m going to go and talk to Professor Park tomorrow.” is all you say.

“If you fuck him, please put in a good word for me.” Giselle slurs drunkenly in reply. “I need to pass that fucking class.”

“You’ve been a bad girl, haven’t you, Miss L/N?” Professor Park whispers in your ear, his deep voice dripping with honeyed venom. The fabric of his dress shirt ghosts over your back, his body so close that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin. He has you trapped against his big wooden desk, bent over it obscenely with your ass in the air as you whimper and squirm. Your skirt and panties pool at your ankles, leaving your most intimate areas exposed for him to view. Your leaking pussy quivered from the icy cold air, your hole clenching desperately around nothing and aching to be filled.

“I’m sorry!” You mewl, voice wavering.

“You didn’t answer my question. What are you sorry for?” he presses, so deliciously condescending in the way he feigns ignorance, “Apologize to me properly and tell me what it was that you did.”

“I’ve been bad, sir. I was reading during your lecture, and I’m sorry—”

“Oh, you weren’t just reading.” Professor Park scoffs, straightening himself up and off your back. He rounds the desk to circle you like prey, his slow methodical steps echoing throughout the quiet of his office. They echo in your ears and strike a dizzying mix of fear and anticipation in your heart.

“I-I was reading smut and…” your face burns hotter than the sun, and you close your eyes and take a deep breath to will yourself to have the courage to admit what it was you were caught doing. “…And I was touching myself.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that.” He stops to stand at your side, his mere presence hovering above you enough to make you shudder. “Tell me exactly how you were touching that slutty little pussy.”

His words go straight to your core, making you squeeze your thighs together in need. Just a little friction was all you needed, and the edge of his desk granted a great opportunity… but as much as you wanted to, you couldn’t let yourself give in to desperation and grind yourself against Professor Park's desk like a dog in heat. He would notice immediately, and it would only worsen your punishment.

“I was… I was rubbing my clit through my panties.” you admit ashamedly, “Grinding against my fingers. I was going to put one inside but you… you stopped me.”

“I could see your hand up your skirt all the way from the back of the class.” Professor Park spits, his carefully controlled demeanor cracking and his wild, untamed anger boiling to the surface. “It’s like you’re trying to get the two of us caught. You’re lucky no one else was looking… or was that what you wanted? Did you want everyone to see what a slut you are?”

“N-no!” you gasp, but the idea gets you even wetter; you wanted nothing more than for everyone to know that he was much more than just your professor, that he was yours and in turn you were his. “I’m a slut j-just for you, no one else!”

“Fuck, that’s right.” he groans lowly, his voice dripping sex. He picks up a long wooden ruler off his desk, right by your head, and points the tip at the nape of your neck. It ran slowly down the curve of your spine, a ghostly barely-there touch that left a trail of fire erupt across your skin. He stops at the plush swell of your ass, gently caressing your flesh with the cold wood. “You’re all mine. My favorite little student. You just need some discipline to put you back in your place, hm? Show me what a good girl you can be and count for me.”

He rears his arm back, poised and ready to strike. You can hear the ruler whooshing through the air, sharp and fast as he swings his arm forwards—

Your eyes snap open with a gasp. Suddenly, you’re back in your bedroom, curled up safe and sound in your bed, groggy and disoriented as you slowly come back down to reality. While you dreamt about Professor Park often, never had one felt this vivid, this real. You can still feel the echoes of his touch, the phantom pain of his ruler against your asscheek haunting you like a ghost. Your panties are soaked through completely, sticky arousal pooling in the fabric and dripping down your thighs, creating a wet spot on your sheets. You toss and turn to try and go back to sleep, but it’s no use; you’re so horny you can’t think straight, can’t ignore the dull throbbing in your core.

As your hand slides under the waistband of your panties, you decide that enough is enough.

You were at your breaking point. Your life had spiraled completely out of control in the span of just two days, all because your stupid puppy-love crush of a professor had to be nosy about your reading material. He just had to find a way to humiliate you even more than he already did, didn’t he? He could’ve just given you your book back and the two of you could have gone on with your lives. He shouldn’t have even taken your book in the first place! You could have continued fantasizing about him from the back of the class, not a worry in the world, instead of losing precious hours of sleep and mentally beating yourself up.

And after your interaction at the bar, you feel even more ridiculous. If Professor Park truly had the intention of telling someone about what he had caught you reading, wouldn’t he have told the other professors that he was with? And lying to them about you being his smartest student…  you couldn’t wrap your head around it.

It was clear that he didn’t want to talk about it. But even if he wants to pretend like none of this ever happened, you just couldn’t.

There was simply no other way for you to get over all of this other than finally confronting him. You needed to make the endless spiral stop, tell him exactly what was on your mind and finally put this to bed. The longer you stew over everything that has transpired, the more your fear and anxiety boils over into anger. This was all Professor Park's fault! You needed to give him a piece of your mind, or you don’t think you’ll ever be able to move on.

Professor Park doesn’t answer until after the fifth knock, his face immediately dropping once he swings open his office door to see you standing there in front of him. His hair is a mess and his clothes are disheveled, his tie half undone and his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Anxiously he adjusts his glasses, the wide brown eyes behind them looking like a cornered deer’s. “You actually came over to apologize?” He blurts out before you can even open your mouth, genuine surprise taking over his features. “I didn’t think you—"

“Actually, no, I’m not here to apologize!” you declare, the words spilling out before you gave yourself the time to second guess yourself. You had lied awake until the sun came up thinking about what to say, and you weren’t going to let those wasted hours go to waste. “I’m here to tell you, sir, that going through my book was an invasion of my privacy! And that it’s none of your business what I read! I’m an adult, not a child, and I can do whatever I damn well please!”

Professor Park blinks owlishly, staring at you in stunned silence for so long that your newfound confidence falters and you begin to shuffle nervously.

“Oh. Um… alright.” He finally says.

“Alright?!” you echo incredulously, your irritation coming back in full swing. “You’ve been avoiding me for days and all you have to say for yourself is alright?!”

Professor Park's eyes flicker around anxiously, and it suddenly hits you that you were yelling at him in a public hallway. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Yes you do!” you shriek. This really wasn’t how you were planning on any of this going, but it was far too late to turn back. You open your mouth to continue your rant, face burning hot with unbridled rage, but Professor Park quickly grabs your wrist and roughly pulls you into his office. The sudden act shocked you into silence, your eyes wide and mouth agape as he drags you all the way back to his desk. 

“Listen.” He growls, his voice octaves deeper than you’ve ever heard it before. “You’re acting way out of line right now. Don’t you dare ever talk to me like that, you understand me? I’m still your professor, even when we’re not in class. You’re to treat me with respect—”

“Then you treat me with respect first!” you retort, though you do manage to calm yourself down enough to lower your voice. “Playing dumb and refusing to talk to me after humiliating me in front of everyone! What was even the point of doing that? Was it just for your own sick pleasure?!”

“Y/N.” Professor Park sighs, the second time you’ve ever heard him call you by your first name— the first was at the club, but you were far too distracted to dwell on it. “I know you have some sort of feelings for me. You’re not very good at hiding it.”

Your entire world comes crashing around you, though you suppose that you shouldn’t be too surprised. You had just let yourself hope beyond reason that he would never pay you any attention.

“What I’m trying to say is… Y/N, you need to stop it. Get rid of the book. I can’t be with you, it’ll never work, okay? I’m your teacher, and ten years your senior. There’s plenty of college boys around campus for you to ogle over instead.”

“You say you can’t but… do you want to?” you ask quietly, barely above a whisper.

Professor Park doesn’t meet your eyes. “I could get in a lot of trouble, Y/N. You could too.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” You challenge, a hopeful spark igniting in your chest. He didn’t say no… and you may be looking too into things, or just clinging onto hope, but that was more than enough proof to you that your professor was hiding some feelings of his own.

“We can’t do this.” He mumbles, his voice growing wilder, more defiant.

“Sure we can! I’m an adult, you’re an adult… did I scare you away with my book or something? Look, it’s okay if it wasn’t up your alley. There’s nothing wrong with being vanilla, Professor. You don’t have to, like, spank me or anything—”

“But I do!” he interjects suddenly, his head shooting up to look at you with wild eyes. His entire face was bright crimson red.

“You… wait, what?” you must have misheard him. That was the only explanation, surely; There was no way he actually—

“I can’t stop thinking about it! I thought there was no way you’d be into anything like that, that I needed to stop thinking about you and move on like a professional, but then you go and pull this, and now I can’t go a single second without thinking about putting you over my knee! It’s driving me insane! I can’t even look at you!” 

“Professor—”

“Sunghoon. God, just call me Sunghoon. I can’t handle you calling me that right now.”

You open and close your mouth a couple of times, surely looking like a fish out of water— This was the absolute last thing you expected to come out of your professor’s— Sunghoon's—mouth. Your eyes bulge out of your head, your face burns hotter than the sun… your pussy clenches pathetically. It felt like you were in a dream, almost, which might have been why you suddenly felt so brazen— if you wanted him, and he wanted you, who were you to deny him?

“Then do it.” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He looks just as shocked at your proclamation as you were. “If you want to do it that bad, do it.”

He moves in a flash, giving you no time to prepare— within seconds has you thrown over his lap on his office swivel chair, your hair hanging in your face as you blink wildly at the floor. Sunghoon brushes one of his big hands against you skirt-clad ass, barely a brush of his fingers, but you still gasp all the same.

“Do you really want this?” He breathes, voice low, his breathing hard—the outline of his cock presses hard against your stomach through his slacks, making it considerably hard to focus on the words that came out of his mouth.

It takes you a moment, but you manage to choke out a whiny “Yes, sir, please.”

Sunghoon stutters out an uneven breath, his fingers inching down to the hem of your skirt, teasing the tops of your thighs for just a moment before pulling the fabric up to expose your ass, a noticeable wet spot present on your panties.

“So pretty…” He coos. You can feel his cock twitch against your stomach, those long knobby fingers trailing along the edge of your lacy thong. “Is it okay if I take your panties off, bunny?”

You whimper and nod your head— Sunghoon lands a gentle love-tap to the junction of your thighs with an airy chuckle. “Use your words like a good girl.”

This couldn’t be happening. You had to be dreaming, or hallucinating, or something, anything except truly living through this fantasy come to life— Boring, bland Professor Park, the biggest prude you thought you knew, was just way too good at this, at making your legs shake and your pussy throb all the while barely touching you. In just an afternoon your reality had shifted from thinking that he had to be the world’s biggest loser virgin to thinking that he was even sexier than the professor in your book.

You weren’t sure how to feel about it, but your cunt did. 

You must have stayed silent for too long, because without much warning Sunghoon lands a much harsher spank to the top of your asscheek. “Bad girl!” he admonishes, and you can hear the teasing, rotten grin in his voice “C’mon baby, use your big girl words. Tell me how much you want it.” His hot breath fans over your ear— you couldn’t hold in your moan even if you tried, the broken whine sounding weak and pathetic even to your own ears. 

“P-Please, sir… please take my panties off. Please spank me.” you whimper, your face beet red and your pussy drooling— his deft fingers stroke slowly up and down your folds, feeling the wetness seep through the cotton fabric of your panties. You bite your lip to keep from screaming.

“That’s my good girl.” You could hear your panties rip as he tears them off of you in one solid motion, the biting cold air meeting your hot soaking cunt and making both you and Sunghoon hiss. He admires the slick leaking down your thighs for a brief silent moment, deep breathy voice cooing at the way you arch into him and his touch, before he straightens back up and lands a stinging, eye watering spank deliciously close to your core. You yelp at the sting.

“That’s for being a fucking tease,” he states, soothing your reddening flesh with a soft caress of his palm. “Being so fucking sexy all the time and driving me crazy because I thought I could never have you.”

You hadn’t realized that this was confessional. Shooting him an evil smile over your shoulder, you giggle, “You could’ve just asked.”

Another spank, this time with even more force. Your hips buck with a shrill cry spilling from your open, panting mouth, your eyes watering— you had no idea Professor Park was this strong. He refuses to give you any time to prepare, never warning you when the next hit to your ass will come. “I didn’t say you could talk back to me.” He growls.

You’re on the verge of tears from the red-hot stinging in your ass, but you still giggle at his words. “You’re kinky.”

He just rolls his eyes, spanking you again, albeit a little softer. “And this one’s for being a brat. How about you start counting for me, little girl? That’s one.”

“One?! You’ve hit me four times!” Maybe you were pushing it too far, but it just came naturally to you to fight back, make him work for your submission and obedience. You relished pushing him as far as he would go; you relished losing.

Sunghoon grabs a handful of your hair and yanks hard, making you gasp loudly and your empty pussy flutter. Leaning down close to your ear, he lets out a warning growl; “I said fucking count.”

You don’t think you’ve ever been this wet in your life. Torn between bucking your hips into Professor Park's bulge and pushing back into the touch of his hand, you give a quiet, watery whimper of “One…”

The hand holding your hair lets go, your head falling limply over his knee. “That’s my girl.” He coos lowly, stroking your head.

It distracts you enough that the next harsh slap to your ass feels even more intense than any of the others before it. “T-two…”

“That’s for being so fucking disrespectful. And in front of my colleagues too, no less. It’s like you were asking for me to ruin you.” he tsks. “You need to learn to watch your mouth.”

The urge to say something smart tugs at you again, even if just to prove his point, but another spank rains down on your sore, bruising asscheeks before you can seize the opportunity.

“T-three!”

“And that’s… that’s for pushing me to put you over my lap in the first place. You couldn’t just leave it alone, could you? And now look at you, making me risk my job to teach you a lesson.” Sunghoon's voice wavers, filling with an emotion you couldn’t quite place— it was extremely difficult to focus on his words when his fingers began to trail down the curve of your ass to your sticky, quivering folds, rubbings the tip of his thumb right over your clothed core. You moan unabashedly, shifting your hips and opening your legs to give him better access to what was peeking out between your thighs.

The fifth spank never comes. He tugs your panties to the side and pushes two long, thick fingers between your folds, stuttering out a low moan like he was the one being touched. He starts a rough, dizzying pace almost immediately, his fingertips searching for that spongy spot inside of you. You grind your hips back against Sunghoon's fingers, a drooling mess against his slacks.

“Pr-Professor…” you whine high in your throat — you want more, want him to speed up, slow down… his touches were driving you wild. You hadn’t been touched like this ever before.

“I told you not to call me that.” He hisses, curling his fingers against your sweet spot and making you keen. “Please, call me by my name.”

“Sunghoon!” you cry out, writhing against him. You felt a passion rising within you like the hottest fire, clouding your brain. You couldn’t think of anything except of the pleasure that he gave you, couldn’t utter out anything other than his name.

“Such a slut, falling apart just on my fingers…” he chucks huskily, enamored with the filthy wet sounds your cunt made and how they echoed through the quiet office. “I’ve thought about doing this for forever, God… you’re just as beautiful as I thought you’d be.”

His thumb, wet from your arousal, comes down to rub tight, delicious circles against your sensitive, engorged clit, your strangled wail no doubt loud enough to be heard from the hallway. The building ecstasy distracts you enough for him to push in a third finger into your tight hole. The stretch burns but you love it, your hips kicking and moans growing louder and louder as he effortlessly takes you apart. 

“...Too much…!” you manage to choke out, digging your teeth into the fabric of Sunghoon's slacks to keep yourself from screaming out in bliss. You felt full to the brim, pushed closer and closer to the edge with every rough flick of your clit and thrust of his perfect talented fingers. He teases a fourth finger around your leaking, stretched out rim, the threat of it alone enough to make your eyes roll back in your head.

“Oh baby, if this is too much there’s no way you’ll be able to take my cock…” 

The tears that had been brimming in your eyes start to stream freely down your burning cheeks, choked hiccups and sobs wracking your body, but it was the most pleasurable agony you had ever been in. Your hips move with a mind of their own, bucking against Sunghoon's cock, thick and hard as a rock, only seeming to grow bigger and bigger every time you rub against it. You relish the sharp intakes of breath he takes every time you move against him. He was starting to fall apart too, you could tell, his voice sounding a lot less dominating and a lot more whiny and pathetic with each roll of his hips up into your tummy.

“I’m gonna… gonna make you cum on my fingers,” he whines low in his throat, his hand completely soaked in your arousal up to the wrist. “You gonna make a mess for me?”

His fingers dig impossibly and wonderfully hard into your sweet spot, that white-hot band of desire in your stomach winding tighter and tighter with each perfectly aimed thrust. You wail and sob, your hand reaching back to grab a tight fistful of his shirt sleeve. “I-I-m— ‘m gonna cum!”

Sunghoon's other hand, the one that had been stroking your hair, then comfortingly up and down your back, rises up to smack your ass, the sudden burst of stinging pain making you scream, and for real this time.

 “You gotta ask first, bad girl! Gotta ask for permission b-before you cum…” His voice starts to break, his hips stuttering helplessly— the feeling of his big fat cock grinding hard against you only added to the fire in your belly. 

“Can I cum? Please, sir, can I cum? I’ll be a good girl, I promise, just let me cum!” you had no control over your mouth, hardly any conscious at all— all you could focus on was the tightening in your belly, the way Sunghoon's fingers thrusted in and out of your pussy so good… you were his brainless whore, fucked dumb on his fingers. 

“Shit, go on honey, my good girl… cum all over me, make a mess!” with his permission you let yourself topple over the edge, moaning and whimpering like a whore as you soak your thighs, his hand, his shirt and slacks with your juices. You lay across his lap twitching for quite some time afterwards, your chest heaving like you had just run a marathon… you’d never come before like that in your life, not as hard or for as long. Sunghoon was with you the whole way as you come down from your high, sweet as can be as he coos praises into your hair and pats your back, kissing your head when you raised it to look over your shoulder at him.

Slowly, you realize that you no longer feel his bulge poking at your belly. You release your iron grip on his shirt to slide your hand down his chest and abdomen, all the way down to gently cup his very wet crotch. “Sir…?”

“F-fuck... sorry, baby… couldn’t help it…” he turns his head away from you to hide his glowing red face, but you can see how his blush spreads down his neck and up to the tips of his ears.

“Did you just… cum?” you ask in awe and disbelief, looking down to see a dark stain spreading across the fabric of his slacks. Sunghoon only mumbles in response, refusing to answer or turn back to look at you, his blush growing an even deeper shade of red. It was all the confirmation you needed.

Professor Park came in his pants like a virgin without you even needing to touch him. Something about that alights a blazing inferno in your core, your senses overtaken with need even though you had just had an orgasm yourself.

“I want to taste it.” You breathe out, your overwhelming desire eclipsing any rational thought and taking control of your words.

“Y-you… what?” his head snaps back to you in surprise, his eyes wide and clouded with lust as they gaze headily into yours.

“Your cum, wanna taste it, want it on my tongue…” you’ve never spoken like this to anyone, your voice not feeling like your own— the words spill out from between your lips mindlessly, desperate for more of his brain numbing pleasure as you rub him through his slacks. His cock twitches underneath your fingertips, beginning to harden again from the ministrations. “Can I please suck you off, sir?”

“Fuck.” Sunghoon moans, rough and deep in his chest, the sound shooting straight to your sensitive pussy. “Yeah you can, naughty girl, come on, get on your knees and suck my cock. Clean up my mess.”

Your entire body feels limp and weak, not wanting to cooperate with you as you slide off of his lap to the floor. It takes great effort to get yourself situated, kneeling on the floor with your unsteady hands grasping at his thick thighs. He widens his legs to give you more room to get comfortable, one of his big hands instinctively coming down to tangle in your hair as your own begin to slide up the insides of his thighs towards his straining belt buckle.

Ever so slowly and meticulously you unbuckle Sunghoon's belt, the jingling of the metal buckle as it’s casted aside like music to your ears. You pull his pants and boxers down together in one rough tug, Sunghoon canting his hips to help you guide them down his thighs. His cock springs free and slaps obscenely against his belly, smearing the light fabric of his dress shirt in his thick, viscous cum. You can’t help but stop and stare, enamored by the sheer size of it— nearly as thick as a can and twice the length of one, throbbing veins making your mouth water. Cum still leaks from his angry red tip, fat and bulbous, the entirety of his length wet and shiny down to his heavy, twitching balls and neatly trimmed pubes.

You kiss the tip with a delighted grin, the contact barely-there but enough to make him throw his head back and whimper in delight. Your tongue peeks out from between your lips to slide across his slit, earning a high-pitched needy hiss from the man above you, his long fingers tightening their grip on your hair as you lick down his dripping shaft. His thick, salty cum tastes like ambrosia on your tongue, the delicious bitterness quickly getting you drunk. You can’t stop until you lick him completely clean, and even then it’s impossible for you to pull away, the feeling of his weeping cockhead heavy on your tongue far too addicting. Greedily you suck him into your mouth, relishing in the way his girth stretches your lips before swallowing him deeper and deeper until his tip knocks against the back of your throat. You can hardly fit your hands around him, let alone your mouth, fisting what couldn’t fit down your throat as you start bobbing your head. More broken tears collect on your lashes and drip down your wet cheeks, looking utterly ruined and wanton as you gaze up from between Sunghoon's legs into his hazy, unfocused eyes.

The eye contact is too much for him— his eyes roll back in his head with a whimper and his cock twitches violently inside of your mouth, the grip he has on your hair shifting from guiding your head along his shaft to tugging you off him with a sudden and disorienting strength. He pulls you off him with a wet pop, a foamy string of saliva connecting from his shiny cockhead to your needy whimpering lips.

“I’m gonna cum again if you don’t stop,” he pants, gasping for breath, “I gotta fuck that pussy first, little girl, please. Need to feel that tight cunt squeezing around me.”

“D’you wanna cum inside?” you goad, a lustful, mischievous grin overtaking your features, “Don’t worry, Hoonie, I’m on the pill. You can fill me up if you want to.”

Your words make him visibly shake, the nickname making him whimper, what was left of his flimsy resolve crumbling right before your eyes, leaving nothing but primal hunger. “Get on the fucking desk.”

You obey immediately, hardly able to contain your excitement as you stumble to your feet and bend over Sunghoon's big oak desk, wiggling your ass in the air invitingly. Your skirt and panties were still pulled up and pushed aside, exposing your dripping puffy hole for his eyes to feast upon.

“So pretty…” he croons behind you, his hands caressing your hips and waist. They smooth over the exposed globes of your ass, his fingers fiddling with the gusset of your drenched panties. Sheer pink lace that compliments your flushed skin, looks so delectable running through his fingers as he grabs your asscheeks and spreads them wide. “You look so cute in pink.”

he hisses in appreciation at the sight of your dripping hole quivering, sliding a finger down between your pussy lips to circle at your engorged clit. “Holy fuck, you’re so wet,” he groans, accentuating his claim with a flick of his hand— your pussy squelches obscenely, the lewd, pornographic sound making your cheeks flush. “I can’t take it anymore, I have to be inside of you— you can take it, right bunny?”

“Please!” you beg, hardly able to string together a sentence, “Please, sir, put it in, I need it so bad, need your cock—”

You’re interrupted by the feeling of his cockhead slapping against your entrance, Sunghoon running the leaky tip up and down your slit a few times just to hear your little whimper before burying himself inside to the hilt in one smooth thrust. He rams into you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs, his long fat shaft stretching out your hole much more than you could have ever been prepared for. The burn is indescribable, overwhelming every single one of your senses in the best way, your tight gummy walls gripping his cock like a vice as the both of you struggle to adjust.

He's so deep inside of you it feels as if he’s poked through your cervix and into your womb, his big fat mushroom head snug right beneath your belly button. You’re so deliciously full that it makes your head spin, already fucked completely brainless before he had even begun to properly move.

“Does it hurt?” he asks you softly, so gentle compared to how he carved out your insides. In any other circumstance you would find it sweet that he was this concerned, but you were certain that if he didn’t start moving inside of you right then and there, you were going to die.

“More.” you croak back in response. “Give it to me.”

With a winded groan, he relents. He pulls his cock out until just the head was inside of you, giving you not a single moment to prepare before slamming back in with a force that knocks you further up on the desk. The hardwood against your cheek does nothing to muffle your loud, unabashed shriek, so he improvises by shoving two of his thick fingers past your open lips, the musky tang of your own juices filling your mouth when you suck hungrily at the digits. He set up a punishing rhythm within seconds, his hips clapping loudly and wetly against your ass while he muffles your whines and wails. His heavy balls smack against your oversensitive clit with every rough thrust, sending shockwave after shockwave of pleasure straight to your core. The desk cuts into the skin of your hips painfully, but if anything, it only adds to the burning sweetness building steadily in the pit of your belly.

“F-fuck, I’m close already!” Sunghoon puffs against the shell of your ear, pressing himself up against your back— you’re suddenly thrown back into your dream from the night before, the way the sensations were eerily similar yet nowhere near as good as the real thing. “Gonna cum inside you, is that okay? Wanna see how pretty your pussy looks dripping my cum.”

You can only drool in response, your thoughts fragmented and scattered, babbling desperate nonsense and rolling your hips back to meet his thrusts with a dizzying force. Your body vibrates with liquid fire, heating your puffy cunt and quivering thighs— faster than ever before were you hurtling towards your climax, that familiar tightening in your core growing harder and harder to bear. You wanted nothing more than to yield to the tide, let it overtake you completely, and in turn pull Sunghoon down with you.

Your professor was going to cum inside of you. The fantasies that had haunted you for months truly became a tangible reality. What did you do to make you so lucky?

“This slutty pussy’s sucking me in so fucking tight,” he groans, his thrusts growing sloppier, “Tell me you want my cum, baby, come on. Who’s cum do you want inside of you? Tell me and I’ll give it to you!”

“Yours!” you shriek with the last remaining bits of your energy, your words nearly incomprehensible to how you sniffled and sobbed around Sunghoon's fingers. “Want your cum— my professor’s cum inside of me!”

You took a gamble, but it was just what he wanted to hear. With one last aggressive thrust, he bottoms out inside of your pulsating cunt, his bulbous cockhead kissing your battered cervix as he cums with a broken cry. The sensation of his sticky, hot seed splashing against your insides is just what you need to tip over the edge yourself, your walls clamping down on him and milking him for all he’s worth as you ride out your own climax with long, surrendering moans. He hisses from the overstimulation, but he makes no movements to pull out, letting himself soften inside of you as you both struggle to catch your breaths. Thick viscous globs of your mixed cum leak out from where you’re connected, dripping down your thighs and Sunghoon's balls to collect in a puddle on the floor.

You gaze over your shoulder to watch as he slowly and carefully pulls out, a creamy, foamy white ring formed around the base of his cock. His glasses were fogged up from his heavy breathing, his hair and clothes even more a mess than it was when he had first opened the door, his pink face so irritatingly kissable when he shoots you a nervous smile.

You cant help but giggle at him.

“You’re not going to… tell anyone about this, are you?” he asks you anxiously, opening one of the desk’s drawers to retrieve a packet of tissues.

“As long as you explain to me why you told those other professors that I was your best student.” You reply smartly, your grin widening when he scowls.

“It was the only way I could think of how to explain why I talk about you so much.” He admits, a little shy, wiping down the mess between your thighs with a fistful of cheap, scratchy tissues. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d rather if we continued that charade so it doesn’t look suspicious when I ask you to come to my office every once in a while.”

“Will you give me that TA position then?”

“You technically don’t qualify,” He laughs, “but I thought that was a given.”

“You won’t regret bending the rules a little, I promise.” You tell him with a wink and a smile. The love-stricken grin he shoots back at you in return makes your heart soar.

“I know I won’t.”

[lilbabypanda-blog2]

Mydei x (fem)reader x Phainon

The training grounds were unusually quiet for a place that had just hosted one of Mydei and Phainon’s legendary competitions. A few scattered weapons lay forgotten in the dirt, the telltale signs of yet another impromptu duel between the two warriors. And right in the middle of the chaos, Phainon lay sprawled out on the ground, one arm draped over his forehead like a fallen hero.

The culprit? Mydei, according to Phainon.

When Y/N walked in, her footsteps light but quick with concern, her eyes immediately fell on the dramatic scene before her. Phainon, unmoving, save for the occasional twitch of his fingers, and Mydei standing over him with an expression that was caught somewhere between frustration and complete indifference.

Y/N’s brows furrowed as she rushed forward, kneeling beside Phainon. "What happened?" she asked, voice laced with worry.

Phainon, with all the grace of a seasoned performer, lifted a weak hand and pointed directly at Mydei. "The culprit… is him."

Y/N sighed, already knowing that the two had likely been at each other's throats over something incredibly stupid. Still, she was nothing if not caring, and seeing Phainon so pitifully sprawled out on the ground tugged at her sense of concern. She gently reached for his wrist, checking for any injuries, then brushed his hair from his forehead. "Are you hurt anywhere?" she asked softly.

Phainon peeked one eye open, barely suppressing a smug smirk at Mydei before shifting his expression into something far more pitiful. "Everywhere… Mydei was ruthless. I barely stood a chance."

Mydei scoffed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. "You lost because you’re an idiot who doesn’t know when to quit."

Y/N shot him a disapproving look, one that made Mydei’s jaw tighten. She turned her attention back to Phainon, who took the opportunity to let out a slow, exaggerated sigh. "I don’t know if I’ll ever recover…"

Mydei exhaled sharply through his nose. "Oh, give me a break. You were fine two seconds ago."

Y/N, ignoring him, gently helped Phainon sit up, her hands steady on his shoulders. "You should have told me if you were training. I could’ve made sure neither of you got hurt."

Phainon grinned through his supposed agony. "That’s why you’re the best, Y/N. Always looking out for me. Unlike some people."

Y/N smiled softly, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Meanwhile, Mydei’s fingers twitched at his sides, his patience hanging by a thread. His jaw clenched as he glared at Phainon, who was now leaning comfortably into Y/N’s support, milking every ounce of sympathy he could get.

Then, just to drive the dagger in deeper, Phainon turned his head slightly and shot Mydei a triumphant smirk.

That was it.

Mydei’s eye twitched. He gritted his teeth, barely suppressing the urge to throw Phainon right back onto the ground where he belonged.

"Oh, come on," Mydei finally snapped. "He’s faking it! He’s not hurt. He’s just putting on a show so you’ll dote on him."

Y/N frowned, looking back at Phainon with concern. "He looks hurt."

Phainon sighed dramatically, resting his head against Y/N’s shoulder. "I appreciate you believing in me, Y/N. Some people just don’t have a heart."

Mydei let out a low, annoyed growl. "I swear to—"

Y/N turned back to him with a pointed glare. "Mydei, you should be more careful. You’re both strong warriors, but that doesn’t mean you should be reckless."

Mydei groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. He wasn’t used to being the one scolded, let alone over something this ridiculous. Meanwhile, Phainon basked in the moment, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Fine," Mydei muttered, looking away. "Next time, I’ll let him win."

Phainon snickered. "You say that like you could."

Mydei’s eye twitched again.

Y/N sighed, shaking her head as she helped Phainon fully to his feet. "Just promise me you two won’t go overboard next time."

"Of course, Y/N," Phainon said, flashing a charming grin. "Anything for you."

Mydei resisted the overwhelming urge to tackle him right then and there.

As they walked off, Phainon still leaning against Y/N for support, he took one last glance at Mydei over his shoulder and mouthed, "Jealous?"

Mydei exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay calm.

Next time, he was definitely throwing Phainon into the dirt—whether Y/N was watching or not.

[issues4him]

3 - FIRST TOUCH ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

ghost!rafe x shy!reader series

summary: rafe sneaks into your room late at night. he decides to answer the question that’s been brewing in the back of his mind.

cw: none, flirting, lowkey angst if u squint

the soft glow of the morning sun filtered through the grand windows, casting warm golden light across the lavish sitting room. you stirred, shifting slightly on the plush couch, the weight of sleep still pulling at your limbs.

a second later, the distant sound of clinking cutlery and muffled voices from the kitchen reached your ears. your brows furrowed as your mind sluggishly caught up with reality.

why were you on the couch?

the events of the night before rushed back all at once. the midnight glass of water. the painting. him.

your eyes fluttered open fully, scanning the room as if expecting rafe to still be there, but of course—he wasn’t.

just a dream, you tried to convince yourself.

“oh, dear, what on earth are you doing sleeping out here?”

you jolted upright, your heart leaping to your throat as your grandmother’s voice rang through the air. she stood at the edge of the sitting room, arms crossed, a concerned look on her face.

“i—i must’ve—” you cleared your throat, smoothing your dress as if that would make you look any less ridiculous. “i couldn’t sleep, so i came down here, and i guess i—”

“fell asleep in the draftiest part of the house?” your grandmother shook her head, though her voice was full of amusement. “honestly, dear, you’ll catch a cold.”

you scrambled to your feet, cheeks warm with embarrassment. “it was just an accident...”

your grandmother hummed knowingly, but she didn’t press. “well, come along, breakfast is ready.”

as you followed your grandmother toward the dining room, something made you hesitate. a prickling awareness ran down your spine, and without thinking, your gaze flickered toward the grand staircase—toward his painting.

your breath caught.

rafe was back.

frozen in oil and canvas, just as he always had been. his blue eyes bore into you with that same unreadable intensity, his posture upright, his uniform pristine. the golden frame around him seemed almost too perfect, too undisturbed, as if last night had never happened.

had it?

your fingers curled into the fabric of your robe as you stood there, unmoving. he looked exactly the same, and yet you could swear there was something new in his expression. something smug.

almost like he knew something you didn’t.

“are you coming, sweetheart?” your grandmother’s sweet voice snapped you out of your daze.

you swallowed hard, stealing one last glance at him. rafe remained perfectly still, the portrait of a long-dead soldier.

you tore your gaze away and hurried after your grandmother.

but as you walked away, it felt like he was burning holes in the back of your head.

——————

it’s late—later than you meant to stay up. you sit at your vanity, brushing through your hair, your eyelids heavy with sleep. the room is quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old house settling around you.

then, you feel it.

a soft little tug at the end of your hair.

your brush stills in your hand.

slowly, you raise your eyes to the mirror, your pulse quickening. at first, there’s nothing—just your own wide-eyed reflection staring back at you. but then, behind you, a shape flickers into view, leaning down close.

“miss me?”

your heart jumps as rafe’s face appears right beside yours, his lips curved into that lazy, smug grin.

you whip around so fast that you nearly topple off the stool, one hand gripping your vanity for balance. “oh my—”

“careful now,” he chuckles, straightening. “wouldn’t want you to get hurt on my account, darlin’.”

your pulse pounds in your ears, hands clenching at your the vanity’s edge. “you—you can’t just do that!” you whisper-shout, cheeks burning.

rafe tilts his head, feigning innocence. “do what?”

“you know what!”

he chuckles, arms crossing over his broad chest. “you should’ve seen your face.” his voice drops, teasing. “cute.”

your stomach flips at the word, but you scowl, refusing to let him see how flustered you are. “i thought ghosts were supposed to be all ominous and brooding.”

he steps closer, his translucent form passing right through the edge of your vanity. “maybe,” he muses, “but where’s the fun in that?”

you grip the edge of the white vanity as you’re still seated on the stool.

rafe is way too amused. his arms are crossed, his blue eyes glinting in the dim candlelight, looking like he just won some kind of game you didn’t even know you were playing.

“you look like you’ve seen a ghost, hun.”

you glare at him, heart still racing. “you are a ghost!”

he shrugs, completely unbothered. “and?”

your mouth opens, then closes, because—yeah. and? what exactly is the proper reaction when a ghost just appears in your room at midnight, smirking like he owns the place?

your stomach is still in knots from the initial shock, but rafe just tilts his head, watching you, looking far too entertained. his gaze flickers over your body, your gaze following his.

you then notice where his eyes have drifted—

oh. oh no.

you’re wearing nothing but a tiny, lace bralette and matching sleep shorts. barely-there cotton that clings to your skin. clearly, you had not expected company.

heat rushes to your face. you fight the urge to cover yourself, but it’s impossible to ignore the way rafe’s gaze flickers over you, slow and deliberate.

his smirk deepens. “cute outfit.”

your whole body burns. “get out.”

he ignores that completely, stepping closer instead, his voice dropping to something lower, something teasing. “you’re mean tonight.”

“because you broke into my room!”

“broke in?” he chuckles, shifting his weight onto one hip, all effortless confidence. “sweetheart, i don’t need doors. you should know that by now.”

your fingers tighten around the vanity. “why are you even here?”

he sighs dramatically, like the answer is obvious. “i can’t just check in on my girl?”

your face flushed with color. “wha—i’m not your—”

“oh, please.” he tilts his head, eyes dragging down way too slowly before flicking back up. “you picked that outfit for me, didn’t you?”

your skin burns. “NO—i did not—”

he just looks at you. that same cocky, knowing look.

you visibly deflate.

rafe grins. “that’s what i thought.”

your stomach churned at the certainty in his voice. the nickname, the way he spoke to you like he knew you better than you knew yourself—it was infuriating. and maybe a little bit true.

groaning, you stood from your vanity chair, and dove under the floarak-patterned duvet on your bed, desperate to create some distance from his stare.

you peeked over the top of your blanket, heart thudding. rafe stood at the foot of your bed, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who had just appeared in your room.

your breathing quickened when he stopped right beside your bed. he tilted his head, studying you. “so… tell me, honey… if you’re so scared of me,” he murmured, “why aren’t you running? screaming? calling for help?” his voice was teasing, but his expression was softer now, curious. “or is it because deep down, you don’t want me to leave?”

“shut up.” your throat tightened. he was too close. too solid-looking for a ghost, despite the way the room’s dim light passed through the edges of his form.

rafe exhaled through his nose, almost like a sigh. then, slowly, he lowered himself onto the edge of your bed. the mattress didn’t dip. he didn’t move the blankets. he just sat.

he hesitated. then, after a second, he reached out.

you flinched instinctively, expecting the touch of nothing, of cold air. but then, warmth. a whisper of pressure against your wrist. faint. barely there.

rafe froze. his hand still hovered over yours, his eyes locked onto where his fingers had made the softest contact with your skin.

neither of you spoke.

then, carefully, like he was afraid you might disappear, rafe flattened his palm over the back of your hand. the pressure didn’t change much, but the warmth was stronger now. he wasn’t just there. he was real.

his voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet. “you can feel me?”

you swallowed, nodding. “yeah,” you whispered. “i can.”

for a long moment, he just stared. then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted—not in a smirk, not in teasing. just relief.

you barely noticed when your own fingers moved, barely registered the way you turned your hand palm-up beneath his. his fingers curled hesitantly over yours, still light, still not all the way there.

his voice was barely above a breath. “guess that means i’m not just a memory, huh?”

you shook your head. “no,” you murmured. “you’re real.”

rafe swallowed, gaze still fixed on where his hand held yours. and for the first time since you’d met him, he looked almost human.

rafe didn’t let go. he didn’t move, didn’t shift away, didn’t tease you like he normally would. he just held your hand—light, but warm. real.

you felt like you couldn’t breathe. like if you spoke too loud, moved too fast, the moment might shatter, and he’d be gone.

his thumb brushed over your knuckles. it was the softest touch, just a whisper of pressure, but it sent a shiver up your spine.

rafe must’ve noticed, because his lips quirked up the tiniest bit. “didn’t mean to make you so nervous, sweetheart.”

“i’m not nervous,” you whispered back, even though the way your pulse raced in your ears completely betrayed you.

his grin deepened. “liar.”

you huffed, looking away, but he squeezed your fingers—barely, like he was testing how much he could actually touch you. the warmth was steadier now, stronger. his grip wasn’t solid, not quite, but it wasn’t slipping through you completely anymore, either.

it made your head spin.

“how is this happening?” you murmured. “you’ve never been able to touch anything before, right?”

rafe was still watching your joined hands like he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “no,” he admitted. “not in two hundred and fifty years.”

that made your stomach dip. two hundred and fifty years. that was impossible. that was tragic.

you hesitated, then, before you could second-guess yourself, gave his hand a gentle squeeze. his head snapped up, eyes sharp with surprise.

you swallowed, shy all over again. “does it—does it feel the same for you?”

rafe exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what was happening. “not exactly,” he said. “it’s like…” he frowned slightly, searching for the words. “like holding onto a ball of warmth. like grabbing at hot air.”

your brows pulled together. “so it doesn’t feel like real skin?”

he huffed another laugh, lifting his gaze back to yours. “no, princess,” he murmured. “but,” his face softened slightly, “it’s the closest i’ve gotten.”

something about that made your heart ache. his lips parted, just slightly.

“you’re the difference,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter, more thoughtful.

you blinked. “what?”

“you,” he repeated, brow furrowing. “i’ve never been able to touch anything. but you… you can feel me.”

your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “why me?”

rafe tilted his head, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. “c’mon, sweetheart,” he said, voice warm as honey. “i think you already know why.”

your throat tightened. he wasn’t teasing. not really. he was right.

you’d spent your whole life loving the boy in the painting.

maybe that was all it took.

maybe love was enough to bring a ghost back to life.

a/n: i’m so sorry this took so long

[thollandsgirl2013]

𝐃𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → fluff

Summary → Whenever Peter's bored in class, he doodles on your notes or your hands.

It was another boring day in chemistry class. The teacher droned on about formulas and compounds, but Peter Parker wasn’t paying attention. He rarely did, not because he wasn’t smart, but because he was too smart. He’d figured out the entire lesson within the first five minutes, and now, like always, he was bored.

You felt a light tug at your notebook. You turned your head slightly, and there he was—Peter—already doodling on the corner of your notes. A tiny stick figure appeared, standing next to a smaller one. You couldn’t help but smile at how adorable he looked, his brows furrowed in concentration like this was the most important thing in the world.

“Peter,” you whispered, trying to suppress your grin.

“Hm?” He responded absentmindedly, not even looking up from his little masterpiece.

“You’re doodling again.”

“I know,” he murmured, now adding a little flower between the two figures. “It’s art. I’m improving your notes.”

You rolled your eyes but secretly loved it. Peter's doodles had become a regular part of your class routine. He always managed to sneak little drawings onto your notebook pages, whether it was stars, flowers, or stick figures that looked vaguely like the two of you. Sometimes, they’d even be little hearts, but he was always too shy to admit that.

“You’re gonna get caught,” you warned, glancing at the teacher.

Peter glanced up quickly, eyes scanning the room like he was Spider-Man on patrol, then went right back to doodling. “Nah, I got this.”

As if on cue, his hand slid to yours, and before you could protest, he started drawing a flower on the back of your hand. You watched as his fingers gently held your wrist, the tip of his pen tracing delicate petals. There was something calming about the way Peter focused on his drawings, how his touch was light and careful, almost as if he was afraid of hurting you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, though your heart fluttered every time his fingers brushed against your skin.

“And yet, here you are, still letting me doodle,” Peter teased with a playful grin, eyes twinkling as he met your gaze.

Suddenly, the teacher's voice cut through the air, loud and clear. “Mr. Parker!”

You both froze. Peter’s hand jerked back from yours like he’d been caught stealing something, and the entire class turned to look at him.

“Care to share what’s so important that you’re not paying attention to the lesson?” The teacher asked, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

Peter stammered, scrambling for an answer. “Uh...well, y-you see, sir... I was, uh—”

“He was just taking notes,” you quickly interjected, flipping your notebook closed before the teacher could get a good look at the doodles.

The teacher narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced. “A warning, Mr. Parker. Pay attention, or it’ll be detention next time.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter muttered, ducking his head.

Once the teacher turned back to the board, Peter gave you a sheepish smile. “Thanks for saving my butt back there.”

“You’re welcome,” you whispered back. “But seriously, Peter, you almost got us in trouble!”

Peter’s lips quirked up, and he leaned in closer, his voice low. “Totally worth it.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head at how goofy he was. Peter Parker, the brilliant boy genius, could be such an adorable idiot sometimes. And you loved him for it.

---

Class finally ended, and as you gathered your things, Peter was at it again—this time drawing a tiny heart on your wrist with a quick flourish of his pen. You tried to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks as he admired his work.

“There,” he said, satisfied. “Now you’ve got a piece of my art with you all day.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you repeated, shoving your notebook into your bag.

Peter grinned, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Yeah, but you love it.”

“Maybe,” you teased, giving him a playful nudge. “But next time, try not to get us caught, okay?”

“No promises,” he winked, grabbing your hand as you both made your way out of the classroom.

As you walked down the hallway together, Peter glanced at your hand and smiled, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You know, I doodle on your notebook because it’s more fun than paying attention.”

“And here I thought you were just trying to annoy me.”

“Well,” Peter said, his voice softening, “I also like having an excuse to hold your hand.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you glanced at him, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. Peter’s goofy grin faded into something more tender, more real, and in that moment, it was like the rest of the world didn’t exist—just the two of you walking hand in hand.

“You don’t need an excuse for that, you know,” you said quietly, squeezing his hand back.

Peter’s smile widened, and he looked down at your linked hands, his thumb brushing over the tiny heart he’d drawn on your skin. “Good to know.”

And with that, you both stepped out into the afternoon sun, the doodles on your notebook and the warmth of his hand in yours a sweet reminder of the little things that made Peter Parker so special—his intelligence, his playfulness, and his unwavering affection for you.

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

[squidsquidsquidsquidsquidgame]

3 AM crisis

character: Nam-Gyu X fem!reader

Summary: After watching a conspiracy theory video, Nam-Gyu wakes you up in the middle of the night to ask if you think pigeons are real.

Warning: namgyus crazy ass theories

You’re fast asleep, comfortably curled up in your blankets, dreaming about something pleasant—probably food, if you had to guess. But then, a sudden weight shifts on the bed, followed by a sharp poke to your arm.

"Hey," a hushed voice whispers. "Hey, babe. Wake up."

You groan, barely cracking an eye open. The room is dark except for the faint glow of Nam-Gyu’s phone screen, casting eerie shadows across his face. His brows are furrowed, his lips pressed into a serious line.

"What?" you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

"Are pigeons real?"

You stare at him. Blink once. Blink twice. "What?"

Nam-Gyu leans in, his expression deadly serious. "Pigeons. Are they real? Think about it. Have you ever seen a baby pigeon? Ever? Anywhere?"

Your brain, still struggling to boot up, short-circuits. "Nam-Gyu. It’s three in the morning."

"I know! But I fell down this rabbit hole, and I think—no, I know—they might be government drones. Or spies. Or something! It makes too much sense!" He shoves his phone into your hands, showing you a video paused on an ominous-looking thumbnail: a pigeon with glowing red eyes. The title reads: "THE PIGEON PARADOX: BIRDS ARE NOT WHAT YOU THINK!"

You sigh, rubbing your temples. "You woke me up for this?"

"Yes! And you need to hear me out!" He sits cross-legged on the bed, full of nervous energy. "Okay, so pigeons are everywhere, right? But we never see them at night. Where do they go? Government charging stations, that’s where."

"Nam-Gyu—"

"And the way they stare at you? Like they're always watching? Because they are!" He gestures wildly. "Have you ever noticed how they don’t seem scared of people? They just strut around like they own the place. You know why? Because they do!"

You groan and flop back down. "I cannot believe this is happening right now."

Nam-Gyu dramatically flops next to you, staring at the ceiling. "I'm just saying, what if we’ve been lied to this whole time?"

You roll onto your side, looking at him through tired eyes. He’s fully in detective mode now, eyes wide, brain running at full speed.

"Do you actually believe this, or did you just watch too many videos again?" you ask.

He hesitates. "…Maybe both.

A deep sigh escapes you. You should be annoyed. You should roll over and ignore him. But he looks so genuinely invested in this nonsense that you can't help but crack a small smile.

"You’re ridiculous,"

you murmur, reaching out to ruffle his already-messy hair.

"Ridiculously woke," he corrects.

"Go to sleep, Nam-Gyu."

"But—"

"Sleep."

He huffs but finally lies down, mumbling under his breath. "You’ll see. One day, the truth will come out."

You shake your head, pressing a kiss to his forehead before snuggling back into the blankets.

Just as you start to drift off again, he mutters, "But seriously… where are all the baby pigeons?"

You pretend not to hear him.

🦑🦑🦑

[whosashan]

Console me

Part 2 of Sylus and Rafayel's section in "Who do you love?"

A/N: You asked, and here it is! Hope you enjoy! 💕

Rafayel

You didn’t know how much time had passed since you last spoke to Rafayel.

But the feeling of betrayal hadn’t faded. Not even a little.

It wasn’t that he didn’t try.

Your phone had been flooded with calls, texts, voice messages—some pleading, some poetic, others just plain ridiculous. Then came the flowers, bouquets upon bouquets piling up at your doorstep until your apartment smelled like an entire garden.

And then, of course, the billboard.

"Talk to me, cutie. I'm so sorry :("

It sat right outside your building, massive and utterly impossible to ignore.

You weren’t sure if you were amused or infuriated.

And yet, through all of that, he hadn’t shown up at your door. Not once. Rafayel, for all his dramatics, knew you. Knew that no amount of begging or extravagant gestures would work if you weren’t ready.

But he was waiting.

And maybe, deep down, you had been waiting too.

Then came the call from Thomas.

At first, you assumed Rafayel had bribed him into getting you to talk. Wouldn’t have been the first time. But there was something in Thomas’s voice—something that unsettled you.

"I don’t want to get involved in whatever mess this is, but I’m afraid it’s starting to affect my job."

That caught your attention.

"How?"

There was a pause. Then, a sigh.

"Just come here and see for yourself."

And then the call ended.

You scoffed. Classic.

And yet, despite your irritation, concern gnawed at you. Because no matter what had happened—no matter how much Rafayel had hurt you—you loved him. That much, at least, was certain.

Even if sometimes, you weren’t sure if his heart was truly yours.

—

The moment you stepped into the studio, you were hit with one immediate thought.

What the actual hell?

The place looked like it had been ransacked.

Not the usual artistic chaos Rafayel thrived in—no, this was different.

There was sand. Everywhere.

The paint on the walls had cracked, the curtains were ripped, and for some ungodly reason, seashells were scattered across the floor.

You weren’t even near a beach.

Your eyes finally landed on him.

Rafayel was seated in front of a massive, untouched canvas. His usual effortless grace was gone—his shoulders hunched slightly, his hands limp against his lap. The ever-present glint of mischief in his blue-pink eyes had dulled.

And yet, when you spoke, his name slipping past your lips softer than you intended—

"Rafayel."

—he didn’t look at you right away.

You weren’t sure if he was ignoring you or just too lost in his own world to register your presence.

So, you moved closer, crouching beside him.

Finally, his gaze shifted to yours.

It was subtle, but you saw it—the flicker of relief. The weight of exhaustion. The quiet kind of hurt that he rarely let anyone see.

But he stayed silent.

You sighed, reaching for his hand, fingers brushing against his knuckles.

"You're a big, big dummy, fishie."

His lips quirked—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile.

"Are you here to scold me, or finally confess that you can’t live without me?" His voice was light, teasing, but you heard the tension beneath it. The attempt to mask his uncertainty.

"How about we go to the beach?"

That made him pause.

His brows furrowed slightly, confusion flickering across his face—until realization hit.

The beach. Your place. Where everything had begun. Where words always came easier, where wounds found ways to heal.

For a moment, he just stared at you. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were offering him this. Like he knew he didn’t deserve it.

And yet, he still took your hand.

Slowly, deliberately, his fingers laced through yours before he pulled you forward—abruptly, effortlessly, entirely into his embrace.

His arms tightened around you, his grip firm, possessive, as though making sure you were real. That you were here.

Then, lips brushing against your temple, voice barely above a whisper—

"Don’t leave me alone again… please."

You inhaled sharply.

Rafayel was a lot of things—dramatic, infuriating.

But right now, he wasn’t playing.

You hesitated for only a second before resting your forehead against his shoulder.

"Don’t give me a reason to."

Sylus

It had been a week—a full week without contacting your lover.

Guilt gnawed at you, weaving itself between regret and hurt, settling heavy in your chest.

This was the longest you had ever been apart since the beginning of your relationship. It felt unnatural, wrong. Life without him was something you didn’t want to adjust to.

And yet, your pride held you back.

You paced your room, phone clutched in your hand, staring at the messages you had typed out but never sent.

"I miss you." "Can we talk?" "Why did you have to hurt me this badly?" "Are you still waiting for me?"

You sighed, rubbing your temples.

Sylus had reached out, but only in the quiet, thoughtful way that was so distinctly him.

A small, carefully folded letter, delivered by Mephisto.

"Whatever you decide to do, I'll always be here for you. My heart is yours, darling. —Sylus"

Your grip on the letter tightened. It made your heart ache, made doubt creep in.

Had you overreacted?

Before you could dwell on it further, a sudden knock on the door shattered your thoughts.

You hesitated before moving toward it, unsure what you were hoping for.

And then, you opened it.

There he was—your lover, standing before you, looking slightly disheveled, not quite himself. In his hands, a bouquet of your favorite flowers, petals trembling slightly from his grip.

His confidence, usually unwavering, was laced with hesitation.

"I know I said I’d wait for you," he murmured, voice softer than usual. "I just... missed you. I needed to see you."

Your heart pounded.

For a moment, you only stared at him, absorbing the sight of the man you had longed for. And then—

You launched yourself into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck, your legs around his waist.

He let out a startled breath, arms instinctively locking around you, steadying you against him.

Then, you grinned against his skin, voice muffled but certain.

"Let’s never fight again, okay?"

[bradleysass]

Pretend - @black-brothers-microfic - wc: 804

“Sirius, can we pretend to be close brothers for once?”

Sirius is halfway through lighting a cigarette when he hears the words. His fingers slip, the flame flickers out, and he turns, finding Regulus standing stiffly in the doorway of Grimmauld Place’s decrepit kitchen.

His first instinct is to say something sharp. Something about how pretending implies they aren’t, in some way, still brothers, and how that’s just so like Regulus—to act like their bond is a lie rather than something broken. But there’s something in Regulus’ voice. Not cold. Not resigned. Just... tired.

So Sirius just leans back against the counter, flicking the lighter open again but not igniting it. “Alright,” he says after a pause. “What do close brothers do?”

Regulus shifts his weight like he’s second-guessing this whole thing. But then he takes a step forward. “They talk.”

Sirius snorts. “Well, we’re already doing better than we did as kids.”

Regulus rolls his eyes but doesn’t retreat, which Sirius counts as a win. He gestures to the chair across from him. Regulus sits, looking down at his hands like he’s about to confess a crime.

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “Is this where you tell me you’ve been secretly killing people in your spare time? Because I have to say, that would be—”

“James,” Regulus blurts out.

Sirius freezes. Then he groans, tipping his head back. “Oh, come on.”

Regulus tenses. “Forget it.”

“No, no, you dragged me into this,” Sirius says, rubbing his temples. “I thought this was going to be about existential dread or Mum’s voice in your head or, I don’t know, how much you secretly love the family tapestry. But James?”

Regulus scowls. “Never mind.”

“Nope, we’re doing this. Close brothers, remember?” Sirius leans forward, leveling him with a look. “What about James?”

Regulus exhales sharply. He’s gripping his own wrist like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. He doesn’t answer immediately, but Sirius is patient, for once.

“…I don’t know what to do with it,” Regulus finally mutters.

Sirius’ brows furrow. “With what?”

Regulus flicks his eyes up to him, and suddenly Sirius understands.

“Oh,” he says, exhaling. Then, “Oh.”

Regulus clenches his jaw. “Say something.”

Sirius whistles low. “Well, first of all, ew.”

Regulus glares.

“I’m just saying, ew because it’s James.” Sirius holds up his hands. “But alright. Let’s be serious—no pun intended.” He leans on the table. “Are we talking can’t stand him but think about him all the time kind of thing, or I have written his name in my diary kind of thing?”

Regulus scowls. “I don’t have a diary.”

Sirius smirks. “So the first one, then.”

Regulus stays silent, but his fingers flex like he wants to hex something. Which, for Regulus, is as good as a confession.

Sirius lets out a long breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Alright, well, here’s the thing. James is… James. He’s loud, he’s ridiculous, he’s frustratingly kind, and worst of all—he’ll probably love you for it.”

Regulus flinches. “That’s the problem.”

Sirius studies him, then lets out a quiet oh. Because of course that’s the problem. Regulus has never known what to do with people who care about him. He was raised in a home where love was conditional, where affection was earned, and now he’s faced with James Potter—who loves so recklessly, so freely—and it terrifies him.

Sirius softens. “Reggie.”

Regulus glares at the nickname, but Sirius ignores it.

“I know it’s scary,” Sirius says, more serious now. “But you don’t have to earn it. He’s not a test you can fail. He just—loves. And for some gods-forsaken reason, it looks like you’re on the receiving end of that.”

Regulus swallows. “I don’t know how to…” He trails off, frustrated. “I’m not like you.”

Sirius scoffs. “Oh, thank Merlin. If there were two of me, the world would be in flames.”

Regulus gives him a flat look.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Look, you don’t have to be me. You don’t have to be anyone but you. And if James likes that—you let him.”

Regulus exhales through his nose, still looking unconvinced.

Sirius leans back, smirking. “And if you ever break his heart, I get to kick your arse.”

Regulus lets out a quiet, reluctant huff. “I’d like to see you try.”

Sirius grins. “See? We’re already getting the brother thing down.”

Regulus shakes his head, but there’s something lighter in his expression. He stands up, nodding once. “Thanks.”

Sirius nods back. “Anytime.”

Regulus turns to leave, pausing only once at the door. “And Sirius?”

“Hm?”

Regulus hesitates. Then—so quietly Sirius almost doesn’t catch it—he says, “You don’t have to pretend.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Sirius staring after him, cigarette long forgotten.

For once, Sirius doesn’t feel the need to say anything.

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

fangirling and finances 𓂂 𓇼˚｡ •

Summary: offical merch is expensive. the men who sell it are rich. doesn't mean i won't go in a rant about it.

✿ ln x desi!reader ✦

✿ fluff + humour ✦

masterlist ☾☼

monaco glistened in the mediterranean sunlight, a playground for the global elite. y/n, though, had another purpose. no need for the designer stores; she was tracking lando norris. she gripped her phone, praying she could take a photo if she managed to get close enough. her wardrobe? a much-worn "lando 4" t-shirt, a copy she'd bought from a street stall back home in india. official f1 merchandise prices would make her cry – genuinely, who could possibly afford those prices? seeing a known face by the casino square, y/n's heart leaped. it was him! taking a deep breath, she walked over, attempting to look as casual as possible. "mr. norris, may i have an autograph?" lando grinned, always the professional, and autographed her phone case. as he returned it to her, his eyes fell on her t-shirt. "cool shirt," he said, "but why not get the official merch? the quality is so much better." that was it. the floodgates opened. "are you kidding me? official merch is highway robbery! i could practically fund a small road trip around europe with the cost of one of your official hoodies!" lando blinked, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. road trips? he was more used to private jets. "uh-huh," he said, clearly not understanding the financial reality of budget travel. y/n was going strong. "see, a good official t-shirt will cost you about 80 euros, okay? that's, like, 7,200 rupees! i can buy at least five of these fake shirts for that kind of money, and they're not half bad! or, let's look at it this way, that's enough for, like, 140 big mac meals in india! imagine the food coma!" lando stared at her, confusion and fascination warring in his gaze. big macs? he lived in michelin-star restaurants. but she was so vivid, so evocative with her words; the sheer incredulity of her comparisons swept him up in their wake. "right," he answered slowly, "big macs. got it." y/n, unaware of his millionaire thinking, was only just beginning. "and those caps? don't even get me started! 40 euros for a cap? that's 3,600 rupees! i could buy a good pair of running shoes for that! shoes i could use to run away from those ridiculous prices!" lando, however, was undergoing some weird phenomenon. it was akin to "cuteness aggression," but rather than having the urge to squeeze a puppy, he simply wanted to continue hearing her. her furrowed brow, the frantic maths on her phone, the very universality of her money troubles – it was all oddly charming. casually, he suggested, "so, if money did not matter, what pieces would you most want?" y/n, without hesitation, recited her fantasy wishlist: a team polo, windbreaker, the limited-edition monaco hat, even the official team backpack. she listed the prices both in euros and rupees, not even catching lando's discreetly opening eyes at the sum. "and where are you staying?" he inquired, attempting to be casual. "how long are you in monaco?" y/n, still enthralled by her merchandise fever, replied eagerly, sharing information about her budget hotel and the last few days of her journey. lando listened intently, taking it in. "i'll… uh… i'll see what i can do with those prices," he replied with a small smile, well aware he wasn't going to negotiate with the official merchandise vendor. the next morning, an unassuming van arrived outside of y/n's hotel. a delivery man appeared, holding an enormous, unorthodox-looking package. on the inside, wrapped in tissues, were every item y/n had listed. the monaco cap, team polo, windbreaker, even the backpack. in a side pocket was stuck a tiny note, scribbled in pen: "look at the prices… adjusted ;) - lando." y/n gazed at the box contents, her mouth agape. she couldn't believe it. lando had actually… he'd listened to her rant! she messaged her friends immediately, telling them the tale in wide-eyed wonder, exaggerating the details just a little for dramatic effect. the question now was: what next? would this be an isolated act of kindness, or the start of something bigger? she had no clue, but she couldn't help grinning. this was certainly a vacation to remember.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

tf, why do i like this? dee, this is for you. anyways, i hope you like this! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @anamiad00msday ; @imlonelydontsendhelp ; @peterholland04 ; @justaf1girl ; @greantii ; @nocturnalherb16 ; @phobiccneel ; @winkev1 ; @alexxavicry ; @hiireadstuff ; @opastries81

[isa-beenme]

It took me long enough

Sorry for keeping everyone waiting

I don't know how i feel about this

But anyway, do we want a part 3? With happy ending or do we want to suffer? It honestly doesn't matter to me lol

Summary: Prythian saw the way that Rhysand's mate fell into depression but tried her best to get better. They saw the way that Cassian's mate fell into depression and turned it into pure anger and self-destruction. But... what if Azriel's mate simply... doesn't care?

What Was I Made For (Part. 1)

Maria (Part. 2)

Azriel was, once again, deeply engrossed in his work, the dimly lit room shrouded in the stillness that suited his nature. He meticulously reviewed intelligence reports, noting details that others might have overlooked. His mind was always a few steps ahead, always vigilant, and the weight of responsibility eternally rested heavily on his shoulders, a weight he sometimes thought would turn impossible to carry. Except when he had his mate with him. His world seemed to be brighter and more joyful. You had a quiet nature, almost quieter than him as some usually noted with surprise. But you were perfect in his eyes.

The mating bond was a constant presence in the back of his mind. It was a source of comfort, a reassurance that no matter how dark the world might become, he had someone who understood him completely, who completed him in ways above the world. Even though his bond was always silent. He tried his best to send love and happiness and every other feeling down the magical string inside him to his mate, but never received anything back. Rhys said it was because they had a new bond and didn't learn how to talk through it yet. But that was a long time ago, and the bond kept silent.

But lately, there was something different about it. It had grown ridiculously silent, eerily so, and Azriel couldn't quite place the reason or the difference. His connection with his mate had always been a bit unique, quieter than most when they sat together in a room and didn't talk for hours, reading or eating or working or just… existing, but the bigger absence of your presence was unsettling.

Days went by without you coming back home. But he was used to it. You would spend days in the woods or in another Court traveling or studying something. His shadows seemed to always want to talk to him about your moods, or show him something he didn't seem to notice about his mate. A ridiculous idea honestly, no one knew you better than him, there was nothing he wouldn't notice about his own mate. Everything was safe. Everything was fine. Everything was perfect. There was nothing to worry about.

It was just a casual visit from Helion, the High Lord of the Day Court, that finally brought the eerie silence to Azriel's attention. Helion, ever the jovial and inquisitive friend, inquired about his mate's trip. Azriel's brows furrowed as he considered the question. “What trip?” He asked, everyone's eyes turning to him with worry. He instinctively reached out through the bond, seeking a connection that had been his anchor for so long. But the void remained. It was as if the link between you had been severed, leaving Azriel in a disconcerting state of emotional limbo.

A chill crept through him as he realized the truth. You were gone. You had left without a word, without any indication that you were planning to do so. He always thought something would indicate if you were truly unhappy. But, if he remembers correctly, it was on any other ordinary day that you had left him. The emptiness in his chest, which he had sometimes interpreted as your indifference, now felt like a gaping void, and the pain of your absence hit him like a physical blow.

The following days were a blur of frantic searching and desperate inquiries. The shadows that had once been his comfort now whispered their condolences. Azriel's world had been shattered, and he was left to pick up the pieces. The bond, once silent, now echoed with his sorrow and longing, but you remained out of reach. The Spymaster, known for his ability to uncover secrets, had lost the most important one of all—his mate's intentions and desires. Azriel realized, too late, that he should have paid more attention to you, should have understood the depth of your struggle and the pain that may have driven you to leave.

He never knew what you truly wanted, everything always felt good to you, everything was nice and simple… wrong. He should've known. He should've seen that there were moments you were smiling but see you weren't there. It took him days to find your letter. Another thing he should've seen, but failed to look at.

In this city that had saved Azriel, but drowned you. Maybe you were too big of a fire to be restricted to such a small world that his life had offered, and, like fire, you needed to go. He tried to think of the good memories, of the moments you were in love with him, but in his thoughts, all he found was your letter, in your last words you had written in that calligraphy he never saw enough because you never showed him your writings:

“Sorry, I can't love myself the way you love me. And now I can't go back, my home is on fire, I am on fire and don't know how to stop. I needed to leave myself to find out where I was. But it's not that I feel bad with you, I just don't feel anything… I don't feel anything here, not the things I feel for you. Let me go, just this once, to understand what I was made for. Azriel, for once in my life, I wanna be the star that guides my path.”

As he is left with the hollowness of your absence, the crushing weight of his failure, and the endless uncertainty of your fate, he smiles to Velaris’ sky and wishes that you can shine to yourself as bright as you shine for everyone around you. Azriel's silence had become a reflection of his soul, a reflection of how you seemed to be, shattered and incomplete without the answer to why he feels so empty. He knows you are fine, but is he? If he could have one more chance.

[campingwiththecharmings]

Good Neighbors (7)

PART 6

AN: Hello lovely people. I'm so unbelievably sorry that this took OVER A YEAR to get out. Ugh. I'm so annoyed with myself. If you're still here, thank you so much for sticking with me, I know I've been pretty MIA recently. That being said, without further ado, here is the seventh smutlet in a series set after the events of Night Moves. I hope it's worth the wait lol.

Why should you care if Santi had someone over? What’s it matter that it was (apparently) an attractive woman? It doesn’t, it shouldn’t. You and Santi are just friends. Sure, you get naked together sometimes but there’s nothing else there, he doesn’t owe you anything, he’s not yours— And you’re not his.

(Un-beta’d)

Rated: M+ (this is smut so, i mean, you’ve been warned?) Words: 2,077 (can i still call them 'smutlets' if they're the length of a normal fic lmao) Pairing: Santiago “Pope” Garcia x F!Reader Warnings: pwp, kissing, ~*feelings*~ (ugh), a dash of angst, jealousy, neighbors with benefits AO3

——————

You can’t sleep, and much like all those months ago, it’s your stupid neighbor’s fault.

Your stupidly gorgeous, funny, sweet, wonderful neighbor, Santiago Garcia.

Sadly, the issue this time is not him playing his music too loud in the middle of the night. No. Instead the issue is something that shouldn’t even be an issue.

Ugh. How did you even get here?

Right. 3A. Yeah, this was all that bitch’s fault. If she’d just kept what she’d seen to herself, you’d be sleeping like a baby right now. But no, she’d had to go and open her big, fat mouth.

Why should you careif Santi had someone over? What’s it matter that it was (apparently) an attractive woman? It doesn’t, it shouldn’t. You and Santi are just friends. Sure, you get naked together sometimes but there’s nothing else there, he doesn’t owe you anything, he’s not yours—

And you’re not his.

A weight settles on your chest at the thought and you sigh. You turn on your side, looking at the clock on your bedside table; the glaring, red numbers feel like they’re burning a hole into your retinas. 

Almost 3 a.m. Just like the night you first met.

The longer you think about it, the worse you feel—was he fucking her too? Are you just one in a long line of women he has at his beck and call? Did you even mean anything to him or were you just the most convenient? 

Stop it, you tell yourself, you have no right to be jealous. Enough.

You scoff after a moment, shaking your head at your own thoughts. Jealous? Please, you weren’t jealous. That’d be stupid, right? Completely and utterly ridiculous.

You will yourself to sleep, closing your eyes and trying every technique you know to try and clear your mind.

After ten minutes, you throw your covers off with a frustrated groan and sit up, legs hanging off the side of your bed.

If there’s any hope of you getting any sleep tonight, you have to talk to him.

You shuffle quickly through your living room, out the front door, and into the hall. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you knock on his door, the sound echoing loudly down the empty hall. For a moment, you pray that he doesn’t answer, that he’s already fast asleep but you’re realistic enough to know that’s probably not what’s going to happen. You hear the drag and click of the door being unlocked and you tense slightly as it slowly swings inward.

Santiago squints out into the hall, a soft smile spreading on his lips when he sees it’s you. 

“Evening, hermosa,” he rasps, running a hand over his face. “Or, I guess I should say morning.”

“I can’t sleep,” you blurt, wincing slightly as you briefly avert your gaze. “Can we talk?”

You watch as his face shifts, his brow furrowing, head cocked slightly to the left as the smile melts away. He nods, stepping back to give you enough room to come in.

Your eyes sweep the room as you step over the threshold, searching for someone you know isn’t there (not anymore, anyway). He wouldn’t have let you in if she was.

“Everything okay?” he asks, gently touching your shoulder.

You don’t answer him right away, unsure how to even broach this topic. Santi doesn’t owe you anything, not even an explanation, really. He’s never made you any promises, never said you were the only one he was messing around with…never said he loves you.

Something sharp lodges in your chest at the thought and you close your eyes, breathing slowly in an effort to quell the panic rising in your throat.

He says your name, his voice soft, and the sharpness in your chest turns to an ache, an ache you’ve become all too familiar with recently. You push the feeling away, trying to focus on why you’d come here. 

The other woman. Right.

With a steadying breath, you turn to him, crossing your arms over your chest protectively.

“I heard you had a visitor today,” you say nonchalantly, as if this is a completely normal conversation to be having in the middle of the night.

His brow furrows again, this time in confusion. “A visitor?”

You nod in response, your jaw tight. For a moment he just stares at you, waiting for you to elaborate, but then his eyes light in realization. 

“Are you talking about Ana?”

You avert your gaze to the floor, the sharpness in your chest returning. Then a warm, low chuckle reaches your ears, the sound making your insides melt. God, do you love his laugh.

He steps closer, his fingers brushing against the underside of your chin, trying to return your eyes to his; the gentleness of his touch makes your chest ache.

“She’s just a friend, hermosa,” he explains, his voice low and soft.

Unfortunately, his words do nothing to alleviate your concerns.

“‘Just a friend’ like me?” you ask, your voice breaking despite the control you’re fighting so hard to maintain over yourself.

His eyes soften and a piece of you crumbles inside. You watch as his jaw clenches, his hands moving to cup your cheeks, holding you in place so you can’t look away from him again.

“No,” he whispers, shaking his head slightly, “Not like you.”

He holds your gaze, his eyes burning with an intensity you’ve never seen before. It makes your heart skip, your lips parting slightly at the insinuation. You want to believe it, want to believe that this thing between you is more than just sex, more even than friendship. You want to believe it, so you do…if only for tonight.

He must see whatever he’s searching for in your eyes because suddenly he’s kissing you, his lips gentle but sure as he pours everything he is and feels into it, into you. It’s different from the other times somehow, more intense, more serious, as though he’s trying to prove something. You cling to him, fingers twisting in his shirt as he slips his tongue between your lips. He steps closer, his left hand sliding down your neck and torso to settle on your hip. You sigh at the press of his body against yours, warm and solid, familiar. 

Without breaking the kiss, Santi guides you backwards, slowly steering you both in the direction of his couch. You pause when the backs of your knees touch the soft, cool leather, letting yourself get lost in the feel of him again. You slide your hands down his chest, slipping them beneath the hem of his shirt to his warm, soft skin. The coolness of your fingers makes him jump a little in surprise and you can’t help the smile that spreads on your lips. He smiles back, you can feel it as he kisses you, as he angles your head and licks into your mouth again, and it makes that now ever-present ache in your chest throb. 

When you finally part, it’s for air, your foreheads pressed together as you pant, trying to catch your breaths. He’s too far, you think. You want—no you need—to have him closer, need to feel his skin against yours, need his lips, his eyes, his hands, his everything. You need him. 

Your fingers toy with the hem of his shirt before slowly pushing it up his torso and then pulling it over his head. Santi’s eyes are glued to you, like he’s afraid to look away, afraid you’ll disappear if he does. You lean in, pressing a kiss against the hollow of his throat. Santi inhales shakily as you explore, slowly kissing a line down to his chest. He hisses when you flick your tongue over his nipples, his fingers clenching at your hip.

You wish you could live here, in this moment, this moment where there’s nothing else but you and him together. 

After a moment, he pulls you back, pulls your mouth back to his, humming contentedly when you reconnect, as if you’ve been parted for years instead of just a few seconds. Santiago’s hands slip beneath the waistband of your pajama bottoms and panties, the warm, rough pads of his fingers scratching delightfully against your skin. Slowly, he pushes them down, dragging the fabric over your ass and hips before letting them fall at your feet. Unimpeded by your clothing, he cups your backside, gently kneading your cheeks with his strong fingers as he pulls your body against his.

Slowly, you undress each other, hands lingering, reverently caressing every inch of skin revealed. Once you’re bared to each other, Santi lays you down against the cushions of his couch. The cool leather makes you shiver, goosebumps breaking out and spreading over your body. He watches you for a moment, his eyes somewhat unreadable in the darkness of the room. You can feel his gaze on you, as he drags it slowly down your body, as if committing every bit of you to memory. Before you can say anything, he leans in, reclaiming your mouth as he situates his body over yours. 

He’s so warm, the weight of him comforting, familiar, as he settles between your legs. You moan softly as his hard cock brushes against your core, the sound muffled by his mouth on yours. He groans, slowly grinding against you, each brush of him sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. It feels like you’re on fire, like you’re about to burn up from the inside out. You need him, need him to fill you, to consume you. He seems to sense your need, shifting so the head of his cock is pressed against your entrance.

He breaks your kiss as he sinks inside you, his swollen lips parting in a silent groan as your body welcomes him home. For a moment, he doesn’t move, content just to bask in the warmth of you. He finds your lips again, his kiss languid and deep, as if he can’t get enough of you, as if he wants to swallow you whole. When he finally starts to move, it’s slow, his thrusts shallow but no less pleasurable. He keeps kissing you, stealing your breath, his hands are everywhere, touching, caressing, stoking the fire inside you. The moment feels endless, a blur of hands and lips and breathy moans. 

There’s something different about this time, something different in the air, in the energy between you both. Perhaps it's the pace, your usual frantic neediness traded for something so unhurried, yet still so passionate. It feels unreal, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. It feels like love, though, you know it isn’t. 

It’s easy to forget, though, consumed by him as you are. He’s everything, he’s everywhere, all you can see, all you can feel, hear, smell, taste—

You shake as the tension twists in your gut, breathy moans escaping you with every push of his hips. He’s no better, jaw slack, eyes blown wide and dark, looking almost drunk as he so easily unravels you bit by bit. You’re so close, feeling as though you’ve been on the precipice for ages, ready to tumble over with the slightest nudge. He keeps you there, the steady push and pull of his hips drawing out your pleasure. Briefly you wonder if it’s possible to die from this, because you feel like you might. There are worse ways to go, you suppose.

Something in his eyes shifts as he moves over you, as if he’s made some important decision. He leans in, claiming your mouth once more, his kiss deep and filled with so much longing it takes your breath away. He finds your hands, splayed limply beside you on the couch, his fingers lacing with yours. He’s done it before, but somehow now it feels different, like it means more. You tell yourself you’re reading too much into it, into everything—he doesn’t feel the way you want him to, he doesn’t love you.

Your hands are still clasped when you come, his fingers gripping yours like a vice. He presses his forehead to yours as the euphoria washes over you like a tidal wave, the warmth of his breath gliding pleasantly over your skin. Then he kisses you, so gentle and sweet it makes your heart ache in your chest.

You know it’s not love, but maybe, just this once, it’s okay to pretend.

So you do.

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

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PART 8 (coming soon)

[eclipixels]

Candid

Rafayel x Reader

Content: Rafayel takes up photography because of you.

[848 words]

The first time Rafayel picks up a camera, it’s because of you.

You don’t realize it at first. You’re too used to the way he looks at you like you’re a masterpiece he hasn’t quite finished, like every tilt of your head and every flicker of emotion across your face is something worth memorizing. You’ve always known he watches you with an artist’s eye, but painting takes time. Too much time. And Rafayel, for all his patience when it comes to art, has never been particularly patient when it comes to you.

So one day, instead of his usual sketchbook or canvas, he pulls out a camera.

It starts subtly. At first, he only uses it when he’s trying to capture a certain look on your face for reference, snapping quick shots before disappearing into his studio. But then it changes. The way he holds the camera becomes more deliberate. The way he watches you through the lens is different—more than just an artist analyzing his subject.

It’s him, wanting to freeze time.

Wanting to hold onto something fleeting.

Wanting to keep every version of you, forever. Immortalized in a frame.

You catch him one morning, camera in hand, as he watches you from across the room.

“Really?” You raise an eyebrow, brushing your hair out of your face. “Isn’t painting your thing?”

Rafayel hums, leaning against the doorway. He doesn’t answer immediately, just lifts the camera and clicks the shutter before you can react. The quiet sound of the capture makes your heart skip a beat.

“I still paint,” he says finally, lowering the camera slightly. “But you move too much. Change too fast.”

You tilt your head. “And?”

“And I hate missing any of it.”

His voice is soft, but there’s something almost reverent in the way he says it. Like every second with you is precious. Like he’s desperate to keep them all.

Your cheeks heat, and you groan, burying your face in your hands. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re beautiful,” he corrects, completely serious. Another click of the camera. Another moment frozen in time.

You peek at him through your fingers. “Are you going to do anything with all these photos?”

Rafayel doesn’t answer right away. He just watches you for a moment before finally saying, “They’re for me.”

Something about the way he says it makes your heart skip several beats.

Days pass. Then weeks. The camera becomes as much a part of Rafayel’s routine as his sketchbook. He takes pictures of you constantly. When you’re laughing, when you’re lost in thought, when you’re barely awake in the mornings with sleep still clinging to your skin.

He doesn’t just take photos of you when you’re “perfect.” He captures the little moments. The way you furrow your brows when you’re focused, the sleepy pout you get when he wakes you up too early, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love.

And every single one of those photos? He keeps them.

You don’t realize how many until you stumble upon the box.

It’s tucked away in his studio, hidden among his unfinished canvases and tubes of paint. You hadn’t meant to find it. But when you pull the lid off the box, you freeze.

Photos. Hundreds of them.

All of you.

You stare, breath catching in your throat as you sift through them. Some are Polaroids, others printed out on glossy paper. Some are candid—blurred motion and laughter—while others are heartbreakingly soft, like he’d caught you in a moment of quiet he never wanted to forget.

You recognize some of them. Moments from the past weeks, others much older you smile as you recall the memories behind them.

The sound of the studio door opening makes you jolt.

You look up, wide-eyed, as Rafayel leans against the doorframe. His expression is unreadable, but his sunset eyes flicker between you and the open box.

There’s a moment of silence. You don’t know what to say, but your hands shake as you hold one of the pictures, a close-up of your profile, soft and warm in the evening light.

Rafayel finally steps closer, kneeling beside you. He takes the photo from your hands, holding it gently between his fingers.

“Paintings take too long,” he murmurs. “I can’t keep up with how beautiful you are. I don’t ever want to forget.”

Your chest tightens. “Rafayel…”

He meets your gaze, unguarded in a way he rarely is.

“Is it too much?” he asks softly.

You shake your head. “No. It’s—” You exhale, feeling something fragile and warm settle in your ribs. “Beautiful.”

A small smile tugs at his lips. Rafayel always had this way of making you feel like you’re the most beautiful girl in the world. Not just because he treated you as his muse but also with how much he spoiled you with affection and care.

He lifts the camera again, tilting his head slightly. “Then, let me keep this moment too.”

You roll your eyes but don’t protest.

The shutter clicks.

And just like that, another piece of you becomes his forever.

[lelengerine]

pairing. zhong chenle x reader

synopsis. you became chenle’s academic rival because it was the only way to make him notice you. it was supposed to be harmless—just a little friendly competition, a fleeting thrill of being seen, but when you overhear his friends saying you’re nowhere near his type, you realize you’ve might’ve been playing a losing game from the beginning.

tags. highschool au, academic rivals to lovers, mutual pining, a splash of angst but mainly fluff, one cuss word, plot is a lil stupid but it's MY kinda stupid, she/her prns are used for reader!

wc. 1.6k words

notes. it has been a while... again... anyways.... i hope you're all doing well 😁 likes, reblogs, and feedback are very much welcome!

꒰ m.list ꒱

it all begins with a single test.

a perfect score, a name at the top of the list. not his. yours.

chenle doesn’t look at you often—not outside of necessity, not beyond the casual acknowledgment of two students who happen to sit near each other. you were just another body in the classroom, another hand raised during discussions, another mark on the ranking board.

yet, that changes the moment you manage to surpass him.

“that was sheer luck,” he says when he sees your score, as if the idea of you outperforming him was absurd, as if there was no possible universe in which you could be his equal, but that was what it took for him to notice you, to know you.

so you do it again. and again. and again—until your name and his become inseparable, linked by competition, by late-night study sessions and quiet acknowledgments of each other’s efforts; until it becomes expected that when scores are announced, yours will be the first name he looks for.

and at some point, the rivalry stops being just a game to you because you like the way his brow furrows when he barely edges you out. you like the sharp wit in his teasing, the way he leans back in his chair and smirks whenever he catches you staring. you like the quiet satisfaction in his voice when he tells you, “next time, i’m winning.”

you like him.

not in any serious way—just the tiniest bit. a trivial little crush. nothing that would ever mean anything.

at least, that’s what you tell minjeong.

“you’re actually insane,” she says one afternoon, watching you scribble furiously in your notebook.

you don’t even look up. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

minjeong kicks at your chair leg. “oh, please. you started a whole academic rivalry just to get chenle to notice you.”

you blink innocently. “and?”

“and that’s the most unhinged thing i’ve ever heard!” she gestures wildly. “like, do you even hear yourself? you willingly turned your crush into your competition just so he’d acknowledge your existence?”

you sigh, finally looking up. “it’s not that deep.”

minjeong gives you a look. “it is exactly that deep. you could’ve just flirted with him like a normal person.”

you scoff. “i am flirting. just… academically.”

“i call bullshit!”

“it’s working, isn’t it?” you tap your pen against your notebook. “before this, he didn’t even properly know my name. now, he’s the one finding me to compare exam results.”

minjeong groans, dropping her forehead onto the desk. “i can’t believe i’m friends with someone this delusional.”

you grin. “you love me.”

she lifts her head just enough to glare at you. “i tolerate you.”

and maybe she has a point—maybe it’s ridiculous, maybe it’s a little (very) pathetic, but in the end, what does it matter? it’s just a harmless game. a fleeting thrill.

it’s not like you actually expect anything to come of it.

right?

ʚɞ

it was all an accident.

you didn’t mean to overhear jaemin and jisung talking in the cafeteria, but the moment your name slips into the conversation, your brain snags onto it like a hook.

jaemin sighs, voice quieter than usual. “i feel kind of bad for her.”

jisung, chewing absentmindedly, glances up. “why?”

jaemin nudges his tray with his fork, brows drawn together. “i mean… it’s obvious, isn’t it? she’s been competing with him like crazy, but…” he pauses, choosing his words carefully. “i don’t think she realizes that chenle doesn’t usually—” he exhales. “he’s never really looked at anyone that way before.”

jisung frowns slightly. “you think she likes him?”

jaemin gives him a pointed look. “come on, you don’t?”

jisung hesitates, then sighs. “yeah. but it’s not like it’s completely hopeless. i mean, he respects her now, you know? it’s not nothing.”

jaemin leans back in his seat, thoughtful. “yeah, but respect and interest aren’t the same thing.” his voice drops, softer, like he almost doesn’t want to say it. “and if he was interested in someone… it probably wouldn’t be her.”

jisung’s expression hardens. “not because she’s not good enough, right?”

“no, of course not,” jaemin says quickly. “it’s just—you know how he is. he likes people who challenge him, but he also looks up to experience. he’s always been drawn to older people, people who’ve done more, seen more.” he sighs. “if he ever did like someone, it’d probably be someone like that.”

jisung drums his fingers against the table, lips pressing together. “i mean… who would wanna date their rival anyways? that sounds a bit exhausting.”

jaemin huffs a quiet laugh. “yeah, exactly.” then, after a beat, his voice softens again. “i just don’t want her to get her hopes up.”

your stomach twists.

and just like that, the air shifts because suddenly, everything that once felt light, fleeting, manageable—your silly little crush, your harmless rivalry—becomes something heavier. something that leaves a pit in your stomach, pressing down with the weight of every joke, every glance, every moment you thought maybe.

there was never a chance. not even the slightest possibility.

and you were stupid to ever think otherwise.

ʚɞ

you don’t talk about it.

not to minjeong when she nudges your elbow during class, whispering about the way chenle has glanced at your direction three times in a row already when it’s only the first period. not to your friends when they ask why you don’t seem to argue with him as much anymore.

and certainly not to chenle himself.

you tell yourself you’re getting over it, that it doesn’t matter.

you stop challenging him for the sake of it. you stop lingering on the way he says your name. you stop waiting for him to look at you first. you let yourself lose—because what’s the point of competing for something you were never going to win?

“what’s with you lately?”

chenle’s voice cuts through the quiet hum of the nearly empty classroom. you don’t look up from your notebook, feigning disinterest as you continue underlining a phrase you’ve already marked twice.

“with me?” you ask, barely sparing him a glance. “nothing’s wrong.”

he scoffs, shifting his weight against the desk. “you haven’t tried to beat me in anything all week.”

the accusation is laced with something you can’t quite place—curiosity, maybe. or frustration. maybe both. but it doesn’t matter, none of it does.

you shrug, keeping your expression neutral. “maybe i just don’t care anymore.”

a pause. too long, too heavy. you feel the weight of his stare pressing into you, waiting for something—for you to crack, to admit to something you shouldn’t.

then, his voice comes quieter, but sharper. “you expect me to believe that?”

you tap your pen against the desk, the rhythm steady, controlled. “i don’t expect anything from you.”

and there it is. the truth, laid out between you like an open wound.

chenle exhales, tilting his head, his gaze never wavering. “so that’s it?”

you force yourself to nod, as if it’s that simple. as if your stomach doesn’t still twist every time he looks at you.

another pause. then—

“so it has nothing to do with my ideal type being someone older or whatever?”

your fingers stiffen around your pen.

the air shifts, charged and suffocating. for the first time since he walked into the room, you hesitate. your body betrays you before your mind can catch up—shoulders tensing, breath hitching, the smallest flicker of your eyes meeting his before you can stop yourself.

chenle sees it all.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, voice clipped, turning back to your notes.

he doesn’t let up. “jisung and jaemin,” he hints, like he’s been waiting for this, like he already knows you heard them. “that’s why you’ve been acting weird.”

you grip the edge of the page, trying to keep your hands steady. “it’s really not.” 

his gaze burns into you, unrelenting. “right,” he murmurs. “so it wouldn’t… i don’t know… bother you if i said they were wrong?”

your heart stumbles.

wrong?

the word unravels in your mind, the possibilities spinning out of control before you can stop them.

they were… wrong?

wrong about what? that you never had a chance? that he would never look at you that way? that you were playing a losing game from the start?

or—

that maybe, just maybe, you had never been losing at all.

your throat feels tight. you grip your pen harder, grounding yourself in something, anything other than trying to figure out the meaning behind his words. you tell yourself not to ask. not to hope.

“no,” you mutter instead. “it doesn’t matter.”

chenle exhales, a quiet huff of amusement, as if he can see right through you. “it does matter, though.”

his voice is lower now, softer, careful, and you hate the way it makes your pulse stutter.

“cause you’re the same age as me.”

the words settle between you, deceptively simple, but you can feel the intention behind them, the unspoken meaning in the way he says them—like he’s handing you a puzzle piece, daring you to put it together.

slowly, reluctantly, you look up.

chenle is already watching you, waiting. his expression is unreadable, but there’s something beneath it—something pleased, something almost satisfied. like he’s just solved a problem that’s been bothering him for a while.

like he’s just confirmed something he always suspected.

a slow, knowing smile tugs at his lips. “so?” he murmurs. “still want to pretend you don’t care?”

and suddenly, it clicks.

the teasing, the competition, the way his eyes would always flick to your scores first. the way he’d smirk whenever you challenged him, like he was waiting for it. the way he never let you win too easily, but never let himself lose without a fight.

the way he always met you where you were, like he had been waiting for you to catch up.

it seems you weren’t the only one playing a game.

[sumeng-ovo]

That Golden retriever boy!

Part 1 - Man’s Best Friend

Puppy! Evan Buckley x Soft-hearted Female Rreader

warning: golden retriever Buck (real dog); ridiculous fluffy; supernatural; Buck being taken to veterinarian 

word count: 855

The first serious part of this series! Not native English speaker so I used translating app for help. This part is a bit short because I had never raised a real dog so all content was imaginary, some ridiculous stuff in my mind, all for fun and cuteness. Comments are very welcomed! Let me know if there's any problem. previous part is here: Part 0 - two strike

enjoy!

Buck woke up to the smell of dirt and the itch of grass against his face. Not the usual wake-up call for a guy who slept on a king-sized mattress in a loft with blackout curtains. He blinked, groggy, expecting the familiar hum of his apartment, but instead, he got sunlight stabbing his eyes and a weird weight to his limbs. He tried to sit up, only to realize something was very wrong. His hands weren’t hands.

They were paws. Big, fluffy, golden paws.

“What the—” he started to say, but it came out as a sharp woof. His heart slammed against his ribs. He twisted his head, catching a glimpse of a wagging tail—his tail—and a coat of scruffy golden fur. No. No way. This wasn’t happening. He was Evan Buckley, LAFD firefighter, not some stray dog. Specifically, not that stray dog. The golden retriever he’d been watching her feed for weeks.

Panic set in fast. He scrambled to his feet—paws slipping on the pavement—and barked again, louder this time, hoping someone would hear him. “Eddie! Bobby! Anyone!” he tried to shout, but it was just a string of frantic woofs. He bolted toward Station 118, its bay doors looming ahead, his mind racing. Was this a curse? A jinx? He’d joked about the universe screwing with him after those two missed chances with her, but this? This was next-level insane.

Before he could figure out how he’d even gotten here, a familiar figure appeared on the sidewalk. Her. The girl with the soft smile and the paper bag of treats. You. His ears—God, he had ears now—perked up despite himself as you crouched down, your cardigan slipping off one shoulder. “Hey, buddy,” you said, your voice as gentle as ever. “Hungry today?”

You held out a treat, something crumbly and human-edible—Buck could smell it wasn’t cheap dog kibble—but he wasn’t about to eat it. He was a man, not a damn dog, no matter what his body was saying. He barked, sharp and insistent, backing away. Your brow furrowed, confused, and he felt a pang of guilt. But he didn’t have time for guilt. He had to get to the station, make someone notice him.

“Help! It’s me!” he tried to yell, lunging toward the bay. The barks echoed, wild and chaotic, and he charged forward, paws skidding. You gasped behind him, caught off guard. He didn’t mean to scare you—he just needed Eddie or Chim to see him, to figure this out. But he’d barely made it halfway across the street when a pair of strong hands scooped him up like he weighed nothing.

“Whoa, easy there!” It was Chimney, grinning as he held Buck—the dog—aloft. “This guy’s feisty today.”

Buck thrashed, barking louder, but Chim’s grip was iron. You ran up, breathless, your skirt swishing. “I’m so sorry,” you said, hands clasped together. “He’s never like this. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Chim shrugged, setting Buck down but keeping a hand on his scruff. “Maybe he’s just having a bad day. Happens to the best of us.”

Buck glared up at him—couldn’t they tell?—but Chim just chuckled and walked back inside. You knelt beside him, worry creasing your face.

“Are you okay, bud?” you murmured, reaching to stroke his head. He froze. Your touch was soft, hesitant, and for a second, he almost leaned into it. Almost. Then he remembered he was a grown man trapped in a dog’s body, and this was a nightmare.

You stood, biting your lip. “Maybe you’re sick. We should get you checked out.” Before he could protest—woof—you scooped him up, surprisingly strong for someone so soft-looking, and headed down the street. Buck’s stomach sank. A vet? No. Absolutely not. He squirmed, but his energy was fading fast, the panic burning him out.

The vet’s office was a blur of cold tables and prodding hands. Buck endured it, too exhausted to fight as the veterinarian poked and prodded, muttering about hydration and stress.

“He’s fine,” the vet finally said, peering over his glasses. “Not sick, just worked up. Keep an eye on him.”

You nodded, relieved, and thanked the vet as you lifted Buck again. He didn’t resist this time. The exam had drained him—needles, thermometers, the works—and he let his head flop against your arm. You carried him out, murmuring reassurances he couldn’t answer, and soon he felt the sway of your steps as you took him somewhere else. Home, he realized, when the air shifted from city noise to the quiet of an apartment.

You set him on a couch, soft and worn, and sat beside him. “What’s going on with you today?” you asked, half to yourself, brushing a hand through his fur.

He met your eyes, warm and worried, and felt a strange mix of frustration and calm. He was still a dog. Still trapped. But at least he was here, with you. For now, he’d rest. Later, he’d figure out how to fix this—

because Evan Buckley wasn’t staying a golden retriever forever.