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prettyboysdontlookatexplosions · 3 days ago

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ok i am not coping well with having a post on which a high percentage of rebloggers have many things to say be as popular as this one is and i am too much of an anxious control freak to turn off notes without also turning off reblogs so i am turning off reblogs but not before saying a few quick things that have come up in the notes (because see above re: anxious control freak lol):

first and foremost i would like to formally apologize for saying megalodon instead of megalosaurus when i sat down to type this post in (this is true) an attempt to wake myself up more fully after a nap

i have also just been informed that i typed the title of the study wrong... lessons here for all of us perhaps.........

i don't think this study is like perfect or "proof" of anything in particular (in fact of course no study is...) although for what it's worth at least some of the complaints about the study's methodology get basic facts about its design wrong lol (in particular, it's stated that students had the option to read silently if they were uncomfortable reading out loud). i appreciate this study because as a person who encounters students professional who really struggle to read - including proficient-seeming students who completely fall apart whenever they have to read anything more than like 75 years old - i have come to feel more and more intensely over time that people who discuss literacy and reading pedagogy have a real gap in their understanding of what struggling readers are actually doing when they read. nothing i encountered in my master's degree, even among the material that was not lies (lol), and nothing i've encountered in reading about literacy and reading pedagogy since, has really seemed like it captured what i was seeing in students who were not missing a detail or two, or confused by a sentence here or there, but totally and completely lost in ways that i have come to believe people who can read proficiently honestly have difficulty envisioning. and the qualitative observations made of this study's problematic readers are the first time i've ever seen anyone in the ed space other than Me On My Own Blog Or Texts To Friends put to words the phenomenon i have encountered both in the classroom at the third grade level (and younger but third grade is when it got really obvious because of the nature of the books being read) and as a tutor working with affluent, academically successful 11th- and 12th-graders who cannot make it through a single paragraph of a speech by lincoln. i'm not really attached to the specific cut-off points determined by the study or numerical distribution in the article and i almost regret sharing the attention-grabbing 58% because what i find most of value here is the qualitative description of something i have seen, have struggled to put into words, and have come to believe that - whatever its actual prevalence - is much more common than is assumed by the vast majority of educators tasked with some form of teaching reading, from early elementary all the way through the college level.

you don't know me from adam so i guess you have no real reason to believe that i am coming at this from the accumulation of going on a decade of professional experience i have spent considering the hidden cognitive processes of struggling readers and am not just ungenerously overgeneralizing from a handful of student comments that have perfectly reasonable alternative explanations... but... i am. lmao.

some people seem to feel inclined to "defend" the problematic readers either by critiquing the study (which see above) or by saying "well of course they struggled, dickens is hard/they don't know anything about victorian england." two notes here: (1) neither i nor the authors of the study are attacking these students by attempting to describe what they can or can't do when faced with some complicated prose (2) i'm not really sure how this stands in contradiction to my own argument that the educational system has seriously failed these students... like i don't know what your vision of successful education is that does not include learning to read complex text written in a mode distinct from contemporary daily language use or enough general knowledge about the world to be able to plug in to a novel written in victorian england.

also... alright i said this in a separate post but i am putting it here too i guess: the problem with accepting that people will not be able to read the complex syntax that was common in older times (dickens - at least in those 7 paragraphs - is not actually particularly longwinded or syntactically complex when considered among many other pre-twentieth century authors) is that we live in a country quite literally founded on syntactically complicated documents written hundreds of years ago. i believe citizens - all citizens! not just the english majors even! - have the right to an education that prepares them to read for themselves the written history of their country. i will not ever accept that this is an unreasonable standard.

much of the point of my list of bulletpoints was to try to head off at the pass people trying to identify the sole cause of this because people fucking love One Weird Trick education takes but some people managed this anyway... the persistence of the human spirit i guess lmao. anyway education is one of the most complex topics out there and nobody who claims to say "it's all [blank]" knows what the fuck they're talking about :)

also the reason i highlighted the date of data collection was to avoid people turning this into a gen z thing, but for the record i don't think we have any evidence to suggest this was new in 2015 either. i think it's always important to remember in literacy conversations that the idea of universal college-level literacy is historically a very new one and many problematic readers currently in college are people who in previous generations simply would have ended their formal schooling much earlier than they have. if you look at this table from the national center for education statistics, you can see that the percentage of US adults over twenty-five with a high school diploma crosses into more than half the population sometime in the 60s (it jumps from 1960 to 1970 so we can't see the exact year).

students/children vary wildly in how much support they need to learn to read, which i say mostly to share that your own ability to read well is not necessarily proof that the people who taught you how to read did a good job, nor are your own memories of learning how to read necessarily useful guides for the right way to teach people how to read. in particular - and i am not trying to be harsh in this correction because it's a common myth and an understandable assumption - i do want to push back on the idea that the key to better reading is parents reading to their children, because parents of dyslexic children have shared how personally hurtful to them and genuinely harmful to their children's education it was to be told over and over "make sure you're reading to them at home" when they were already doing that and it was not helping their dyslexic children learn how to read. (i think this might come up in sold a story... if not then i saw it on twitter back when sold a story was rolling out and i was obsessively following the convos about it to a degree where i had to force myself to stop because it was bad for my mental health lmao.)

charles dickens did not get paid by the fucking word!!

i appreciated this study: "They Can't Read Very Well: A Study of the Reading Comprehension Skills Of English Majors At Two Midwestern Universities"

essentially, a pair of professors set out to test their intuitive sense that students at the college level were struggling with complex text. they recruited 85 students, a mix of english majors and english education majors - so, theoretically, people focusing on literature, and people preparing to teach adolescents how to read literature - and had them read-while-summarizing the first seven paragraphs of dickens's bleak house (or as much as they made it through in the 20 minute session). they provided dictionaries and also said students could use their phones to look up whatever they wanted, including any unfamiliar words or references. they found that the majority of the students - 58%, or 49 out of the 85 students - functionally could not understand dickens at all, and only 5% - a mere 4 out of the 85 students - proved themselves proficient readers (leaving the remaining 38%, or 32 students, as what the study authors deemed "competent" students, most of whom could understand about half the literal meaning - pretty low bar for competence - although a few of whom, they note, did much better than the rest in this group if not quite well enough to be considered proficient).

what i really appreciated about this study was its qualitative descriptions of the challenges and reading behaviors of what the authors call "problematic readers" (that bottom 58%), which resonated strongly with my own experiences of students who struggle with reading. here's their blunt big picture overview of these 49 students:

The majority of these subjects could understand very little of Bleak House and did not have effective reading tactics. All had so much trouble comprehending concrete detail in consecutive clauses and phrases that they could not link the meaning of one sentence to the next. Although it was clear that these subjects did try to use various tactics while they read the passage, they were not able to use those tactics successfully. For example, 43 percent of the problematic readers tried to look up words they did not understand, but only five percent were able to look up the meaning of a word and place it back correctly into a sentence. The subjects frequently looked up a word they did not know, realized that they did not understand the sentence the word had come from, and skipped translating the sentence altogether.

the idea that they had so many trouble with every small piece of a text that they could not connect ideas on a sentence by sentence basis is very familiar to me from teaching and tutoring, as was the habit of thought seen in the example of the student who gloms on to the word "whiskers" in a sea of confusion and guesses incorrectly that a cat is present - struggling readers, in my experience, seem to use familiar nouns as stepping stones in a flood of overwhelm, hopping as best they can from one seemingly familiar image to the next. so was this observation, building off the example of a student who misses the fact that dickens is being figurative when he imagines a megalodon stalking the streets of london:

She first guesses that the dinosaur is just “bones” and then is stuck stating that the bones are “waddling, um, all up the hill” because she can see that Dickens has the dinosaur moving. Because she cannot logically tie the ideas together, she just leaves her interpretation as is and goes on to the next sentence. Like this subject, most of the problematic readers were not concerned if their literal translations of Bleak House were not coherent, so obvious logical errors never seemed to affect them. In fact, none of the readers in this category ever questioned their own interpretations of figures of speech, no matter how irrational the results. Worse, their inability to understand figurative language was constant, even though most of the subjects had spent at least two years in literature classes that discussed figures of speech. Some could correctly identify a figure of speech, and even explain its use in a sentence, but correct responses were inconsistent and haphazard. None of the problematic readers showed any evidence that they could read recursively or fix previous errors in comprehension. They would stick to their reading tactics even if they were unhappy with the results.

i have seen this repeatedly, too - actually i was particularly taken with how similar this is to the behavior of struggling readers at much younger ages - and would summarize the hypothesis i have forged over time as: struggling readers do not expect what they read to make sense. my hypothesis for why this is the case is that their reading deficits were not attended to or remediated adequately early enough, and so, in their formative years - the early to mid elementary grades - they spent a lot of time "reading" things that did not make sense to them - in fact they spent much more time doing this than they ever did reading things that did make sense to them - and so they did not internalize a meaningful subjective sense of what it feels like to actually read things.

like, i've said this before, but the year i taught third grade i had multiple students who told me they loved reading and then when i asked them about a book they were reading revealed that they had absolutely no idea what was going on - on a really basic literal level like "didn't know who said which lines of dialogue" and "couldn't identify which things or characters given pronouns referred to" - and were as best as i could tell sort of constructing their own story along the way using these little bits of things they thought they understood. that's what "reading" was, in their heads. and they were, in the curriculum/model that we used at the private school where i taught, receiving basically no support to clarify that that was not what reading was, nor any instruction that would actually help them with what they needed to do to improve (understand sentences) - and i realized over the course of that year that the master's program that had certified me in teaching elementary school had provided me with very little understanding of how to help these kids (with perhaps the sole exception of the class i took on communications disorders, not because these kids had communications disorders but because that was the only class where we ever talked, even briefly, about things like sentence structures that students may need instruction in and practice with to comprehend independently). when it comes to the literal, basic understanding of a text, the model of reading pedagogy i was taught has about 6 million little "tools" that all boil down to telling kids who functionally can't read to try harder to read. this is not productive, in my experience and opinion, for kids whose maximum effort persistently yields confusion. but things are so dysfunctional all the way up and down the ladder that you can be a senior in college majoring in english without anyone but a pair of professors with a strong work ethic noticing that you can't actually read.

couple other notes:

obviously it's a small study but i'm not sure i see a reason to believe these are particularly outlierish results (ACT scores - an imperfect metric but not a meritless one IMO for reading specifically, where the task mostly really is to read a set of texts written for the educated layperson and answer factual questions about them - were a little bit above the national average)

the study was published last year, but the research was conducted january to april 2015. so there's no pandemic influence, no AI issue - these are millennials who now would span roughly ages 28-32 (i guess it's possible one of the four first-year students was one of the very first members of gen z lol). if you're in your late 20s or early 30s, we are talking about people your age, and whatever the culprit is here, it was happening when you were in school.

i think some people might want to blame this on NCLB but i find this unconvincing for a variety of reasons. first of all, NCLB did not pass because everyone in 2001 agreed that education was super hunky-dory; in fact, the sold a story podcast outlines how an explicit goal of NCLB was to train teachers in systematic phonics instruction, because that was not the norm when NCLB was passed, and an unfortunate outcome was that phonics became politicized in ed world. second, anyone who understands anything about reading should need about ten minutes max to spend some time on standardized test prep and recognize that if your goal is truly to maximize scores... then the vast majority of your instructional time should be spent on improving actual reading skills because you actually can't meaningfully game these tests by "practicing main idea questions" (timothy shanahan addresses this briefly near the top of this post). so i find it very difficult to believe that any school that pivoted to multiple choice drill time in an attempt to boost reading scores was teaching reading effectively pre-NCLB, because no set of competent literacy professionals would think that would work even for the goal of raising test scores. third, NCLB mandated yearly testing in grades 3-8 but only one test year in high school; kansas set its reading and math test year in high school as tenth grade. so theoretically these kids all had two years of sweet sweet freedom from NCLB in which their teachers could have done whatever the fuck they wanted to teach these kids to actually read. the fact that they didn't suggests perhaps there were other problems afoot. fourth, and maybe most saliently for this particular study, the sample text was the first seven paragraphs of a novel - in other words, the exact kind of short incomplete text that NCLB allegedly demanded excessive time spent on. i'm not really sure what universe it makes sense in that students who can't read the first seven paragraphs of a novel would have become much better reader if everything else had been the same but they had been making completely wack associations based on nonsense guesses for all 300 pages instead. (if you read the study it's really clear that for problematic readers, things go off the rails immediately, in a way that a good program targeted at teaching mastery of text of 500 words or less would have done something about.)

all but 3 of the students reported A's and B's in their english classes and, again, 69% of them are juniors and seniors, so like... i mean idk kudos to these professors for being like "hold up can these kids actually read?" but clearly something is wack at the college level too [in 2015] if you can make your way through nearly an entire english major without being able to read the first seven paragraphs of a dickens novel. (once again i really do encourage you to look at the qualitative samples in the study, lest you think i am being uncharitable by summarizing understandable misunderstandings or areas of confusion that may resolve themselves with further exposure to the text as "can't read.") not to mention the fact that most students could not what they had learned in previous or current english classes and when asked to name british and american authors and/or works of the nineteenth century, roughly half the sample at each college could name at most one.

the authors of the study are struck by the fact that students who cannot parse the first 3 sentences of bleak house feel very confident about their ability to read the entire novel, and discover that this seeming disconnect is resolved by the fact that these students seem to conceptualize "reading" as "skimming and then reading sparknotes." i think it's really tempting to Kids These Days this phenomenon (although again these are people who in some cases have now been in the workforce for a decade) and categorize it as laziness or a lack of effort, but i think that there is, as i described above, a real and sincere confusion over what "reading" is in which this makes a certain logical sense because it's not like they have some store of actual reading experiences to compare it to. i also think it's pretty obvious looking at just how wildly severed from actual textual comprehension their readings are that these are not - or at least not entirely - students who could just work harder and master the entirety of bleak house all on their own. like i don't think you get from "charles dickens is describing a bunch of dinosaur bones actually walking the streets of london" to comfortably reading nineteenth century literature by just trying harder. i really just don't (and i say that acknowledging i personally have had students who like... were good readers if i was forcing them to work at it constantly... but i have also had students, including ones getting ready to enter college, who were clearly giving me everything they had and what they had was at the present moment insufficient). i think that speaks to a missing skillset that they don't know are missing, because they don't have any other experience of "reading" to compare it to.

just wanna highlight again that although they don't give the breakdown some of these students are not just english majors but english education majors a.k.a. the high school english teachers of tomorrow. some of them may be teaching high school english right now, in case anyone wishes to consider whether "maybe some high school english teachers can't read the first seven paragraphs of bleak house?" should be kept in mind when we discuss present-day educational ills.

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alchemistc · 5 hours ago

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Post finale crack treated seriously. Ravi "Who's Tommy" Panikkar stirring shit up for his new friend.

red string

"You know you guys are like, weirdly interconnected, right?" Ravi asks, like Buck hasn't spent the last ten minutes admitting he doesn't know how to reach out to Tommy.

"How would you know?"

Ravi has the grace to look a little squirrelly for half a second. "Okay so I know a lot of people at the LAFD. Because of the Academy stint. And - well, a lot of them know I own rentals."

"Thanks for letting me do month to month, by the way."

"Yeah you sure did remind me that you saved my life a bunch of times before I agreed to that. I had to send in a special request with the company that runs that apartment building."

"Your life is way more important than a special request, Ravi."

Ravi looks like he has something else to say about that, but.

"You're veering off the point. I'm trying to tell you you two have like, a weird red string thing going on and it's kind of driving me crazy that you won't just figure it out and go live in his house month to month until you figure out your crap and like, elope like the crazy people you are."

Buck takes a second to let that sink in. "Have you been asking all your LAFD buddies about Tommy and me?" His narrowed eyes don't seem to have the same effect as Hen's. Ravi stares back at him like he's making a stupid face.

"In my defense, I did try to ask you but you spent weeks trying to find a way to pull his pigtails."

He's not touching that with a ten foot pole. Nice ammo for when he gets home, though. "So you, what, put together an itemized list of reasons we should be together?"

"Gross. No. I gossiped, like a normal person."

"Lists are important, Ravi."

"If you don't do something on your own I'll get his number from one of the guys at Harbor I know and tell him about all the baked goods you foisted on me for two solid months after he dumped you. And about all the pining I've had to put up with since -."

"Evan. Hey."

Buck is the sort of person who always wants to play it cool and never quite manages. The table jumps when he cracks his knee against it.

And there he is, in all his glory. Date night chic, four buttons undone, hair perfectly tousled, probably that aftershave that always made Buck want to live in the junction between his neck and shoulder.

"And that's my cue," Ravi says, and does a terrible approximation of a wink as he scoots out of the booth. "This is a setup. I set you both up. Tommy, this beer is yours, please sit. Don't make me do this a third time."

And then he's gone.

Tommy slides in, and it's familiar in a way that Buck doesn't enjoy.

Ravi reappears. "I already had his number, that was a decoy because I saw him walking in. Please, for the love of God, talk this time."

They stare at each other for a long, long time. Tommy has this way of looking at him that always makes Buck feel like he could run through a brick wall. Like Tommy would take care of him after even though it was a dumb thing to do. Like Tommy would thank him for the opportunity to take care of him.

"So Ravi has a theory," Tommy says, after they've taken their fill of staring in silence.

"I kept interrupting him but it kinda sounded like he's been spending way too much time dissecting our lives."

Tommy's smile lights up this dingy sports bar like nothing else. "Kinda reminds me of you, if I'm honest."

"He doesn't even like spreadsheets, Tommy."

"God, I love you."

It's a terrible place to start.

It's an excellent way to keep going.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #tevan fic #give me bravi or give me death #realizing i'm probably gonna spend this entire hiatus with this brotp on the brain

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dailynnt · 3 days ago

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NO MERCY

𖥔 Summary: You are a strong and intelligent, a princess of a mafia clan who has been fighting for years against Jungkook, a dangerous and powerful enemy. Your enmity is mixed with tension and mutual desire. After you ruin an important deal for him, Jungkook kidnaps you to settle the score. An emotional confrontation erupts between you, where the power play borders on a dangerous attraction. But you both know that the first one to give in is the loser.

𖥔 Couple: Jeon Jungkook/ The Reader, Jungkook/Y/N

𖥔 Age restrictions: 18+

𖥔 Size: one shot (7.6 k words)

𖥔 Tags: enemies to lovers, mafia au, domJungkook/subReader, stockholm syndrome, dark romance, kidnapping, emotional tension, obsession, possessive behaviour, dangerous love, protectiveness, forced proximity, broken characters, betrayal, manipulation, slow burn, angst with a hint of love, toxic romance, redemption arc, intense connection, forbidden feelings, survival, rough tenderness, detailed smut, sex, unprotected sex, table sex, mirror sex, possessiveness, defiance

𖥔 From author: Hello dear Army 💜 I wrote a new story in the style of the mafia au, which as you know I love very much 🖤 I came up with this story while writing chapter 14 “One night…” (this is how it happens when in the middle of the creative process a scene for a separate story appears in my head) and I decided to write it. I really hope you like it 🥺 A big request for those who will read and at some point you don't like my fanfic, or it seems illogical, not interesting or too fictional - just pass by. Respect the effort, time and resources I have spent for those people who will really appreciate my efforts. I sincerely thank EVERYONE who likes this fic, and EVERYONE who likes my work, I appreciate each of you for the weight of gold 🥺😭❤️‍🔥

𖥔 Dedication: I want to dedicate this work to you my BIGGEST LOVE @curse-of-art 🖤 For your support, endless love, faith in me, in the love of my version of JK 🤭 I love you with all my big heart ❤️‍🔥

𖥔 Warning: This story contains dark themes that may be triggering for some readers like table sex, mirror sex, possessiveness, defiance/bratty behavior, stockholm syndrome, and kidnapping. Please read with caution. If you are under 18, please refrain from reading this story. Also, English is not my first language, so you may notice some grammar mistakes or awkward sentence structures. I appreciate your understanding and kindness 🙂‍↕️

You have never asked for mercy. And you certainly weren't going to beg for it now.

Some time ago, you woke up and realized that you were in a dimly lit hotel room. It seemed to be a presidential suite, and you probably knew who it belonged to.

You were sitting tied to a chair, your hands tied behind your back, and a sneer playing on your lips. You knew who was coming. You knew this meeting was inevitable.

Jungkook entered the room quietly, but you felt him before you saw him. His presence was like an impending storm, like an electric shock in the air before a thunderstorm.

"Well, finally." You looked up at him when he came into view. "I was getting tired of waiting for you."

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a palm covered in tattoo ink that peeked out from under the sleeve of his shirt colour of night.

You knew that most of the drawings were hidden under his clothes. Once you could only see his tattoos up to his elbow, and you always wondered how they ended.

You remember how the tiger lily on the inside of his arm caught your attention the most - delicate, but as bold as he was. It was his birth flower, a symbol of pride, nobility, and strength hidden behind a reserved expression.

His light colored hair was slicked back carelessly, and above his ear it was shaved, so you could see that his hair color was actually black. This hairstyle emphasized his sharp features and jaw that could cut through the tension in the air. The black earrings in his ears glittered with every movement.

"You made a mistake, Y/N." He was approaching like lava, slowly burning everything in his path. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, but you had to behave with dignity.

"Really? From my side, it looked like a perfectly planned trap." You said, hinting at the reason you were here. You smiled at the corner of your mouth. You didn't want to show this man how he affected you.

He crouched down in front of you. He smelled of cold freshness after a shower, mixed with something more personal - the tart scent of leather and spices.

There was a slight hint of bergamot in his scent, subtly mixed with the smell of black tea and a little wood, something deep and rich. There was also a faint trace of musk, the kind that made the skin react as if it had just been touched.

This scent was not intrusive, but dangerous in its restraint, just like him. It was the kind of scent that would stay on your pillow, on your fingers, on the inside of your wrist if you let it get close enough.

"And who is trapped now?" he asked. You smiled as you looked into his black eyes.

"Caught doesn’t mean defeated." You say and see his gaze boring into your lips. Your breathing instantly became uncontrollable.

You've always played this game. You made him lose control. He made you feel your body burning with anger. You wanted to break him, he wanted to conquer you.

But predators don't subdue. They either win or die.

You remember the moment when everything went wrong. You were sitting in the VIP lounge of the club, waiting for your sister to celebrate your brilliant victory. The deal that Jungkook wanted so badly was now yours. That's when the door slammed open, and they came for you.

Everything happened in a flash. People in black suits easily dealt with your bodyguards. They grabbed you, clamped your mouth, tied your hands, and in a few minutes you were sitting in a car. Without a word. Without the right to choose. And only then did you realize...

Jungkook is angry. Really angry. And then the prick in your neck and the darkness.

He stared at you for a long time, too long. Jungkook towered over you before he spoke. His voice was low and steady, but it vibrated with a dangerous note that sent a chill down your spine.

"You have no idea how much trouble you've caused me." His voice sounded calm, but it was seeping with menace.

You just tilted your head slightly, playfully, with a self-assurance that irritated him.

"If you're talking about how I took the deal with the Japanese partners away from you, I was expecting more fireworks, to be honest."

Something dark flashed in his eyes, something you'd seen many times before - rage hidden beneath an icy mask of control.

You and Jungkook had never been friends. You had known each other for years, but you had always been on opposite sides of the war.

You were the princess of the “Violet Dragons” clan. Your parents were the leaders of the clan, so from childhood, you knew what the world of shadows was and how to survive in it.

Your family controlled part of the city’s illegal business — casinos, underground clubs, and exclusive weapons trade.

You grew up smart, cunning, and ruthless, just like your parents, who unfortunately became victims of mafia conflicts.

You possessed that dangerous beauty that made men forget you could destroy them with a smile on your lips.

You remember well when Jungkook appeared. It was when your uncle took over the clan and you became his right-hand man.

He saw your potential, trusted your sharp mind and strategic thinking. In the mafia world, a woman could not officially lead, but she could guide. And you did it brilliantly. You became an integral part of the top of your family's clan. You planned. You acted. You played the game.

And Jungkook... He immediately established himself as a strong player. He didn't just enter the business, he took full control of it. His name quickly became the law. His word was a verdict. No one worked in this city without his permission. Those who wanted to stay alive bowed their heads to him.

But not you.

You never bowed your head.

Even though your uncle wanted to cooperate with Jungkook, you were against it. You saw him as a threat. Not a partner.

Instead of submitting to his sudden and overwhelming power, you fought for your place, taking away his contracts, disrupting his deals. You've been fighting this war for years - over people, over money, over power.

But something more than just hatred has been burning between you all along.

Your gazes lingered longer than they should have. Your conversations were always too intense, too provocative.

Your bodies were always too close when you met at formal events.

You knew he wanted you.

He knew you wanted him.

But neither of you could allow it.

Because as soon as someone submits, this game is over.

But here you are. You're tied up in his hands. Completely at his mercy. Jungkook looks at your face and for a moment he thinks that everything you did was on purpose. In order to be here with him, giving him the opportunity to destroy you.

"You think you're here because you blew my deal?" Jungkook grabbed the arms of the chair, squeezing them so hard that his fingers turned white. His face came closer to yours. "It's not the business, Y/N. It's you. You crossed the line." He growled. You tried to remain indifferent, but somewhere deep inside you, something trembled.

"What are you talking about?" You asked, putting on a dramatic tone. His smile was dangerous. He had seen you play too many times.

"You know what I mean. Last night, your little performance..." He explains. Before you could answer, he abruptly lifted you up with the chair, leaning forward so that your faces were almost level. His breath touched your lips.

"You made a fool of me. In front of everyone. My credibility has been undermined... You're overplay, princess." He sounded threatening, dangerous.

"This is business, Jungkook." You said, using his words, the ones he said to you every time he took a good deal or partner from under your nose. You sounded mocking, but he shook his head.

"No, princess. It was a game you played with me without thinking about the consequences."

You were silent, not knowing what to say. The smile that was on your face a moment ago disappeared. Of course, you knew that sooner or later he would realize that the deal that had been broken was your doing, but so soon?

He turned away, sat you back down, and walked a few steps away. He took off his jacket, then his watch. He threw it on the edge of the huge sofa. You watched his movements and could feel the tension between you growing.

You couldn't let him do anything to you. You had to get out of here. You had to save yourself. So while he wasn't looking, you tried to untie the rope. You were trained to do that. The world of the mafia required you to be strong and able to defend yourself.

Jungkook turned to face you and started to roll up his sleeves. The tattoos caught your attention, and he noticed it. But why was he rolling up his sleeves? Was he preparing to torture you? Or did he have something else in mind?

"I was standing two meters away. And I was looking into your eyes." he laughed softly, almost hysterically, not believing that you could pull off such a scam, "The same ones that are looking at me so brazenly now." His voice surprisingly sounded silky, dangerously soft.

You froze. The events of the previous evening flashed through your mind, the moment you stole the deal he'd been working on for two years from under his nose.

Jungkook had been negotiating hard with Kaizen Securities, a Japanese corporation that would have given him monopoly control of one of the largest illegal arms supply channels in Seoul. This deal was supposed to raise his status to the level of "untouchable" among all other players.

Since you had a long-standing rivalry with Jungkook, you planted a spy in his clan, who worked successfully for three years. You followed the negotiation process, which Minhyuk reported to you, carefully studying all the details.

You decided to do the following: let Jungkook almost finish the job, and then take back what was yours from the beginning. What your family lost when Jungkook arrived in the criminal arena.

Your last move was on the day the contract was signed. You used a fake identity, the name Hanako Shimada, and introduced yourself as an assistant to one of the Japanese directors, specializing in translation, negotiation, and legal support.

You arrived at the hotel where the meeting was taking place with the delegation, bribing the real assistant, who was "suddenly" hospitalized. You thought out your image to the smallest detail, so that it had nothing to do with your usual style, so that Jungkook would not recognize you.

You were dressed in a white business suit, with lenses, makeup, hairstyle, gait, even your voice slightly altered. You spoke flawless Japanese (because you lived in Japan until you were 16). Your accent was perfect. You played the role of an official - restrained, without a hint of your characteristic audacity.

You looked convincing to the last detail. Who would have suspected?

"I heard your voice." His voice darkened with each word. "Heard you translate every phrase, calmly, dryly, perfectly. Saw you hiding in a white suit and pretending to be someone else."

You were so confident and competent in your performance that he saw you as just another functional "gray mouse" and missed the punch right under his ribs. And now that he's already caught you, when he looks at you, he remembers everything - your gait, your eyes, the slight tilt of your head, the subtle smile - everything was right there in front of him, and he didn't see it.

He rolled up his sleeves and approached again, towering over you. Jungkook looked at you with his black eyes piercingly.

"You set me up, and I don't understand how I couldn't see you play, not recognize you..."

You looked at him silently. Your heart was beating somewhere in your throat, but your face was impeccably calm. He had just admitted that you had defeated him. That you hadn't just taken the contract - you had misled him so that he didn't recognize you from a few meters away.

You couldn't contain your triumph. You slowly raised an eyebrow and with a slight smile, said.

"It turns out I'm a really good actress."

You changed the terms of the deal behind Jungkook's back, telling the Japanese that he would not provide security guarantees. Posing as a trustee of a fictitious investor, you offered better terms: higher profits and security. The Japanese believed you and signed the contract right in his presence.

How sweet it was to see him humiliated in front of the Japanese, because he didn't recognize the manipulation and lost a lucrative contract.

Jungkook's eyes narrowed, his jaw twitched, but you continued, quietly, as if afraid to break the silence.

"And you, Jungkook, have become overconfident. You used to always see everything..."

His eyes darted between yours, sliding down to your lips, then to your neck, then to your thigh, which was visible through the long slit in your dress. You could almost physically feel his gaze touching your body.

His eyes returned to you.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"No," you answered evenly. "I'm just reminding you who's had the upper hand in this game from the beginning."

You paused, still fumbling with the rope, and then said with poisonous tenderness.

"What did you think? That you could play on my turf for years, promise the Japanese control of the port my family has owned since my father's time, and I would keep quiet?"

His pupils dilated.

"You knew about the port?"

"I knew everything. Even which of your men had been leaking information to the Japanese." You were silent for a moment, savoring his defeat, and then spoke. "I won fair and square, Jungkook. I took what was rightfully mine."

"Fair?" He laughed, but there was nothing merry about it. "You played dirty. You lied, you bribed people, you made my partners change his mind." He runs his eyes over your face and almost can't control himself. Your self-confidence in your victory has made him angry.

You lift your chin proudly.

"So what? This is our world, isn't it? A world where the strongest take what they want by any means necessary." You argument. Jungkook leans in so that your lips almost touch.

"Yes, but the difference is that I'm stronger. And now you will play by my rules." His fingers touched your face, and you held your breath.

"And what are these rules?" You asked. Jungkook smiled, slowly, predatory.

"I'll show you. But first you have to understand one thing..." His fingers closed on your jaw, forcing you to look directly into his dark eyes.

"Because of your stunt, you are now at my mercy. And believe me, you will not be spared." He almost whispered it to you. You felt his breath on your lips. Your heart beat faster.

His fingers slid down and stopped at your throat. He didn't squeeze, he just touched, making you feel how close the edge was. His gaze slowly moved down, studying you, as if he was already deciding how you should obey him.

Jungkook suddenly turned away, held you with a cold gaze, and then walked away. You continued your struggle with the rope. A little more and you would be free.

He walked over to the table where there was a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He wasn’t in a hurry. He poured it slowly and turned to you, taking a sip. He liked knowing that this time, you wouldn’t run away. He didn't take his eyes off you. You didn't take your eyes off him.

Jungkook sat down on the sofa, drinking a honey-colored liquid. He sating across from you, looking at you calmly, as if he had won the battle in the end.

"I never thought I'd see you in such a helpless situation." His voice was low, savoring every word. He took another sip without hiding his smile. You clenched your jaw, not letting yourself show the fear that was still present, even though you tried to hide it deep inside.

"Enjoying?" You asked ironically, but your eyes were full of anger.

Jungkook twirled his glass in his hands and smiled, slowly, too confidently.

"You know what's the most interesting thing?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I could have put a stop to your antics a long time ago."

You snorted. The laugh came easily from your plump lips.

"You could have tamed me much sooner? But you only did it when I made a fool of you?" You said through your laughter.

Jungkook didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, calmly, without taking his eyes off you, and there was something frightening in that look. Not brute aggression, but cold calculation. He enjoyed your resistance, knew that you would fight to the last - and that was what amused him.

"No. I was just wondering how far you could go. And now you've made your choice, princess." He finally said, twirling the glass in his fingers. "You played with fire, not realizing it could burn you." Jungkook took a sip of alcohol. He tasted the honeyed flavor, and smiled at the corner of his lips.

"Tell me honestly, you didn't think I was going to ignore this trick of yours like all the times before, did you? Let you play with me as you please?"

You lifted your chin sharply, even now not letting him see your weakness.

"You want to break me just because I defeated you?" you challenged. "Then you're much weaker than you look."

Something much darker flashed in his eyes. He put the glass on the nightstand, stood up and came closer.

"Do you think you've defeated me?" Jungkook repeated quietly, leaning in once more so that your faces were almost touching.

He always violated your personal space. He liked to keep you close, so close that you didn't have time to collect your thoughts.

"If it was really a victory, then why are you here - tied up, without any control over the situation, instead of celebrating your success?" his voice dropped to a velvety whisper, and every word penetrated your skin.

You pressed your lips together.

"You know it well. I'm not afraid of you, Jungkook," you said firmly.

He smiled, his eyes sliding over your face, and he straightened up. He liked to look down on you. His imagination painted scenes of you kneeling perfectly before him, and he looked down on you the same way. Something in his middle caught fire at the thought of your mouth on his cock.

But he calmed himself as quickly as he could and walked around you, standing behind you. You stopped untying the rope and clasped your hands together so he wouldn't see that it was loose.

Jungkook leaned down to your ear and said.

"This is good," he whispered. "Because fear is chaos. And I need order."

His fingers touched your neck, and you flinched. At his touch.

He slowly touched the collar of your dress, letting the fabric slip slightly off your shoulder. Your skin burned where his fingers had left a mark.

"It's time to teach you something really important."

"Ha-ha, teach? What can you teach me?" you asked with undisguised interest.

"Submission," Jungkook replied. The word came out of his mouth as easily as a breath. But there was power in it. A power that was frightening. "Submission." He repeated it almost gently, stroking your collarbone with his fingertips. "It's something you haven't known yet, but I'll take care of it." You felt indignation rising inside you.

"You're doing this again?" You said as if it were boring. "I'll never be yours, Jungkook." He smiled in a way that made you feel hot.

"Oh, don't you get it yet?" His voice was almost playful, but there was a metallic tinge of control in the deep timbre. "You are already mine, princess."

Jungkook was in front of you again. His hand grabbed your chin sharply, forcing you to look him straight in the eye.

"Every fight between us, every moment when you woke up and thought about me, hating it... It all meant only one thing. You've always belonged to me."

Your breathing became heavier. And this time... you really felt that you were starting to suffocate, not just from fear. But also from confusing feelings that you shouldn't have felt.

He was taking over. He control a situation as a usual. But you hadn't lost yet.

All your emotions rushed out - and it was at that moment that you managed to escape. The rope slipped from your hands, and you hit him sharply, creating space for escape. His reaction was instantaneous, but you were already flying toward the door, half out of breath, consumed by a single desire-freedom.

Your hand almost touched the handle when Jungkook's fingers grabbed your wrist. You turned around, trying to strike, but he easily dodged. Your next move, a kick, was blocked.

In a second, you were pinned against a cold wall. Jungkook forced your arms behind your back, squeezing them to prevent you from breaking free. His body was pressed against you, and you could feel the warmth of his chest pressing against your back. His crotch was touching your buttocks, and your legs were locked with his.

"Want a fight?" he laughed low, touching your ear. You were both breathing heavily.

"Let go of me and I'll kick your ass in seconds Jeon," you said angrily. You suddenly felt his cock resting on your buttocks. He was aroused by your little fight.

"I think we'd better take this passion elsewhere," Jungkook said seductively, and he pressed in closer so you could feel the hardness of his cock even better. It was only then that you noticed a throbbing between your legs. And moisture was leaking onto your underwear. It was foolish not to admit that his proximity excited you as much as it excited him.

"You'll never have me, you bastard," you said, in defiance of your feelings.

Jungkook turned you around in one confident motion, still holding you so you couldn't hurt him. He smiled when he saw your hateful gaze. But you're pretending. He knows you want him.

"Oh, I can have you anytime. But you want it too, don't you princess?" he said, licking his lower lip. You stare at his lips, mesmerized. Fuck. You want to kiss him.

Jungkook finally let go of your hands, confident that you wouldn't fight anymore. He ran his fingers along your figure, lowering his hands to your hips. He slid his hand under your dress and squeezed your skin lightly. His touch was confident, almost possessive. Your hands rested on his chest, as if trying to push him, but your fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt.

"You're shaking, Y/N." He spoke softly, his voice hoarse and hot, seeping into your mind, making your heart beat even faster than before.

"You overestimate your influence over me." You tried to sound confident, but your voice trembled treacherously. "I will never play by your rules."

"But tonight you will," he lifted you by the hips, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist, and carried you to the table behind him. You felt the cold surface against your skin and only then realized how hot you were from what was happening between you.

Jungkook was breathing heavily, barely able to control himself. He suddenly smiled, pressing you tighter to his aroused cock.

"Give me a few minutes and I'll break you." He was serious. His lips barely touched your neck, taking his time, leaving no marks, just burning you with his hot breath. You could feel his palms resting steadily on your buttocks, his fingers flesh squeezing to remind you that the power was his.

"Why don't you push me away, princess?" He whispered it right next to your ear, his voice breaking into hot pulses that ran through your entire body.

Your fingers clenched into fists. You should have resisted. You should have told him it was a game, that he wouldn't make you submit. But when his lips finally touched your neck, when his hot lips sucked in your tender skin, leaving marks, you lost the ability to think.

"You've been playing strong for so long that you've forgotten what it's like to just give in." He said when he had left enough hickeys on your neck. His voice was quiet, but it filled the entire space between you.

You didn't like the feeling of being under his control. But what you didn't like even more was how much you wanted it. You squeezed his shirt, as if balancing the desire to push him away and pull him closer.

"Tell me I'm wrong..." His lips stopped right next to yours. You met his gaze. Full of lust, full of power to conquer.

"I..." You paused, inhaled. Your pride dissolved, burned under that look. "...I hate you."

Jungkook smiled.

"Little liar."

His lips finally covered yours, sharply, all-consuming, so that you forgot how to breathe. It was an invasion. A struggle.

You squeezed his shoulders, trying to hold back - but your lips responded. At first it was a protest. Then it was an explosion. The kiss became deeper, hotter, as if you were both surrendering to all the emotions that had been building up for so long and burning from the inside.

His tongue penetrated you without asking for permission, just like everything else he did. And you... didn't stop him. Because you wanted it too. You wanted it.

He tore the zipper of your dress open and it gathered at your hips. The sight of your perfectly taut breasts, erect nipples, and goosebumps made Jungkook want more. He uncontrollably took one of your breasts in his hands and squeezed it. His wet tongue circled around your bud, tasting the pleasant taste of your nipples.

You were moaning above his head, just from his caresses, so what would you sound like when he entered you? When he fills you to the brim?

"Feel that?" His voice was husky, heavy with desire. You didn't know what he was asking specifically, whether it was his hard cock resting against your needy pussy or his power over you. But you felt it all. His strength. His desire. His complete control over your every move. "You've always belonged to me." He whispered it right next to your ear, breaking into a hot breath.

His hands, which had been under your dress, boldly reached for your underwear. He stopped, his lips still touching yours.

"Are you finally admitting it, princess?"

Silence. Only your breaths. The pulse in your temples. Hot air, saturated with tension. But you didn't say anything. Are you really losing this war that has lasted so long?

His hand moved your underwear to the side. Your body shuddered as he ran his fingers between the damp folds, easily finding a spot that made you sigh softly.

Jungkook smiled triumphantly. He massaged your clit, with slow, blissful strokes. When he plunged a finger into your passage, you grabbed his free hand, squeezing it.

"So wet... Fuck, you're just dripping onto my fingers, baby." He whispered. In between kissing your neck, your jaw, your breasts. He wanted to explore every inch of your body with his lips.

Jungkook added another finger to your passage and fucked you with it. He created a friction that made you want to feel something more.

"I want to hear that…Tell me I won." He demanded. His voice was full of power, he knew you belonged to him completely.

You opened your eyes and met his gaze, heavy and piercing. And you had to surrender. You had to admit it. You belonged to him completely and utterly. You wanted to be his. You fucking wanted this man to fuck you.

"You win, Kook. I'm yours." You whispered. He stretched you, plunged into every cell of your body, took you over, made you forget where you were, who you were, and why you'd ever tried to resist.

His movements became deeper, more confident. And you couldn't fight anymore-your hands reached for the buttons of his shirt, and you pulled them open randomly, wanting to tear them off.

Jungkook slipped his fingers out of your passage and helped you undress him. In the dim light of the suite, his body was so hot and sexy. His skin was perfect, every muscle as if carved by God himself.

You gulped in a breath, as your eyes touched his torso. Elastic, well-defined chest, broad shoulders. His abs, like marble, consisted of perfect lines that stretched down, right to the place where your imagination was already drawing the most daring images.

Your fingers reached for his body, sliding over his hot skin. Now you knew what his tattoos looked like, the ones that were always hidden behind his clothes.

There was ink that seemed to come to life under your touch. First, you noticed the words "Rather be dead than cool" tattooed in italics on his forearm, a phrase that perfectly matched his personality: bold, unrestrained, living to the fullest.

Above, on his wrist, was a delicate drawing of a tiger and a lotus, symbolizing strength and purity - a contrast similar to his own.

And on his shoulder was a large black flower, and your palm slid over it, gently, almost reverently.

You barely had time to enjoy the sight of it when Jungkook pulled off your dress and then simply tore open your thin black lace thong. You gasped, not expecting such behavior from Jungkook, but it seemed he was losing patience.

He had a sly smile on his face. His eyes never left yours, hungry, dark, and without mercy.

"You know, princess... Now that you're mine, I'm going to make sure you can never forget this moment."

He knelt between your legs. His gaze slid down to your center and he licked his lips like a predator who had finally gotten his prey.

His tongue slid over your folds, gently at first, exploring, making you arch with pleasure, and then deeper, harder, rhythmically, until your moans became shameless. His hands held your hips tightly, not letting you escape, not letting you even think about resisting. He worked his tongue as if he could drive you crazy with it alone, and damn it, he did.

Your stomach was in a knot, wave after wave passing through your body, making you squirm and gasp. You grabbed his hair, trying to hold back, but...

"Fuck..." you cursed, barely recognizing your own voice.

He lifted his head, his lips glistening with your wetness. He flicked his tongue across his lower lip, tasting you. His chest heaved rhythmically, He was on the verge, just like you.

"I can't wait any longer," he said hoarsely and stood up, shedding the rest of his clothes. His cock was hard, tense, ready for you.

You didn't look away. It was perfect. Big. Erect. And all yours.

He pulled you closer to the edge of the table, supporting you under your buttocks, and ran his head between your folds. Just teasing. Just playing.

"Tell me again. Who do you belong to?"

You clutched his forearm, your nails digging into his skin, your body trembling with anticipation.

"You... Jungkook. I belong to you."

"Good girl."

You thought Jungkook was going to take you right now. He was teasing you with those movements of his cock on your clit, but he didn't come in. You weren't expecting it when he pulled back and pulled you to the floor. Your buttocks were resting on the table, and in a moment Jungkook turned you around, bending you over the table.

Your breasts were on the table, your hands resting on the perfectly polished surface. Your hot breath left condensation.

Jungkook came up behind you, pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, and thrust. You felt him penetrate. He had barely plunged into you when you screamed in pain. He stopped when he felt you were in pain. You were tighty, he could feel it as he stretched you.

"How long since you had sex?" he asked in a low voice. You pressed your fingers tighter to the table, so that they turned white. Jungkook moved back and forth, as if breaking through an invisible barrier.

"It's been a long time," you breathed out, but your voice sounded sharp, like the thorns on a beautiful rose. Jungkook smiled, still moving lightly at the entrance. He stroked your thighs, soothing you.

"When was the last time?" he asked. You raised your eyebrows, why was he asking? You should talk less and act more. Even though you were in pain, you needed him inside.

"What the hell does it matter, just come in," you couldn't stand it. You heard Jungkook's guttural laugh. And then his hand was right in front of your eyes. He leaned down and touched your cheek with his lips.

"You're not supposed to be a virgin, are you?" his voice vibrated against your skin, making you tremble inside. His cock was still in your passage, but not fully penetrating.

"Don't even dream about being my first, I had sex before you," you said indignantly. You turned your head a few centimeters. You saw Jungkook's lips and it was at that moment that you felt him enter you completely. It was not very sharp, but you screamed.

Jungkook plunged into you until his hips felt yours. His balls touched your pussy and he froze, still leaning over you. You were breathing hard and fast, feeling pain, but it was being replaced by the pleasure of being filled with his cock.

"You're such a tight princess that even if you did have sex, that idiot had a small cock." he laughed again. "Who was that?" he moved his hips and you bit your lip to keep from screaming again. "Your assistant Dongmin, or was it In-guk, that piece of shit who was always hanging around you?"

Jungkook moved his hips slowly but deeply. He was careful, and you could tell he didn't want to hurt you. His breath was hot, burning your skin, spreading over it in a stormy wave.

"That was Taehyung," you said. Jungkook froze. You smiled because you knew it would surprise him.

"Taehyung?" he repeated quietly, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. His voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper, and his gaze-though you couldn't see it-was probably as dark as a night storm.

His fingers tightened around your hips, and his breath came in shorter bursts. But instead of getting angry or pulling away, he slowly, almost painfully, moved inside you again, sinking deeper.

"I didn't know he had a small one..." Jungkook said it with a sneer, but you didn't laugh, because Taehyung didn't have a small one. Maybe a little smaller than Jungkook's. "Why... he?" he said hoarsely, as if he wasn't asking, but trying to understand.

You smiled out loud, a little cheekily.

"We had a common project, common interests, spent a lot of time together...and it happened." you said, holding back moans of pleasure.

Jungkook entered you, deeper and longer each time. His movements were slow but full of power. Jungkook felt a stab of jealousy that Taehyung was touching you. He saw the pleasure on your beautiful face, heard your moans... Before Jungkook did. That made he’s movements chaos.

Your fingers slid along the steamy surface of the table, looking for support. Your whole body merged with his in a rhythm that seemed endless.

Jungkook lowered himself, leaning even closer, almost completely covering your body with his.

His lips touched your neck, burning with every word he spoke:

"Shared interests?" he whispered, moving his hips so that you cried out again. "I wonder if he liked the way you squirmed under him too..."

You turned your head as sharply as your posture allowed and met his gaze defiantly:

"What, are you jealous?" you exhaled, trembling from the new thrust. "Maybe you're afraid he was better?"

His whole body tensed. In the next moment, Jungkook straightened behind you and abruptly, but not violently, withdrew from you almost completely... and then plunged in again, deeply, to the very core.

You screamed, clutching the edge of the table.

"Say it again," his voice was low, dark as thunder in the night, "and I make you forget who Taehyung, Dongmin, In-guk, and everyone else who ever dared to touch you is."

His hips pressed firmly against your buttocks again, and his hands were no longer gentle, but strong, saying: "now you are mine."

And you felt it - with every cell.

His fingers slid to your clit, stimulating you to unbearable sensations. He knew how to touch you, how to hold you to make you moan louder for him.

Your sounds filled the room. He picked up the pace, but didn't lose control. Your back pressed against his chest as he lifted you without leaving you. You could feel his heart - it was beating furiously, almost in unison with yours.

"From this night — you only mine," he said. You couldn't even imagine how much he liked the sound of that, "you should remember how you looked when I fucked you for the first time, so you never forget who was the best in you..."

With that, he pulled out of you. You felt your passage hurt. Your pussy was swollen and throbbing unbearably. You tried to normalize your breathing when you felt Jungkook grab you, throwing you over his shoulder. Your bodies touched again, raising the temperature of each other. His hand was on your bare buttocks.

"Oh my God, what are you doing?" you said in agony in front of his buttocks. He couldn't help himself and slapped your ass.

"Going to show you how amazing you are when my cock is deep inside you," he said playfully.

Jungkook carried you into the bedroom. It was dark, but not completely. The lights of the city at night illuminated it barely, but it was enough to see what you needed to see.

You saw Jungkook carry you past the big bed and set you on your feet. In front of a mirror.

You looked at your reflection and saw a girl who was naked, with marks on her neck and chest. She was disheveled with swollen lips.

Jungkook hugged you close. You saw his face and sly smile in the mirror. His big palm touched your stomach.

"Just look how beautiful you are," he said in your ear, not taking his eyes off yours in the mirror, "how beautiful you are when you give yourself to me," he whispered, squeezing you more closer. His lips barely touched your skin, but your body was already on fire from this touch. You looked in the mirror and couldn't recognize yourself.

He grabbed your jaw and turned you around, kissing you. His tongue went into your mouth as if he was the master. Your tongues intertwined, wrestling just like you had all those years before. Finally, he bit your lower lip and let you go.

Jungkook led you to the mirror and you reflexively grabbed the frame. You let him dive into you again. This time he went in less painfully but still deeply, keeping his gaze on your reflection.

"Don't look away," his voice was warm but commanding, "I want you to see what I'm doing to you. So that every time you think back to this night, you will remember yourself like this. Mine."

His hips started moving again, gradually speeding up. His arms held you tightly, one cupping your breasts, the other sliding down between your legs. He touched you gently and hard at the same time, mixing pleasure with fierce passion exists.

You were trembling, and every movement of his body made you forget how to breathe.

"So who's fucking you so good, huh princess?" he hissed, staring at your mirror reflection.

You didn't answer, just exhaled his name, shuddering at his fingers on your clit.

"You…" you hardly breathe, "You Jungkook..."

You held back moans from the intense stimulation, the feel of his big cock inside you. And Jungkook didn't like it.

"Louder," he grunted. "I want to enjoying your scream."

You listened to him. You couldn't hold back any longer. Your loud moans, almost screams, filled the entire space around you. They were intertwined with the sounds of your bodies hitting each other, and they were almost sinful.

His cock moving inside you, hot, hard, ruthless. And your whole body merged with him in this rhythm - wild, honest, real. As if he knew no mercy.

He pulled your hair to the side and kissed your neck.

"I'm going to cherish this moment in your memories, because this is just the beginning of our fun adventure."

You let go of all your feelings as your orgasm hit you like a storm. Your body arched in his arms, the last, loudest moan burst from your chest, and your mind exploded with white light.

Jungkook hit you hard a few more times and came out of you. He came on your ass with a hoarse, low growl.

He put his wet forehead against your back, which was covered with a thin layer of sweat.

Your breaths merged into one, your hearts were beating furiously. His arms did not let go, his body did not move away. All you could feel was the weight of his cock on your buttocks and his warm, thick cum dripping down your legs.

You moved, forcing Jungkook to pull away. His cum dripped down your legs, dripped onto the floor, but neither of you seemed to care.

You turned around to face him. Jungkook was still breathing deeply, but he had a satisfied smile on his lips. You smiled too, but slyly, playfully.

"So…it happened," you said first. Jungkook pulled you to him. His lips covered yours, completely. Absorbing you, just as he had done with your body. With your soul. Having enjoyed your lips enough, he broke the kiss. You slowly opened your eyes. They were sparkling.

"It happened, princess, are you satisfied?" he asked, carefully studying your expression.

"Do I have to tell you the truth? Or can I tease you?" you asked playfully. His fingers on your waist squeezed your skin tighter.

"Only tell the truth... because if you lie to me again, or deceive me... you will not receive my mercy, anymore" he warned in a soft voice not without a touch of menace.

"It sounds like a another challenge..." you said, "but if tell honest, I'm really satisfied," you kissed him on the lips, a short touch, and when you pulled away a few centimeters, seeing his eyes closed, you whispered, "you fucked me so good."

Jungkook opened his eyes when he heard your words, but you had already disappeared. He saw you hurriedly walked towards the bedroom door.

"I need to take a shower," you threw over your shoulder and disappeared behind the door.

When you got out of the shower, you didn't find Jungkook. You heard the sound of water coming from the other bathroom and knew this was your chance to run away from him. You put on the dress that was lying on the floor in the living room, but you sewed up your thong because Jungkook had torn it.

You grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and wrote him a short message. You signed it with a kiss and the first letter of your name.

You grabbed key card, opened the door of hotel room and left without being stopped.

Jungkook took a quick shower, replaying your sex in his head. He was excited and happy that you would finally be his. The way you moaned and screamed his name made his mind go wild. And he was going to get even more from you.

Jungkook walked into the living room and heard silence. He became alert, looking around for you because you weren't in the bedroom.

His eyes fell on the white paper left on the table. Nowhere to be seen was your burgundy dress, which he had taken off you somewhere around here. Jungkook laughed as he walked over to the table. Did you really run away and leave a note?

He held the white piece of paper between his two fingers, skimming the contents.

"You still didn't catch me, but I'll be more careful than today. I'm looking forward to your hunt for me. What will be our next meeting? I'm sure you're already waiting for it.

P.S. Thanks for the show anyway, guy with the dark eyes.

Y/N 💋"

Jungkook clenched the piece of paper into a fist. And then he laughed. He sat down on the couch with his head on the back of the couch and looked at the ceiling.

You run away again. You had outsmarted him again. Again made his thoughts boil with the possibility of knowing a way to get you. He closed his eyes tiredly, but a smile played on his lips was predatory.

"No mercy now, Princess. The darkness pulls you under before you know it..." was the sound in his head.

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makeyoumine69 · 2 days ago

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Silver & Red (commission)

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: WS!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Soldat dreams about his dear Sunshine.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: NSFW, porn with feelings, angst, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, body worship, unprotected sex (p in v), pet names, Russian language, delusions, brainwashing, swearing.

𝐀/𝐍: Hello everyone. It's been centuries since I've written anything related to Marvel (I've never done it on this blog), so I'm very grateful to the person who commissioned this and let me go back to the times when I was thriving for Marvel. Hope you like it!💕

𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐄𝐂: Dyrnoi Vkus — Plastinki 🫠

Those memories were too vivid, too real to be just memories and not an inseparable part of his very soul. The soft edge of your voice, the way you held his hand for the first time without fear—even though his cold blue eyes tried desperately to find some semblance of it.

But he never found any.

Odin (one), dva (two), tri (three.)

The HYDRA specialist kept muttering something incoherent in Russian, fumbling with the worn, old-looking book with a red star on it. The Asset didn't listen, because every little part of his twisted and tortured mind was preoccupied with thoughts of you—so desperate to cherish them, as if they were the only thing in his existence that seemed to matter.

The only thing that could be worth fighting for.

The airy softness of your touch. The abandoned, half-ruined building somewhere in Brooklyn where you spent your last night together. The warmth of your lips before you had to say goodbye.

It hurt.

It hurt so fucking much.

The man wanted it back—you, his old memories that he knew had been stolen, his old self—he had to take it back to see you again, to hold you against his chest, to make sure that nothing and no one would ever threaten you, because you were his light when he was a dark room. You were his solnce (sunshine) that blinded and almost burned with the heat and brightness that was your kindness and sincerity. It left him disarmed and for the first time he wondered, was he really just a tool, just a deadly weapon that should never feel anything?

But what was that?

What was that extraterritorial sensation that cursed through his enhanced body when your mouth covered his cold one, your tender lips caressing delicately, begging for more. And though he didn't know why and what kept him from killing you to complete his mission—he couldn't even imagine hurting you in any way.

Maybe it was something about your eyes—so open and wide. Maybe it was the Russian you spoke so well—every word struck a chord in his broad chest—or maybe you were the first person he didn't see as corrupt.

And suddenly, analysis was no longer an option.

Not when he finally responded to your kiss, his metal arm wrapped tightly around your waist, bringing you closer, his leather vest rubbing against your bruised skin, and it ached, but you didn't care. This mysterious man, you couldn't tell if he was sent to be your doom or your savior—could he be both at the same time?

It was raining cats and dogs that night, and since the building you were hiding in didn't even have a roof, cold raindrops were falling on your naked bodies from time to time, but you didn't feel cold. Just the opposite. You burned from the fire that stirred at your core, and with every little touch, Soldat explored your bare skin as if you were a treasure map he had been searching for all his life. Panting, you lay on the old matrass that cracked beneath you whenever he leaned in to kiss your collarbone, bite your neck, and run his hot tongue over one of your nipples—each time you literally sobbed, writhed, and closed your eyes.

At some point, Soldat realized that he had absolutely no control over himself, and that was dangerous and even lethal. Simply because he didn't know what would happen to you if he chose not to comply. HYDRA agents would find him sooner or later, but most importantly, he would never forgive himself if something bad happened to you.

"Mmhm, I don't want you to go," you murmured into his mouth after breaking the kiss. "I want you to stay."

Pressing his forehead against yours, Soldat closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "You know I can't stay," his voice trailed off, laced with genuine sorrow and a hint of something close to desperation. "They'll find us."

"They? Who are they?"

The man didn't answer, only snuggled closer to your body, his human hand holding the back of your head with uncharacteristic tenderness. "They... they are everywhere and nowhere at the same time." Soldat paused and hovered over you, leaning on his elbow to cup your face. "But I won't let 'em," he punctuated his words with a deep, captivating kiss on your lips, his hips buckling into yours—smoothly, needily, decisively—and his hot flesh throbbed against your mound in unspoken anticipation. "You'll be safe."

You frowned, but you didn't argue.

"Ya naidy tebya (I'll find you)," the Asset's promising voice would definitely stay in your head forever, even though you didn't know if you could really believe him. "Rano ili pozndo, my uvidimsya snova (Sooner or later you will see me again)".

Almost crying, you closed your eyes and Soldat pecked your cheek, then one of your twitching eyelids—he hated to see you like that. Broken and lost. Without any semblance of hope.

"You're lying!" You shouted, clutching his metal arm—its coldness nearly burning your skin. "Ty vresh! (You're lying!)"

After a shaky breath, Soldat held your face in both of his palms. "Look at me." You flinched, his grip tightening. "Look at me, solnce (sunshine)," and when you finally raised your glassy eyes to him, he was already ready to destroy this fucking building into ruins if it would help him cool his rage even a little. "If anything happens to ya," he paused, trailing a cold silver finger across your parted lips. "I–I can't even imagine that happenin'."

With that, the Asset sealed your lips in a feverish kiss, his strong arms enveloping your shivering body to set you ablaze, shielding you from the cold air. Oh, how much he wanted to protect you from everyone. Be it HYDRA or any other organization that plagued this world that was already on the verge of tearing itself apart.

Cautiously, Soldat sat on his heels in front of your open thighs, stroking the backs of your calves and going down to tickle your ankles, and when you couldn't help but giggle, the man would draw to the place where your body connected to your hip for a small, barely sensual peck. You'd curl up and lean into his touch, your legs trembling in his grasp, and his hot, labored breathing getting closer to the center of your desire was nothing but pure torture.

And he knew it.

"Soldat," you arched your back, looking down at him through your half-open eyes. "Oh–God," his lips were so close to your slick pussy, but still avoiding touching your clit. "Please–ahhh–yes."

That was it.

That exact moment when he touched your bundle of nerves with just the tip of his tongue, flicking it once, then twice, and you were already writhing beneath him, your legs about to lock around his head if he didn't stop toying with you like that. But the Asset was determined in everything he did—he was a perfect weapon and his cold-blooded temper would be the death of you. However, soon his own lust would start to consume him, spurring him to just let himself go, thinking of nothing but your taste as he relished the way your body responded to everything he did. With a characteristic pop, he'd tug on your engorged clit and use his metal fingers to probe your entrance just a little, until you were thrashing on the mattress, yearning for more.

And you didn't even have to say anything—it was written all over your face, in your sparkling eyes.

Absolutely fascinating picture of need and desire.

With a soft groan, Soldat would align himself with your soaked cunt, coating his thick cock in your juices before pushing himself in—inch by inch—until he bottomed out completely. A loud, almost deafening scream would fall from your swollen lips, and he'd cover them all with his kisses, with his caresses, with his affection.

"Shhh," he whispered somewhere near your temple, both arms wrapped around your torso as he rammed into you, harder and less restrained. "I got you."

You wanted to claw at the meat of his bulky bicep, but instead you grabbed his firm ass, wrapped your legs around his lower back, allowing him to go even deeper, and damn it, the second his dick found that spongy, slutty spot inside you, the whole world ceased to exist.

Everything was lost in the flames of raw passion and pleasure.

It was so brutal and even ugly—absolutely unfiltered and without remorse.

The slapping of skin against skin drowned out the raging weather outside, Soldat's heavy panting echoing against your eardrums as if you two were one now—a perfect mechanism, each part made to fit the other. The curve of his beefy cock rubbed against your inner walls like clockwork, making you feel so full, so overstimulated, and so insanely happy that you didn't really care, even if you forgot how to breathe, it just didn't matter.

All those memories.

They would stay with him like scars on his mind, even if they brainwashed him a thousand times. Even if he'd never see you again. Even if none of this happened in reality and you were just a fantasy.

A fantasy he wanted to live for.

Thank you for the reading! Please follow my writing community or my side-blog to know when I update!🖤 [MAIN M-LIST]🪓[KO-FI]

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jollyhunter · 2 days ago

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Finally I get to react to this lovely review 🧡

This description of period pain is the best. I gotta say - you know what the one benefit of having a baby is? No period. And sometimes it takes even looonnger after. And okay pain, sure, but you forget that, and yes, bleeding once the birth is done, but you have the excuse to wear nappies and use ice packs for your hoohaa and, and, people give you sympathy lol - sorry, tmi… 😂

ice packs for your hoohaa?? I - I had no idea 😳 never excuse yourself for tmi, this is educational okay 😂

And excuse me miss, spoiled our self with Chuck spoilers did we? I guess it’s hard not to…

Yup, I've read it in so many fics. Just little things like "Oh for Chuck's Sake". And the first time I read it, I was VERY confused for obvious reasons but yeah, I pieced it together quickly 😂

Hahaha - I know you said you like One Piece somewhere, I’m sure we spoke about it once - do they teach kids that in the ahow/manga? I’ve only ever seen it in samurai stuff. Have you ever watched any of the Rurouni Kenshin adaptations! You NEED to see it if you haven’t. The dude in the live action version is hot 🔥

LOL yes we did! And we spoke about Dragon Ball too 😂 No I haven't watched it yet!!! But I know who you're talking about! (Also that Mackenyu, who played in Rurouni Kenshin's live action, plays Zoro in the One Piece live action 😏)

Hahaha - he’s not wrong 😂 benefits all round…

Let's be real. It's the only benefit, Dean.

I mean, she’s surrounded by Dean, wouldn’t she be horny all the time, but truth. I also liked how you word played the nub here at the bottom - look, I did it too - it really liked that. I feel like that fruit gut is called for right about now…

Probably, lol. Aaah yes, that gif... here you go, only took me another 10 minutes to find it (I don't know why I just spent so much time for that. For the future; It's literally the first one for "squishy fruit finger" lmao)

Ahhhh - I love it. Dean totally would, too. They’re surrounded by blood as you said, what’s different. Though I love how clueless he is about the days. Unless this has been going on for a little longer, anyone who has their period for two days, I’m very damn jealous of! Is it even possible?

Aren't most men just clueless about this? Even when they should know. I feel like I'm repeating myself every month that - no - my period is not done after the second day 😂

I’m seeing bean a lot lately! It is cute ❤️

Really?? I feel like I must've picked it up somewhere at some point but I can't remember where

Hahaha - Dean you horny fucker! But yes please? I was kind of hoping he might’ve convinced her 😏 I was enjoying this way too much.

😂 don't worry, I'm pretty damn sure he would find a way to convince her if he tried long enough

Okay. So when I read Nathan Algren, I was scratching my head. Is that his Last Samurai character’s name? I think I’ve seen that move once - shame on me. But it didn’t click till I got here.

Yeah, okay, so, you got me there. I didn't remember his name either, had to google it. I just tossed it in there for Dean's pop-culture reference's sake, thinking that he would've probably liked that movie and the idea of being a Samurai. 😅

This was marvellous! I can’t wait to see what your mind comes up with next. I just love the way you write the inner monologues with the touches of humour - speaks to my soul ❤️

Thank you so so much Beth!! You're one of my inspiring writers for humour 🧡🧡🧡

Shower Reliever

⋆ ˚｡⋆ COUPLE Dean Winchester x f!Reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WARNINGS SMUT 18+ MDNI, established relationship, menstruating (evil cramps!!), tooth-rotting sweet fluff, mention of blood (light), Dean being dorky and cute, guided masturbation in the shower? (idk how to tag this sryyy), Dean’s misuse of a shower head as a magic wand, no use of Y/N, English isn’t my native language

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY It’s that time of the month; Cramps are tormenting you, but Dean’s there to cheer you up and look after you by giving you some relief. ♡ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 4,2k

It’s afternoon. Or maybe it’s evening.

How are you supposed to know when you’re surrounded by the bunker’s concrete and artificial light all day?

A pathetic, writhing-weeping blood sacrifice wrapped up in bed sheets like a burrito. That’s what you are. Ready to be served. Honestly, though? Big Hellhound pupper toying with your guts suddenly seems much more appealing than a day ago. At least the doggo wouldn’t take three damn days to rip your innards out.

But you won’t complain. Because right now? Things seemed oddly… okay? It’s almost suspicious.

A deep sigh of relief falls of your lips and you dare to sprawl out on the mattress. Star-fish formation. Plain ceiling staring back down at you.

You’re maybe 5 seconds into your newfound content - and then the little bitch ruins it by raking her peeler down your walls. A sharp hiss presses past your clenched teeth.

Nevermind. Here she goes again.

Peeling your uterus out from the inside. Like Lilith herself is down there, having a feast on your unborn – and very non-existent – baby.

Muffled by Dean’s pillow, you scream. Fuck that time of the month.

Why’s it always that time of the month? Again and again and again.

Why can’t you just get the period twice a year like a bitch and get on with it? It’s not like you signed up for this. In fact, you’d very much like to file a complaint.

Not that Chuck would care. “That bastard knows why he doesn’t own an uterus...” you grumble.

A hot flush shoots through your body. Wheezing takes over your breathing. The bedsheets go flying along some of the pillows you’d burrowed yourself in.

Burning up. Hot. Your body feels like your ovaries decided to have a meltdown.

You roll around the bed, aimlessly. A ball of messy hair. Entangled in the sweat-drenched pyjama you couldn’t get yourself to change from. Arms clutched around your stomach, fingers clawing at the hot-water bag which so far hasn’t done much more than give you third-degree burns and only add to the feverish heat steaming beneath your skin.

When the door to your and Dean’s bedroom opens, you can’t even bring yourself to lift your head. Instead you’re curled up like a salted snail, squirming, each and every noise escaping from you thick with pain.

“Hey baby, ‘m back…” Dean greets you from across the room, his voice dying down as he spots you on the bed just where he'd left you this morning.

Your face plants into the sheets when you double over from another stab to your uterus.

“It’s trying to kill me, Dean,” you whimper into the mattress. Dean’s face contorts at your strangled sound.

“That bad?” It’s a stupid question, and he realizes it the moment it leaves his mouth. Of course it’s bad. You look like hell.

And worst is, it’s been going like this the entire day already. First time Dean’s witnessing it from the start, too. You’d been together for a couple of months now, but you being you, you’d so far managed to slip away just in time before your period kicked down the door.

Now that you moved in with the boys in the bunker that didn’t seem an option any longer.

You watch Dean’s face harden, the way it always does when he starts to feel helpless.

Indeed, Dean could feel the frustration claw on the inside of his chest. To the point he secretly wished your state would just be the aftermath of a hunt gone wrong.

At least he would know what to do then, y’know? Clean your wounds, stitch you back together if needed – maybe it wouldn’t look as neat as when you did it, but it’d do the job – because that’s what he’s good at.

But this? He didn’t quite know how to work with this.

There’s no injury he could just patch up. No swig of whiskey to dampen the pain. No way for him to help. And watching you writhe like you were being tortured from the inside, was killing him.

He sighs. The shopping bag in his hand gets dropped to the floor and he rounds the bed to your side. A frustrated hand ruffles back his hair. His eyes taking in the battlefield you’ve caused. And they come to rest on your crumpled form, smack in the middle of it all.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart…” He mutters softly. And he means it. You know he does. The words were simple, yet you know that if he could, he’d take your pain away in a heartbeat. But he can’t. Because for some reason, despite all the supernatural crap you get to deal with on a daily basis, this isn’t an option.

Damn you Chuck.

You make a sound between a whine and a sigh at the grave conclusion, at which Dean’s eyebrows pull together.

The bed dips down beside you and next moment the warmth of his body presses against your side. He slowly runs his hand over your shoulders to rub your back in soothing circles.

“Anything I can do to make you feel better..?” he asks.

“Rip it out. Use it for your next blood sacrifice. Sell it to Crowley. I don’t care- I don’t want it no more.” You wail while crawling into his lap, your face burying into his grey shirt and the blue jacket that’s partially covering it.

“Jesus,”– Dean laughs softly, his deep voice rumbling under your cheeks –“Yeah, not happening.”

His arms wrap around you to pull you closer. The familiar smell of his fills your senses when you nuzzle your nose into the fabric of his clothes. A combination of his musk, fresh lemon and a hint of sweetness of his cologne clouds your mind.

Your muscles relax for a fraction. Melting into his heavy embrace. It’s odd how just a smell can have such a calming effect. As of right now, you wished you could just climb into his shirt, buttoned-up, and pressed flush against his body. All safe, warm and fuzzy.

But Uterus-Lilith had different plans. The sharp wince you try to bite back, doesn’t go unnoticed by Dean.

“My poor baby… C’mere…” He leans down to place a tender kiss onto your crown while he cradles you on his lap like a wounded animal.

His chin comes to rest on top of your head. Lips press against your hair. “It’ll pass… You’ll feel better soon… My brave girl…” He murmurs softly and you sigh.

Another twinge to your abdomen. Your body jolts, then caves in. Dean startles for a moment but then tightens his arms around you, pulling you up against his chest.

While he continues to rub your back, his other hand begins to card through the back of your hair. “Shhh, it’s okay… I got you…”

“It’s like the damn thing is committing sepukku.” You lament with fingers curled into his shirt. Nose buried in his chest. Trying everything to physically ground you until the cramp goes by.

At that comparison, Dean’s eyebrows shoot up and his lips twitch into a pressed smirk. “Damn it, don’t make me laugh.” His stomach contracts and shakes beneath you.

In response, a disgruntled noise gets huffed into his chest. And Dean can’t help a short, surprised snort.

“Sepukku?” He tries so hard to sound serious and to hold in his chuckles, but finally loses his battle. “Seriously?” He shakes his head lightly and his green eyes crinkle slightly when he continues to tease you, “You telling me, you got a wee little Samurai down there?”

A wee little Samurai throwing a tantrum in your uterus? Okay, that image carried a smile to your lips. Sounds a lot cooler than Lilith feeding on your unborn child.

Unfortunately the wee little Samurai was not amused and rammed it’s katana once more into your uterus.

Another jolt goes through your body. Another strangled sound follows. You burrow your face even further into his arms in hopes that his smell will just work like some narcotics.

Perhaps it’ll just knock me out when I dig my face deep enough into his shirt? A weird thought. But you guess that’s just what menstrual hormones mixed with pain does.

“Yes.” you wince, “And it failed to conceive a child,” then groan in agony, “So now it wants to punish me for it.”

Now Dean actually has to bite back a hearty laughter. “Oh, sweetie.”– he taps your head lightly with his finger –“Look on the bright side. At least we know I didn't knock you up. It's like a free monthly pregnancy test.“

That jab would have earned him a deadpan glare of yours if it wasn’t for the next attack on your inner walls and your body jerked into his arms this time.

Dean’s light-hearted expression contorts into a pained one. Jaws clenched with a twinge of guilt.

“Want me to get you some painkillers? Or – uh – maybe some whisky?” he inquires, his head tilted down in an attempt to meet your gaze. But your eyes are scrunched up, face still hidden in his bunched up shirt.

“Baby, can you look at me for a sec?” he pleads, while his hands slip underneath to cradle your chin now, coaxing you out of your den. You lift your head, just enough to meet his concerned eyes.

“None of that helps…” You mutter. Although you did wonder whether whiskey might even do the trick. Get the wee little samurai bitch a little tipsy down there, hm? Maybe it would pass out?

No – no, now you’re thinking like Dean. That’s a terrible idea.

“Imagine you’re getting stabbed in the stomach and the blade gets twisted. Repeatedly. For hours.”

Dean winces inwardly at your description. A hand instinctively clutches his stomach. He doesn’t have to imagine what that pain feels like. He knows.

He shakes his head like he’s trying to snap out of some memories from downstairs, his eyes back on you just when you writhe again with a stifled groan.

“Okay, that‘s enough. I‘m getting you off the rack,” he declares and you don’t even get the chance to react when he’s already scooping your curled up form up into his arms.

“W-what? What are you going to do, Dean?” you ask confused while he pulls you to your feet and starts leading you out the bedroom and down the bunker's hallway.

"I'm going to distract you," he replies, glancing back over his shoulder at you while he leads you to the main bathroom, "I did some digging this morning... to see what I could do to help with your period cramps, and it looks like an orgasm might do the trick."

You stop in your tracks. Quick enough for Dean to almost stumble into the bathrooms doorframe.

"N-no," you squeak, eyes wide.

"No, what? No it won't work or no you don't-"

"No, I'm fine."

"So it does work?"

"Well- uh-" you trip over your words when the heat rushes to your cheeks, "It's - it's different when I... uh..."

"Hey, it's okay. Nothing to be ashamed of," he chuckles softly and brings up his hand to cup your cheek, "Is it 'cuz of the blood? You do know I don't care about it, right? You really think I won't touch you just 'cause you're on your period?"

"No, but... it's awkward... and gross..." you mumble, eyes averted as you can feel the heat going both ways now.

Because, even if you wouldn't admit it, you did feel a bit horny. It's just one of those many fluctuating emotions a period entails. In those blessed days, it feels like your mood is being regulated by a pinball machine. And as of right now, it hit the tingling nub at the very bottom.

"Gross? Honey, I've been covered in guts, sludge, crap and all sorts of other nasty stuff. Do you honestly think a little blood's gonna phase me?" He tilts your head up to make you look at him, his lips twitch in amusement but his words are genuine, "You're not gross, sweetheart. Not to me..."

"But-" the next argument forms on your lips when he dives down to muffle them with a kiss. Your cheeks cradled by his large hands. Tender, soft, but enough to shut you up and make you melt into him.

When he finally pulls back, his plump lips still hovering inches from yours, he speaks softly.

“Why don’t you just let me take care of you?”

His green eyes flick back and forth between yours, intense and yet calming. And really, how could you ever say no to him when he looks at you like you'll break his heart if you don't let him help you.

A sudden twinge in your stomach has you hunch over, and it's enough to finally convince you to let go of your tribulations with a weak nod of yours.

“Okay," you wince under your sharp exhale. The pain in your voice has Dean's hands dart down, one to your contracted stomach and one to the small of your back.

"Alright then, c'mon, sweetheart..." he mutters. Then gently guides you towards the shower after he closed and locked the door behind you.

When he notices how your teeth pull at your lower lip the way they always do when you're overthinking things, he grabs both of your hands. He squeezes them to get you to look at him, just to bestow you with one of his trademark grins. Confident, cheeky and oh so lovable.

“You trust me, right? It won't be awkward, promise. Nothing wrong with giving my girl some relief. Besides... This is purely therapeutic,” he quips and winks at you.

Once both of your clothes are piled up in a corner, you pad over the cold tiles and into the shower. Dean slides in after you, his naked body flush against your skin, his body heat a warm welcome in the cold air of the large bathroom. His arms envelop you from behind, one hand splayed out on your stomach to try and sooth your cramps, the other reaching for the shower head to pull it from its holder.

“Lean back, I got you baby,” he assures you while tugging you gently further back into his chest.

He turns on the shower, tests the temperature until it's the perfect heat and then slowly brings it down to the level of your stomach with the spray of water still pointed to the floor.

“Spread your legs a bit for me, sweetie,” he gently nudges his knee between your thighs, coaxing you into a wider stance while he continues to hum above you, “Mhm, that's it. Now just relax and lemme take care of you...”

Dean rests his chin on top of your head, the stubbles tingling your scalp as he does so. The air around you slowly begins to mix with steam while his body holds you close. Save and protected. The world reduced to just the two of you and the warmth hugging you from head to toe. Your thoughts and worries are drowned out by the rhythmic pattering of the droplets hitting the smooth shower floor as the sound echoes off of the tiled bunker walls all around you.

You feel yourself relax against him, despite the occasional, small jolts of pain which keep reminding you of that fact.

At last, a heavy sigh drops off your lips. The signal Dean has been waiting for.

He tugs at the hose, just enough to guide the water up your legs, then your thighs...

When the first jet of water hits right on your bundle of nerves, you almost buckle over with a gasped, “Oh shit-”

Your fingernails bite into the skin of his forearms, drawing a hiss from him. He moves his free hand to your hip, his grip on your squishy flesh gentle but strong. Steadying and grounding you.

“Feels good?” he asks while playing with the angle of the shower head.

You nod. Jolting whenever one of the water jets grazes your sensitive spot.

“Want me to keep goin‘?”

“Mhm,” you hum.

The hand on your hips slides over the bump on your bones and dips down between your legs. Next moment, calloused fingers slip along your folds to spread them open.

You shiver under the touch of his rough fingertips and at the feeling of him coating them in some of your arousal.

He angles the shower head slightly lower now, until a row of water jets skim your entrance. Your breath hitches. Then comes out in a shaky whimper.

Your legs start to go weak, feeling like jello.

Dean gently tugs you up again and pulls your back flush into his chest to keep you upright, making sure he's your anchor in this tidal wave of pleasure he's drowning you in.

“Just let go... that’s it…” he coos, now his head angled to nuzzle his nose against your temple.

Another shockwave travels through your body and tightens your coil even more, to the point it feels like it’s going to explode soon.

Your head drops back onto Dean‘s shoulder. Neck draped over his collarbone, just where his anti-possession tat lays. Shaky and ragged breaths mingle in the damp air of the shower.

“Just relax,” he places a kiss to your temple, his stubbles tingling the wet skin as he murmurs, “I got you.”

His fingers spread you further while he brings the shower head closer, allowing some of the water to push past your entrance.

“Oh fuck- Dean-” you gasp and whine at the same time.

„Language, young lady,“ he chides playfully, „This is purely therapeutical, remember?“

You choke on a giggle when he moves the shower head a fraction lower and the water jet grazes your sensitive nub just the right way, enough to send an intense jolt of pleasure through your body.

“Ah, so that's the magic angle, huh?” Dean laughs softly, his chest rumbling against your back.

“Uh-huh,” you manage to get out in a weak whimper as Dean's making sure to keep the right angle.

The intensity has your nerves on fire, like your core's being hooked up to electricity with hundreds of little needles tingling your most sensitive spot.

“M-move - p-please,” you beg in a shaky voice that has Dean's smile next to your cheek widen.

“Guide me,” he prompts softly, the hand on the shower head waiting for your instructions. You slip your hand along his strong arm, over the bump of his wrist, until you cover his hand with your tender fingers.

Slowly you begin to guide his hand into small, circular motions. The water jets brush your nub now from all sides, the overwhelming sensation enough to make you whimper weakly and your head loll to the side to bury your nose under his jaw.

“Too much?” he asks, his head tips to the side to look down into your eyes. You shake your head, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as they meet his. Hair’s stuck to your damp, flushed, skin, pupils blown wide, gaze intoxicated from pleasure.

The corner of his lips tugs into a smirk at your blissful expression. It's such a stark contrast to what you'd looked like moments ago when you were doubling over from pain. And if it wasn’t for the special circumstances, he’d make sure to keep you in this state all day and night. The growing pressure of his own arousal heavy against your back is evidence of his thoughts.

But this is about you now. His needs will just have to wait for – for… how long did a period even last? A day? Two? Hm, maybe if you’d feel comfortable enough, he wouldn’t need to wait this long. But one step at a time.

When your legs begin to shake, Dean presses his lips to your ear, murmuring into it, deep and hoarse from his own arousal.

“You’re doing so well for me… Now close your eyes, sweetheart. I want you to just relax and feel…”

You don't have to be told twice. The intensity is enough to make your eyes flutter close, squinting them even as your face contorts from the jolts of pleasure coursing through your body like a firework.

“Now I want you to imagine it's my mouth down there...”

While he keeps you distracted with the images he's painting in his husky voice, the hand on your folds leaves you and he reaches for the tap, increasing the water pressure.

“Y'know... the way I like to wrap my lips around you… and suck on that cute little bean 'til you're sobbing.”

“O-oh my God-” you mewl after the hard jet of water swallows your pulsing nub, causing your legs to buckle. The feeling's like a lightning bolt has just hit you. And it just keeps striking. Your other hand darts to his thigh behind you, fingernails biting into his skin in an attempt to ground you. But the jolts of pleasure set the nerves down your legs on hot white fire now, with everything from your stomach downwards tingling.

“That’s the reaction I was hoping for…” he chuckles and keeps going with his sweet words of praise somewhere outside of your clouded mind.

Images of Dean kneeling between your legs pulse under your eyelids. How his broad shoulders shove your knees apart, keeping your legs spread as they begin to fight him from the intensity of his mouth on your core. How the soft flesh of your thighs is squished under the force of his fingers, how you witness the veins on his arms pop as his muscles work relentlessly to prevent you from squirming away. How he holds your gaze the entire time, pupils blown up wide from hunger and lust as they eat away the deep emerald pools circling them.

Ragged breaths leave your lips. Another row of jolts has your body shaking in his arms. Each one driving you closer to your climax until you’re teetering on the edge. When your body begins to fight him and thrash around, Dean quickly tightens his grip around your hips to hold you in place.

He moves his lips to your temple, planting a tender kiss there, prickling stubbles brush the side of your face while he continues to talk you through it.

“You're doing so well... Let go for me, sweetheart... I've got you, I'll catch you, promise.”

Just when you feel yourself tip over, his free hand leaves your core to the constant onslaught of the circling water jets and moves it to your hand. His fingers slide between yours, intertwining them.

Then the tidal wave crashes down on you.

Dean's hand squeezes yours. The corner of his lips still pressed to your temple.

A guttural sound leaves the back of your throat when waves after waves of ecstasy course through you, enough for your knees to give in as your body goes limp.

“Oh- we goin' down?” he jokes softly as he follows your movement.

As promised, Dean catches you right after you've dropped some inches. Chuckling lightly above you as he pulls you back to your feet. Legs still shaky like a newborn foal’s.

“C'mon, bambi...” - he teases and slides the shower head back into place before he wraps both of his arms around your waist and turns you to face you with a soft smile - “…there you go.” You smile back at him, your hands finding purchase on his hips, gaze still a bit woozy.

He brushes a damp strand of hair out of your face, head tilted down to your eye-level, “Hey there, sweetie. You feeling better?”

“Yes,” you sigh, one of relief at the missing pain. At least for the moment. You melt into his embrace, feeling how your wet and naked bodies lock together like a perfect puzzle piece. “So much better.”

“Good, that’s good…” he murmurs into your hair after your forehead had dropped to his chest.

After a moment of peaceful silence, a mischievous grin creeps onto his face.

He clears his throat.

“You want me to battle that wee little samurai with my sword now?”

It takes your dazed mind a moment to catch up with his rather creative innuendo.

Once it hits you, you sputter an amused chuckle, “Please don’t.”

Dean huffs through his nose, feigning disappointment.

“Aw c’mon… Y'know, I’ve always wanted to fight a samurai… I’d make a pretty good Nathan Algren, don’t ya think?” he quips, then his lips quirk into a boyish, innocent grin as he adds, “...and my sword wouldn't mind getting bloody either.”

Now this has you raise your head to meet his cheeky expression and burst out in laughter.

“You do us both a favour and keep your mighty sword in your pants for now, you hear me? Idiot-” you playfully slap his chest, the wet sound echoing off the bathroom tiles. Dean’s grin doesn’t waver, instead his hands on your back slide down your spine until they reach your ass cheeks.

He clicks his tongue.

“Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, s’all I’m sayin’,” he jabs softly as he pats both your ass cheeks. His eyes crinkle at the corner, and he's got a secret smile on his face, proud of how he made you not only smile, but laugh, despite the hell trip you’re on. Maybe he’s not as helpless as he thought.

His features suddenly harden, eyes narrowed as they dart down to your stomach, a pointed finger now prodding the spot below your bellybutton.

“Now back to you,” he growls, you giggle, and he has to fight to keep a straight face and his voice especially low and warning as he continues, “You leave my girl alone now. Or else I’ll personally come down there and take care of you, Tom Cruise style. You hear me you evil little bitch?”

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES May Dean bring some relief to all of you poor, fellow victims of Uterus Lilith. <3

And thank you, @ambiguous-avery for your help with the correct name for the shower head lol 😌

Dean Tags List

@aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24

@ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @livya99 @supernotnatural2005

@youdontknowe @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @123passwort

@champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @chevroletdean @multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny

❀ꗥ Want to join my TAG LIST? Fill out this form!

#that gif itself deserves a mdni warning #lovely moots 💕#bettystonewell

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ldydeath · 3 days ago

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Why Can't I Have You Part 2 | Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon)

Summary: You and Jiyong try to navigate life now that you’ve kind of taking you friendship to the next level. Word Count: 1.9k Warnings: 18+ MDNI. Unprotected p in v., fluff Author’s Note: This is part two to one of my april challenge fics, part one can be found here!

Things had gone back to normal after the night you’d shared with Jiyong. Or as normal as they could be between two friends who were always going to want more. The only real addition to your friendship were the stolen kisses you shared now.

You never really talked about what it meant, but you knew you didn’t want whatever this was to stop. Maybe it was stupid to continue on this way. Jiyong was your best friend, things had been working fine because you hadn’t crossed any lines. Now you had something to lose and you weren’t sure you liked that.

“You ok?” Jiyong’s voice brought you back to reality and you turned to face him, giving him a nod.

“Yeah. Yeah. Just thinking about food.” You shrugged, your eyes scanning the scene in front of you. Jiyong snorted, his attention going back to the main stage.

You were at another award show, sitting front row with the guys. A tradition at this point. Your groups usually always faired well at these events. Jiyong had kept a respectable distance all night, not that it mattered. You’d always been touchy feely in public. Everyone knew you were best friends. But it was like you both second guessed it now that you’d spent more time kissing these days.

As the lights dimmed, preparing for the next act to go on, Jiyong stood up and moved over to you. His arm wrapped loosely around your shoulders, pulling you to him. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye before relaxing against him.

“I’m hungry too, but I’m not thinking about food.” He whispered in your ear, a smirk on his lips.

Your mouth opened but no words came out. You closed it quickly, blinking a few times as you turned your head to face him. His eyes shone with mischief, clearly pleased with the reaction he’s gotten out of you. You hadn’t crossed that line yet. Yeah, you made out a few times, and had fallen asleep together more times than you could count. But you hadn’t crossed that line into something more. Hadn’t even joked about it.

“You can’t say things like that to me in public, Jiyong.”

Jiyong laughed, his arm staying around you as he leaned in to plant a kiss on your cheek. He was going to have fun with this. He knew he shouldn’t, as much as he loved you he knew that no matter what he did, he’d ruin you. At least if you stayed just like this you’d always be friends. It may not be the more he wanted, but it would keep you safe and with him in some way when everything went south. Because everything always seems to go south when he’s involved.

“You coming over after?” Jiyong looked at you hopefully, like you might say no.

“Of course.”

Jiyong grinned as you agreed and turned his attention back to the group on stage. He moved to stand behind you, his other arm wrapping around you as he swayed to the beat of the song. You moved in sync with him, your head leaning back to rest comfortably on his chest, your hand moving to rest on top of his.

Daesung looked over, shaking his head as he spotted the two of you. Your eyes locked with his for a second and you shrugged before turning your head away. You knew he didn’t approve of the way and Jiyong hung on each other, but it had been going on for too long to stop it now. Granted, you usually didn’t hang all over each other like this in such a public setting.

You slid into Jiyong’s car after the event was over, casually scrolling on your phone. You let out a snort as you stumbled across pictures of the two of you from the event.

“We’re all over the internet.” You held your phone up for Jiyong to see the photo before moving it away, reading over the article.

“What’s it say?” His brows raised as he turned to face you.

“Oh, just speculation about our relationship.” You shrugged.

You’d had a feeling you were playing a dangerous game tonight, but it had been nice to act like something more for even just a second. You could get used to it all, being wrapped up in his arms, whispering nonsense to each other, being a couple. But you would never push him for more than he was comfortable with and you had the unfortunate privilege of knowing him well enough to know he’d never want that with you.

Jiyong watched you for a second, before turning his gaze back to the road. He noticed the way your face fell as you looked at the photos and it took everything in him to not tell you how he felt. He couldn’t. He loved you and he knew that meant he had to do it from a distance.

Once you were safely inside his apartment his lips were on yours. He’d been dying to kiss you all night. He kissed you with a desperation that you hadn’t felt from him before.

You kissed him back, your hands clinging to his shirt as if this was the only thing to keep you upright. His hands cupped your face and he took a step forward, leading you backwards into his apartment. He guided you down the hallway and to his room, never breaking the kiss. He let go of your face to shrug his jacket off himself before his hands were back on you.

He carefully lowered you to the bed, his lips moving from yours to kiss over your cheek, your throat, down to the top of your shirt. Your hands were in his hair, guiding him down and his eyes shot up to yours as his hands played with the end of your top. You nodded at him and he lifted the fabric up slowly.

He pulled it over your head before hovering back over you. His eyes took in the sight of your bare chest, and he sucked in a breath. You were the most gorgeous person he’d ever laid eyes on.

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispered as his lips crashed down on yours again.

You could feel the butterflies in your stomach as you kissed him back. He’d never been so gentle with you. Then again, you’d never taken things this far with him in the past. You weren’t going to question what any of this meant, not tonight. You just wanted to enjoy this moment.

You helped him out of his shirt before moving down to his pants, your hands shaky as you undid his zipper and you cursed yourself for not being as smooth with this as you wanted to be. Pushing them down you eyed him through his boxers. He was hard already and you couldn’t help but lick your lips. You needed him. Now.

Pulling his boxers down, your hand gripped him and gave him a quick pump. Jiyong let out a low moan, his hands moving to free you from your pants. He could see your arousal through your panties and smirked before he moved his to finish his assault on your skin.

His lips ghosted over your breast before he took your nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around. Your back arched into his touch as your hand pumped faster on his cock. His hand brushed against your wet slit, his finger sliding to your clit and he rubbed tight circles. You let a moan, which was music to Jiyong’s ears and encouraged him to work his hand faster.

“Need you.” You panted in between strokes and Jiyong groaned, moving to position himself.

His cock toying your entrance as you arched further to allow him easier access. He slid into you slowly, entering you completely. He stayed like that for a moment, allowing you to adjust to him before he moved in and out slowly. He wanted to take his time with you, but you felt too good. Like you were made for him, and he wasn’t so sure he’d last long.

Your hips moved to meet his every thrust, your fingers digging into his back. You knew it would leave marks but you didn’t care. Tonight, he was yours and you’d leave as many marks as you could. Jiyong’s lips were on your skin again, kissing at the sensitive spot above your collarbone, he sucked your skin, his tongue swirling around to ease the red mark he was sure he’d left behind.

“I’m so close, Ji.” You whispered.

His eyes locked on your eyes as he picked up the pace, his movements growing faster and a bit harder as he got lost in the moment. His eyes stayed on yours, he needed to see you come. Wanted to memorize every detail of this moment.

Your head fell back against the bed as you felt your walls tighten completely around him, your head cloudy as you reached your orgasm. You moaned his name and if he thought your moans were music to his ears, hearing you say his name like that? That was the real music. The way you looked right now would be his undoing. He held on, pumping in and out of you as you rode out your orgasm before he came undone himself. He slammed into you hard, coming inside of you. His head buried into your neck.

“I love you.” The words left his lips before he could stop himself.

You stayed like that, him inside you, your arms wrapped around him for a while as you composed yourself. Jiyong reluctantly pulled out of you, moving to lay next to you and you curled into him.

“So, you love me?” Jiyong groaned, hiding his head in his hands.

“Maybe a little.” He confessed. You reached up, pulling his hands from his face.

“I love you too, you know.” His hand moved to your face, cupping your cheek as his eyes stayed locked on yours.

“We shouldn’t do this. We can’t take it back.” He didn’t regret saying it, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t scared to lose you. Especially now.

“I don’t want to take it back, Ji. I love you. I want to be with you.” You mimicked his movements, your hand resting on his face. “Don’t be scared.”

“Ok.” He nodded. “Let’s do this then.”

He leaned in, kissing you slowly. He’d already crossed the line tonight anyway, and he knew there was no going back now. He also knew if he didn’t take a chance now, he’d lose you to someone else eventually, you were too perfect to be single and waiting around for him anyway. He knew as scared as he was to ruin this with you he couldn’t see you with anybody else.

“Just promise me, if it doesn’t work out we go back to being friends. I need you in my life.” His voice was soft and your heart ached for him.

“Oh, it’s going to work out. But you’re stuck with me for life either way. I can promise you that.” You kissed him again, a small smile on your lips. “I’m never letting you go, Jiyong.”

Jiyong rolled onto his back, pulling you to his side. Your head resting on his chest as you listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He couldn’t remember a time he felt so relaxed, so happy. No matter how scared he might be, this is where he wanted to be and this is where he’d stay for as long as you’d have him.

tag list: @wcnderlnds @infinetlyforgotten @berfgrimm @aizshallnotbefound @loveesiren @gdinthehouseee @tulentiy @petersasteria @alosss-blog @sooyasya @dprvivi @mirahyun @breakmeoff @1950schick @flymetothexmoon @sherrayyyyy @bettelaboure

#g dragon x reader #kwon jiyong x reader #gdragon x reader #kwon ji yong x reader #bigbang x reader #g dragon #gdragon #kwon jiyong #kwon ji yong #my fics #wcihy2

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dajo42 · 2 days ago

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If you want to kill yourself so badly just do it; you fucking coward. I'm serious, I think you should. All I see on your blog is e-begging and godawful cringe art that looks like something a kindergartener threw up after eating too many crayons. 'Autistic' and 'trans woman' in the same bio is redundant, and so is your contribution to society. Stop pretending to be a woman, stop pretending to be worth a damn, either get a life or end it.

you are such an interesting weird little embarrassing creature because why did you use a semicolon there. thats not where a semicolon goes. "you fucking coward" is not an independent clause lmao.

anyway youre weird. lmao like. shut up lol why are you so obsessed with me but so ableist and transphobic. if i kill myself are you gonna get another tenant to live in your head rent free or will you just board up the place because your head is full of mould and you drank too much landlord white paint

anyways im not gonna kms because YOU told me to lmao if i kms its gonna be because the worlds on fire but yknow. gonna try my best not to.

im also gonna drop my paypal and kofi here AGAIN for FUNSIES and SPITE :3 seeing as thats all i have to do to make such a piece of human garbage angry why wouldnt i!!!

but maybe im gonna go a liiiiiiiiiittle bit further with the retribution today. maybe just being spiteful isnt enough. lemme tell you a lil story my hateful little venomous tadpole

several people have said at this point that whoever is sending me anon hate whenever i make a donations post has to be the same person. which is very interesting because in fact they are correct!! i have enough information now to confirm objectively yes they were right!!!!

so like you say im not worth a damn?? thats crazy because you have spent a LOT of time thinking about me. i know, objectively, youre the same person sending me other rude messages because using technology™ i can literally see your ip address and where you navigated to my blog from and you came to my blog DIRECTLY lmao

you have, on multiple occasions, typed dajo42.tumblr.com into your fucking browser and navigated directly to me to send me some anon hate that has only escalated in severity as weeks have gone by

but not the first time!! the first time you came to my blog from a totally innocent post i made about a pokemon npc who likes trains. this, somehow, filled you with enough vitriol at my existence to send me endless, endless anon hate, regularly. you come back r e g u l a r l y.

so based on all your messages you hate me for being autistic, for being trans, for asking for donations when im struggling, for drawing cute things, for asking for wishlist items for funsies,,,,,,, and youve decided to escalate that to the point of telling me to kill myself when im having a depressive episode??????

so i was gonna ask if theres anything you DONT hate but i cant do that,, because i know theres one thing i made you do enjoy. its another thing i know about you for sure because sometimes just clicking anonymous on these messages isnt gonna fully ensure your anonymity. because i happen to know from the aforementioned list of times you have visited my blog that during one of your visits you viewed a specific post on my blog and,,, liked and reblogged it,,,,,,,,, and yknow, looking through the blogs of the people in the notes on that post, theres only one person who talks with so much hate like you do, acts like you do, and posted recently about the college they attend, which, to the shock of nobody, is in the specific region of the united states of america that your ip address is in

and fuck like, wouldnt it be so funny if you also had your first name and a selfie on your blog and i could just straight up send an email full of fun screenshots to the college you attend who i have to imagine wouldnt be altogether thrilled to know one of their students is actively harassing people online and telling them to kill themselves

wouldnt that be so funny Liam?

anyways,, to piss you off yet again,,,,,,,, if you like supporting disabled autistic trans women online you can via paypal and kofi if you can and want to help me be able to afford food and meds or if your name is liam and you go to salt lake community college and want to make it up to me for being so nasty. go bruins

#hi liam!!!!!!!!#its been fun. fuck you.#also you spelled kindergartner wrong just saying #long post

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raekensluver · 1 day ago

Note

Hi! Can you please write something about George and his girlfriend getting into a huge argument ( over what I have no idea🤣) but George gets really mean, they give each other the silent treatment for a while ( not months like a couple of days) then George apologises.

🤣🤣 I hope this makes sense

contains: angst/comfort, established relationship, arguing

george clarke x fem!reader

it had been one of those days. a day that started off with small annoyances and ended in a heated argument neither of you had expected.

it wasn’t even something that should’ve been a big deal. at least, that’s what you told yourself as you stared at the closed door to george’s room. he was still in there, and you were sitting on the couch, arms crossed tightly over your chest, feeling the weight of the words you’d thrown at each other.

it had all started with something stupid. maybe it was the fact that you had asked him to help with something—something you thought was simple enough—but he hadn’t even looked up from his computer. or maybe it was the way he had brushed off your feelings when you were venting about something that had been bothering you. either way, it had spiraled.

you had tried to explain, tried to tell him how his actions were affecting you, but instead of hearing you out, george had gotten defensive. his tone had sharpened, and before you knew it, you were both yelling.

"i don’t get why you’re so mad," george had said, his voice rising. "it’s not like i didn’t hear you."

"that’s not the point!" you had snapped back, your own frustration bubbling over. "i’m just asking you to be there for me, george. that’s all."

and that’s when things had gone too far. george had said something that had stung deep—something that cut right through the thin layers of patience you had left.

"well, maybe if you weren’t always nagging me, i’d actually have time to do things!" he’d yelled, a bitter edge to his words.

those words had hit hard, far harder than he could’ve realized in the heat of the moment. your eyes had filled with tears, but you refused to let him see. you stormed out, slamming the door behind you. and that was it. the silent treatment began.

for the next couple of days, neither of you spoke. george spent most of his time in his room, streaming or working on something—anything to avoid the tension in the air. you busied yourself with distractions, trying to find some way to get the words you wanted to say out without fighting. but there was something blocking you—something that felt like a brick wall between the two of you.

you missed him, and you hated the distance that had suddenly settled in. but you were stubborn. you weren’t the one who had started this mess, after all.

finally, it was george who broke the silence.

it was late one night, when you were curled up on the couch with a blanket, scrolling through your phone, trying to ignore the emptiness in the apartment. the door to the living room creaked open, and you looked up to see george standing there, his usual easygoing expression replaced by something more vulnerable.

“hey,” he started softly, almost hesitantly. “can we talk?”

you didn’t say anything immediately, unsure of what to say. you had been waiting for this moment, but now that it was here, the words seemed to stick in your throat.

“look,” he continued, stepping further into the room, “i’m sorry. i was a dick the other day. i shouldn’t have said what i did. i was frustrated, but that’s no excuse.”

you met his eyes, and for the first time in days, there was a softness in his gaze that made your heart ache.

“i never meant to hurt you,” he added, his voice quiet. “i’m sorry.”

you swallowed hard, the emotions you’d been holding back threatening to spill over. you had missed him so much, but that hurt was still there, lingering. “you really hurt me, george,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “you don’t get how much those words stung.”

he nodded, his expression regretful. “i know. and i wish i could take it back. i didn’t mean for it to go that far, but i should’ve known better. i should’ve listened to you. i’m sorry.”

you sighed, letting the silence stretch between you for a moment. part of you wanted to hold onto your anger, to keep the wall up. but another part of you—your heart—just wanted him back. you wanted to feel close to him again, to feel like you mattered to him the way you always had.

“it’s gonna take some time for me to get over it,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his again. “but i’m willing to try.”

george stepped forward, kneeling in front of you so that he was eye-level with you. he reached for your hand gently, his touch warm against your cool skin. “i’ll do whatever it takes,” he promised, his voice full of sincerity.

you nodded, your heart finally starting to soften. “okay,” you whispered. “but we need to communicate better, george. i need you to listen to me, really listen.”

he smiled, a small but genuine smile, and nodded. “i will. i swear. i’ll do better.”

you gave a small sigh, feeling the weight of the last few days start to lift off your shoulders. you weren’t fully healed yet, but you could feel the cracks starting to form. you didn’t know what the future held, but you knew that, together, you’d figure it out.

“i love you,” george said quietly, squeezing your hand. “i’m so sorry for everything.”

“i love you too,” you replied, your voice trembling slightly. “just… don’t forget how much i care, okay?”

“i won’t,” he promised, leaning in to kiss your forehead softly. “i won’t forget.”

and just like that, the tension started to fade, and the space between you two began to close. it wouldn’t be easy, but it was a start. and sometimes, that’s all you needed to find your way back to each other.

#george clarke #george clarke blurb #george clarkey #george clarkey blurb #george clarkey x fem! reader #uk youtubers #george clarke angst #george clarkey angst #george clarke x fem!reader #mara's inbox *ੈ✩‧₊˚#mara's anons *ੈ✩‧₊˚

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beanarie · 4 hours ago

Text

part 3 of buck takes a mental health break. things get kind of epistolary (ish) from here on out.

Los Olivos is... nice. Super nice. Buck has driven through a couple of times, but he's never stopped here. He squints at his phone, triple-checking the address, before he rings the bell.

The door opens, and it's like the sun came out. "Buckaroo!" Carla smiles big and wide. "You get in here right now." Her arms wrap around him as unabashedly as they always did. He gleans as much warmth and comfort as he can before she lets go to give him a once over. "Look at Mr. Universe! My goodness, so much more of you to love now. Come in, come in. I hope you're hungry. I've been cooking since late morning, but if you'd shown me a recent photo, I would've started yesterday."

He manages to put away most of the ribs she put in front of him, with her husband Elden polishing off the rest. After ignoring her protests and helping load the dishwasher, he takes in the photos taking up most of the wall space and several surfaces.

She chuckles at the one he stopped in front of. "That's from the wedding of, uh, you-know-who."

"It's a beautiful photo." Elden is wearing a suit a similar shade of blue to the one Buck wore to his and Abby's disastrous first date. If he closes his eyes, he can still hear Bobby's voice in his ear, giving last minute advice as he helped Buck with his tie.

That part of it was a good memory.

"You okay?" Carla asks.

Buck shakes himself, seeing a way out that's sure to be worth it if only to see her reaction. "Uh, hey. Do you remember how Abby had that ex that kind of smashed her heart into little pieces?"

"Oh, yeah. She was hung up to an embarrassing degree. Her mom used to talk about the guy, too. She loved him."

"I forgot about that," Buck says under his breath, suddenly thinking about Tommy hanging out with Abby's elderly mom, being mildly caustic at each other while playing scrabble or doing a puzzle.

"Why would you bring up whatshisn-?"

"Uh, Tommy."

She tilts her head, intrigued. "Good memory."

Later Buck is proud of himself for making sure she's sitting before he gives her the story. As it is she laughs so hard she almost falls off the couch.

"Your life, I swear," she says, wheezing. "I don't know why I'm even surprised."

Buck finds himself grinning along, wider than he has in a long time.

"You know, you lit up a little when you talked about him. You still like this guy?"

"Yeah," he says, only a little doubt in his mind. "I think so."

"He really thought you were in love with Eddie?" She has an incredible gobsmacked face. "Now, I adore that man, and the two of you would be pretty as hell." She winks and Buck snickers. "But he has a talent for making things hard, and you, Evan Buckley. You deserve something easy."

(Hen): Hey, Eddie told me what he said. Say the word, and Karen and I will get him ostracized from every parent group in the county.

(Buck): Don't do that.

(Buck): It affects Chris.

(Hen): Good point. We could do gyms. You have no idea how important gays are to that scene.

(Buck): I might not be Gay-gay but I have spent a little time in gyms. I know.

(Hen): Right, that's fair.

(Hen): You seemed like you were managing. I should've noticed you were making yourself smaller.

(Buck): Thanks, Hen.

(Hen): You're missed, just so you know. Not just during shifts. You'll always be one of ours, understand?

(Hen): Buck?

(Hen): Maybe you don't understand. That's on me. I'll do better in the future.

(Buck): I miss you, too. The lady who served me at this truck stop diner had glasses like yours.

(Hen): I hope you gave her a good compliment.

(Buck): Of course I did. And a big tip.

Oakland is next, Lucy doesn't have a spare room ("My partner's brother is staying with us for a while. He's a funny little shit. You'll probably be best friends.") but she does have a pullout couch, and when Buck lies at an angle, his feet don't dangle off the edge.

He and Lucy get just this side of absolutely trashed. When they've toasted to Cap's memory multiple times and the stories slow to a trickle, she grabs his phone. "I'm gonna find you a not-nice boy on grindr."

Buck sits back in his chair and gives a have at it gesture. He watches her, always so comfortable in her own skin. "When did you first, y'know, know?"

She doesn't hesitate for a second. "Eleven. Heather Edison. Sixth grade English. She read for Juliet in class and I wanted to be Romeo so bad."

"Who did you get instead?"

She makes a face. "Tybalt. Ugh."

"What's it like growing up knowing pretty much the whole time?"

"Well, I got a couple years on you. It was a lot of sussing people out and very carefully figuring out who was safe to share that part of myself with." She picks up her shoulders breezily. "Sometimes I was wrong. It happens."

"That sounds terrible. I'm sorry."

"Price of admission," she says. "Now, do you wanna stick with the Greek god aesthetic, or do you feel like broadening your horizons a little?"

Sheree, the girlfriend, brings him coffee the morning after.

"Do you miss it?" she asks. "The job? If you're anything like Lucy... She broke her wrist once and the whole time she couldn't be out there it was like she was locked in a glass case full of water."

The job is what killed him, Buck thinks idly. But even now, he recognizes that it's also what kept him going as long as he did. Buck sips at his coffee. "It's only been a few days," he says with a little teasing smile. "Right now it barely counts as time away."

(Eddie): Chris said it's my fault you left and then he stopped talking to me again

(Eddie): it's not really is it?

(Buck): I don't know what I'm supposed to say to that. It feels like no matter what I do it's wrong, so I'd rather not engage at all for a while.

His phone rings. Buck rejects the call, then pulls over and drinks half a water bottle.

(Buck): I know this was hard on you, but finding out after the fact was not worse than being there. It wasn't. Bobby's face that night will be with me on my deathbed. Maybe you'll always remember how Chris looked when you told him, but you get a lifetime of new memories to replace it with.

Buck plugs all that in from the notes app, then immediately has a thought.

(Buck): If you ever talk to me like that again I'll transfer for good.

Hands shaking, he turns off alerts from Eddie. Then he texts Chris a photo of himself and Carla at her house. The amount of exclamation points he gets in return chips away at the concrete block around his heart.

(Buck): Am I exhausting?

(Buck): Sorry. Hi how are you?

(Tommy): Too late, you already set the tone. Exhausting? You did tire me out on a regular basis

"Oh," Buck says to himself.

(Tommy): in the bedroom. But I'd never say you were exhausting, that's not how I think of you at all. I don't see how anyone could.

(Buck): Oh

(Tommy): Howie told me about your sabbatical. Where are you now?

(Buck): A couple hours outside Salt Lake City.

(Tommy): Exciting stuff. Don't let the mormons get you.

(Buck): Truck driver fell asleep and caused a pileup. That was pretty exciting.

(Tommy): Not for an old pro like you. Did you have to bust out your skills?

(Buck): For a bit. No fatalities, that was good. Mostly just concussions and whiplash.

(Tommy): Look at you, working on your vacation.

It's such a simple exchange, but the concrete block feels even weaker now. He remembers Bobby saying He's good for you, at a time that they later found out was him saying his goodbyes. That taints it, somewhat, but Buck can't get over that Bobby thought he'd be leaving Buck in a good place, with Tommy.

(Buck): Thank you, Tommy

(Tommy): For responding to your texts? It was a real hardship. I'll never get those 90 seconds back.

(Buck): For making me smile. You always do that.

(Tommy): You're pretty good at that yourself. Drive safe, Evan.

#bucktommy #tevan fic #my writing #things by beanarie

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mintyys-blog · 9 hours ago

Note

hi minty, could I request reader with an exhibitionism kink x Fratboy!Wally west? like they end up fucking on every surface possible

WHO NEEDS PRIVACY? | wally west x reader

DC COMICS MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: smut, little to no plot, swearing, fingering (foreplay)

Kindly respect my work. No reposts, translations, or rewrites — AI-generated or not — without my consent. © @mintyys-blog

You didn’t go to frat parties. You went to study groups. To your job. To your dorm, where your roommate’s anime figurines silently judged your nonexistent social life.

But here you were—standing in the too-loud, too-sweaty foyer of Delta Sigma Zeta with a Solo cup in hand and a “What the hell am I doing?” expression you tried to smother behind lip gloss and fake confidence.

You weren’t popular. Wally West was.

Like, absurdly popular. Fast-talking, always-smiling, devil-in-a-varsity-jacket kind of popular. The guy who’d never spoken more than three words to you in class but still somehow knew everyone’s birthday and drink order.

And you had a crush on him. Naturally.

So yes, maybe you came tonight with a plan. A small one. A “use-his-popularity-to-get-into-the-right-social-circle” kind of plan. Which sounded cold, but when you spent most weekends watching Netflix while the campus partied, a little self-serving ambition felt justified.

What you hadn’t planned on? Him noticing you within five minutes of walking in.

He was holding court in the kitchen, surrounded by people who all looked like their Instagram feeds were filtered in real time. He spotted you instantly. Paused mid-laugh. Cocked his head like he wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at.

Then he smiled. “Hey,” he called, leaning against the counter like a walking Abercrombie ad. “You stalking me or something?” You almost choked on your drink. “Please. If I was stalking you, you’d never know. I’m much better at it than that.”

That got a laugh. From him. From the people around him. And just like that, you were pulled into his orbit. You didn’t expect him to actually flirt. But he did. Shamelessly. Wally was the kind of guy who made you feel like you were the only person in the room even while he was making three people laugh behind you. He asked you questions—real ones. Teased you gently. Let his hand rest a little too long on the small of your back when he leaned in to talk.

“You’re funny,” he said at one point, eyes glinting. “You should come to more of these.”

“Parties?”

“My lap.” You nearly spat out your drink. “Oh my gosh.”

“What?” He raised his hands in mock innocence. “I said what I said.”

You didn’t plan on ending up in the laundry room.

But around midnight, after a chaotic game of Never Have I Ever (during which Wally definitely guessed you’d made out with someone in a public place and you definitely lied about it), he tugged you away from the crowd with a whisper of, “Come here, I wanna show you something.”

It turned out “something” was a dimly lit laundry room, half-clean, half-terrifying. And before you could ask what the hell he was doing, his lips were on yours.

He kissed like he flirted—fast, bold, just enough hesitation to check you were in it too. And you were. God, you were.

One second you were pressed against the wall, his hands gripping your hips like he’d earned them, and the next, you were lifted onto the washing machine.

“Tell me to stop,” he mumbled, mouth hot against your neck.

“I will,” you promised, breathless. “Eventually.”

You didn’t.

Somehow the machine turned on mid-makeout. You both paused as it started to shake, then looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“This is so dumb,” you said, wrapping your legs around his waist. “This is so hot,” he corrected. “The risk factor? Peak adrenaline.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re into it.” You didn’t deny it.

He kissed you like he wanted to ruin your lipstick and your plans. You let him. The walls were thin. You could hear music and footsteps outside.

“I swear if someone walks in—”

“We’ll tell them we’re doing laundry,” he said, sliding his hand higher under your shirt. “Like responsible adults.”

“On the spin cycle?”

“Gotta get it extra clean.”

You rolled your eyes so hard your brain might’ve reset. And still—you didn’t stop him. Not when he kissed down your neck, not when he muttered something about how good you looked up on that washer, all breathy and wild-eyed.

You liked this version of you.

The bold one. The one who didn’t care if someone heard. The one who got to be the center of his attention, if only for a little while.

And maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t about social climbing anymore. Maybe you liked being wanted by him for you.

Because Wally?

He wasn’t acting like this was casual. He was looking at you like you were daring him to fall, and he was considering it.

You weren’t sure what was hotter—the way Wally’s hands slipped under your thighs to tug you closer, or the steady vibration of the ancient washing machine beneath you that made your brain short-circuit in real time.

Either way, you were losing the ability to form rational thoughts.

“This is so…” you started, trailing off when his mouth found that spot under your jaw that made your toes curl.

“So what?” he murmured, teeth grazing your skin. “Scandalous? Filthy? A tragic misuse of household appliances?”

“Yes.” You pulled his face back up to yours. “All of the above.”

Wally grinned like a man who knew exactly how dangerous he was. His fingers curled into your hips, anchoring you in place like you might float away otherwise. And honestly? You might. Your pulse was on overdrive. Your dress was halfway to your ribs. Your legs were wrapped around him like you’d been rehearsing this since freshman year.

He wasn’t being subtle about any of it.

“God, you’re hot,” he breathed, trailing kisses down your neck. “How are you not already ruining someone’s life?”

“Because I’ve been busy ruining my own,” you said, tugging at the hem of his hoodie with a smirk. “But hey, new year, new goals.”

He laughed—boyish and bright—and then kissed you again, deeper this time. Like he forgot there was a party outside. Like the two of you had all the time in the world and no one was minutes away from accidentally barging in.

Your back hit the wall above the machine with a dull thud, and Wally paused, blinking up at the ceiling like he was having a holy shit moment.

“Okay. I don’t want to ruin the vibe,” he said slowly, “but I think I just had a spiritual experience.”

You cocked a brow. “From kissing me or the spin cycle?”

“Both,” he admitted. “But mostly you. Definitely mostly you.”

And just like that, the air between you shifted. It was still hot—still reckless and humming with bad decisions—but underneath it, something gentler was blooming.

He looked at you like you weren’t just a quick distraction. Like he wasn’t rushing this just to brag about it later.

“Still want to stop me?” he asked, voice softer now, hands steadying on your thighs.

You should’ve said yes. You meant to say yes.

But instead, you leaned forward until your forehead pressed against his, until you could count every freckle across his cheeks.

“Wally?”

“Yeah?”

“If we get caught, I’m blaming you.”

“That’s fair,” he whispered, already kissing you again. “I’d take the fall for you.”

He pulled your panties down, “lace? Naughty girl.” He put them in his pocket, “I’m starting to think you planned getting laid tonight.”

“So what if I did?” you smirked, tugging him closer by the front of his shirt.

Wally didn’t hesitate. He practically growled into your mouth as he kissed you again—hungry, wild, the kind of kiss that made you forget your name. His hands gripped your thighs and hiked your dress up without ceremony, dragging the fabric to your waist like it offended him by getting in the way.

“God, you’re driving me insane,” he muttered against your skin, pressing kisses down your neck as his fingers skimmed along the inside of your thigh. “You know that, right? You have to know.”

You didn’t get the chance to answer. His fingers slipping lower, testing just how ready you were for him. He paused, glancing up at you with that devilish smirk like he’d just won a bet.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Knew it.”

Before you could throw back a sarcastic remark, he dipped two fingers into you—slow at first, dragging the motion out like he wanted to feel every second of it. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes fluttering closed as your head hit the wall behind you.

You were already soaked, and from the way he groaned under his breath, he liked that. A lot.

“Shit,” he whispered, his free hand gripping your waist as his fingers began to move—slick, rhythmic, deliberate. “You’re so wet for me.”

Your hips jerked forward instinctively, chasing the friction. The sound—wet, obscene—filled the room, almost louder than the music pounding outside. It made you dizzy. So did the way his eyes never left your face, like he was trying to memorize the way you looked unraveling under him.

His fingers curled inside you, brushing a spot that made your whole body jolt.

“Right there,” you gasped, voice barely audible over the roar in your ears.

“Ohhh, that’s it,” he said, grinning like a man who just figured out a cheat code. “Got it. We’re in business now.”

He adjusted his angle and did it again, and again—each stroke more precise than the last, his thumb brushing sensitive skin as his fingers pumped steadily, your slick coating his knuckles. You clenched around him without meaning to, and he felt it, too—his eyes went wide for a second like you’d just short-circuited him.

“Damn,” he muttered. “You’re gonna kill me.” You felt like you were floating, hips grinding against his hand, one of your shoes dangling off your toes, his name tangled in your throat but never quite making it out. Your fingers dug into his shoulders for balance, your chest heaving as your body arched into his touch.

He leaned in, mouth at your ear now, voice pure sin. “Anyone could walk in right now. You know that?” You shuddered.

“You’d let them see you like this?” he teased, curling his fingers again until your eyes nearly rolled back. “Let them see how pretty you look falling apart on my hand?” You didn’t answer—but the way your legs tightened around his waist said enough.

He laughed softly, and God, you could feel him—hard against you, barely held back, every muscle tense with restraint. You weren’t sure how much longer you could take it. You didn’t know if you wanted it to stop. All you knew was that you didn’t want it to end here. Not yet.

His hand moved with a rhythm that felt practiced and perfect—fast enough to make your breath catch, slow enough to drive you mad. You were gripping his shoulders like a lifeline, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as your body trembled under the intensity of it.

Your thighs were shaking. Your chest heaved. And Wally—God, Wally looked like he was thriving on the way you came undone for him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low, teeth flashing as he caught your eye. “Didn’t know you could be this loud.”

“I’m—” You barely got the word out, biting your lip hard enough to taste blood. “I’m not usually—”

“Like this?” he finished for you, voice full of wicked amusement.

You nodded, breathless.

“Yeah,” he whispered, leaning close until his lips brushed your ear. “You are now.”

He pushed his fingers just a little deeper, and you moaned, the sound strangled and desperate as you jerked forward. Your hips ground against his palm, chasing pressure, pleasure, anything. It was instinctive. Mindless.

You were already gone.

He pulled back just enough to watch your face, your mouth parted, your lashes fluttering as your body rocked with each wave of heat building inside you. And when your hands slipped beneath his hoodie, skimming over his warm skin, Wally sucked in a sharp breath like you had just touched a live wire.

“You’re killing me, babe,” he muttered, dragging his mouth down your neck, fingers never slowing. “You’re gonna make me lose my damn mind.”

There was a knock. A sudden thud against the laundry room door.

You both froze.

“Someone in there?” a voice slurred. “I need to throw my jersey in the dryer!”

Wally pressed a finger to your lips, wide-eyed, grinning like the chaos was a bonus prize.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Not with his fingers still buried deep inside you, not with your body screaming for release and your pulse jackhammering in your ears.

He leaned in slowly, mouth right at your temple.

“Be quiet,” he whispered. “But don’t stop.”

And he didn’t.

His fingers curled again—deliberate. Merciless. Your eyes slammed shut as you bit down on the sleeve of his hoodie to keep yourself silent, shaking under the weight of the pleasure curling like fire in your belly.

Whoever was outside the door gave up after a second, footsteps staggering away, music swelling louder again in the background. Wally pulled back just enough to see you, his thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“Still with me?” he asked softly. You met his eyes. And then you kissed him—hard, grateful, reckless. You weren’t stopping. Not yet.

Not when you could still feel his fingers inside you, slick with want. Not when your thighs were still trembling. Not when his voice was thick and needy in your ear, saying, “Come on, baby—let go for me.” You didn’t stand a chance, cumming around his fingers for the second time that night.

He pulled back just enough to catch your breath, his fingers still slick and slow, teasing and driving you closer to the edge. Your heart hammered so loud it almost drowned out the pounding bass from the party beyond the laundry room walls.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered, voice thick with need. His thumb brushed your skin in lazy circles, every touch electric. “I swear, you’re going to ruin me.”

Your breath hitched as his lips grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear, sending shivers down your spine. You pressed into him, desperate to feel more, to erase every line between where he ended and you began.

His hand slid lower, fingers tracing bold, deliberate patterns along your skin. The tension inside you coiled tighter and tighter, every inch of your body alive with raw, delicious anticipation.

Outside, muffled noises drifted in—the distant shout of a friend, the clink of a bottle—but here, in this charged bubble of heat and secrecy, nothing existed but the slick warmth of his touch and the wild, reckless promise in his eyes. You let your fingers tighten in his hoodie, your voice barely a whisper as you said, “Don’t stop.” He smiled—dark, confident, and utterly addicted—and obeyed.

You kissed him like you couldn’t breathe without it—needy, messy, all tongue and desperation. When you finally pulled back, your voice came out ragged.

“Wally,” you whispered, clutching the hem of his hoodie like it was holding your soul in place. “Do you… do you have a condom?”

He blinked, startled for half a second. And then he grinned—the slow, cocky kind of grin that made you want to slap him and kiss him at the same time.

“Babe,” he said, reaching into his back pocket without breaking eye contact, “I always come prepared.”

He held it up with a little flourish, the foil wrapper glinting in the soft light of the laundry room like it was some kind of prize.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you just carry that around at all times?”

“Would you prefer I didn’t?” he asked, leaning in, lips brushing yours as he added, “Because that’d be a real shame—especially right now.”

Your stomach flipped. Your pulse thundered. The fact that he had it on him, like this was something he wanted—not just tonight, but maybe for a while now—lit a fire low in your belly.

“Good,” you whispered, reaching down to tug him closer by the belt loops of his jeans. “Then don’t make me wait.”

His smirk faltered—just for a second—as something hungry, almost reverent, flickered in his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

You barely heard the crinkle of the wrapper over the sound of your own heartbeat.

Wally stepped back just enough to slide off his hoodie in one smooth motion, revealing toned arms and a trail of freckles you hadn’t even realized you wanted to memorize. He caught your stare and smirked—cocky, but there was a softness beneath it, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real either.

“You good?” he asked, voice quieter now. Still playful, but gentler. Real.

You nodded, a little breathless. “You’re not gonna brag about this to your entire frat, are you?”

He stepped between your legs again, hands braced on your thighs, and leaned in close—close enough that his nose brushed yours.

“Only if you want me to,” he murmured. “But… I kind of want to keep this between us for a bit. Just mine.”

Your stomach flipped. Maybe it was the look in his eyes. Maybe it was the way he said mine like it wasn’t just about tonight.

And then?

Then he kissed you again—slow this time, deep and grounding. Like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth. Like he wasn’t in a rush anymore, even though you both felt like you were going to combust.

Clothes came off in stages. Some you helped with, some he practically tore off you. The cold air bit at your skin for half a second before his body was on yours again, all heat and want and reckless focus.

Your back hit the wall above the washer, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, and then—Everything disappeared.

His voice broke in your ear when you moved against him—low, ragged, somewhere between a curse and a prayer. Like he was barely holding it together. Like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

Your nails dragged down his back, leaving hot, red trails in their wake, and he hissed through his teeth—sharp and breathless. One of his hands fisted in the side of your dress like he needed something to hold onto. The other slid beneath your thigh, gripping hard, lifting, angling, until— Oh.

Wally’s breath stuttered, and he buried his face in your shoulder, lips parting against your skin, gasping something that sounded like your name but didn’t quite make it all the way out. Like it caught in his throat on the way up, too wrecked, too real.

You held onto him like the world was spinning off-axis. And maybe it was. Maybe it had been since the moment he touched you.

It was messy. Dizzy. A blur of breathless moans and half-formed words. His name on your lips like a broken promise. Yours in his voice, like he didn’t want to stop saying it, like he wanted to carve it into the air between you, into your spine, into the spaces that hadn’t been touched by anyone else before now.

The washing machine thudded beneath you—off rhythm, knocking against the wall like it was warning you it couldn’t take much more. But Wally didn’t falter. He rocked into you with a steady, determined pace, the kind that didn’t beg or fumble—it took. Bold. Focused. Devoted to the way you melted beneath him.

His grip under your thighs tightened as he pressed into you again, deep, like he wanted to feel every inch of you wrapped around him.

You gasped—sharp, high-pitched—and your hips tilted into him without thinking.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “God, that’s—yeah, just like that.”

Every thrust sent you tipping further into the edge of something you couldn’t name, couldn’t slow down. You were all sensation. All heat. All desperate, clinging need. His cock throbbing against your slick walls.

He kissed you again—messy, open-mouthed, off-center. You didn’t care. Neither did he. His lips chased yours between every ragged breath, every groan, every time your body jolted from the force of him.

“I’m not gonna last,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours, voice thick and hoarse. “You feel too good. You feel—fuck, babe—” You could barely answer. You were already unraveling.

Together, you fell into it—into each other, into every wave of sensation that pulled you under like a riptide. And when it broke, when the tension finally snapped— You didn’t come down gently. You crashed. Straight into his chest, his arms, his mouth whispering your name like it was something sacred.

Your back hit the cold dryer as you tried to catch your breath, legs still shaky, dress bunched around your waist like a trophy of war. Wally leaned over you, one hand braced against the wall, chest rising and falling like he’d just run laps around the block.

You blinked up at him.

He looked like sin incarnate—shirtless, flushed, freckles on full display, hair a mess from your hands. His grin?

Devastating.

“Okay,” he said between panting breaths, voice still a little wrecked. “So that… definitely wasn’t just about doing laundry.”

You laughed, a weak sound, your body still buzzing. “Pretty sure we broke the spin cycle.”

He glanced down at the washer beneath you, which was blinking red like it had given up on life. “That’s fine. I’ve got frat house immunity. They’ll just assume someone made it fight a raccoon again.”

You snorted, dragging your hands down your face. “Wally.”

He stepped back just far enough to help you off the machine, hands lingering a little longer than necessary on your hips, like he didn’t want to let go. And once you were standing—knees wobbling and all—he bent to pick up his hoodie, offering it to you without a word.

You blinked. “What’s this for?”

“Shielding your walk of fame,” he said with an obnoxious wink. “Also your dress is inside out and you lost a shoe halfway through. You’re not exactly blending in.”

You groaned. “Kill me.”

“No way,” he said, stepping in again, voice suddenly softer, teasing but sincere. “Then who am I gonna drag into closets and laundry rooms from now on?”

You met his eyes.

And that was the moment it hit you—not just the aftermath of what you’d done, but the way he was looking at you. Not like you were just a party hookup. Not like this was some brag to toss to the guys later.

No—he looked at you like he’d just found his new favorite secret.

You coughed, trying to play it off. “So… we’re gonna pretend this never happened, or…?”

“Oh no.” He stepped closer, one hand sliding into your hair, smug but fond. “I’m pretending like this is absolutely happening again.”

You opened your mouth to argue.

And then the door flew open.

“DUDE—” Some poor guy stood frozen, arms full of laundry, jaw hanging open as he took in the wreckage. The disheveled dress. Wally’s half-naked state. The deeply haunted look on the dryer’s face.

Wally didn’t miss a beat.

“Laundry’s taken,” he said cheerfully, pulling you flush against him. “Try the basement.”

Then he slammed the door in the guy’s face and turned back to you, eyes glittering.

“So. You wanna sneak out the back,” he said, “or do we walk out like legends?”

#wally west x reader #Wally west smut #wally west #kid flash x reader #kid flash x you #x reader #reader insert #x female reader #dc #young justice x you #young justice x reader

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melonteee · 2 days ago

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Okay I didn't find if anyone has ever talked about this to you, so I bring it up. I like your videos and takes on one piece, but I must say that I disagree with you about Garp's answer to Ace when he ask if he had right to be born in the world.

Like, I don't think it was about "he needs to prove himself to the world". For me it was more like Garp's rough way to encourage Ace to live and make his own conclusion. It's probably depends on translation, as in my language it was translated basically "(you) only find it out by living". Of course Garp could've said "of course you have", but maybe he felt like that answer wouldn't have satisfied Ace. I mean, I don't think Ace was in right state of mind to accept such answer, only later on with Luffy when circumtances were different.

I say this so respectfully because I've gotten this reasoning tons of times before from other people, but I do not care what Garp's intentions were lmao. If a literal child says to you "Should I even be alive?" your answer, POINT BLANK, should be YES. No matter how you put it, Garp's answer was essentially telling Ace to PROVE he should be alive, or to EARN being alive, which is bullshit. Like "You can only find out if you should be alive by living" ??? And then we wonder why Ace spent his whole life searching for, oh I don't know, SELF WORTH??

Even if Ace wasn't in the right state of mind, he was a CHILD. You don't think someone straight up telling him "Yes OF COURSE you should be alive!" wouldn't help him tremendously??

We also have a line from Franky in Water 7 as he says to Robin "Existing isn't a sin!" and we see just how much that helped someone like Robin. So why can't a belief like that, or an answer like that, be extended to Ace? Why doesn't Ace get that kind of reassurance as a CHILD from Garp??

It's even hammered home how bad Garp's answer was when Ace treated Luffy HORRIBLY and, when Ace asked Luffy if he needs him, Luffy said "Of course!"

Ace proved absolutely nothing to Luffy, and Luffy still said "I want you here!"

What Garp said to Ace was undeniably stupid and cruel to me, because he was trying to push Ace into a life HE thought Ace needed to live. Even when Ace was caught, sentenced to be executed, Garp yelled "Why didn't you listen to me and join the marines?!"

Garp's answer was essentially telling Ace to prove to the WORLD why he should be alive, which is a horrible thing to say to a child. You can twist it any way you want but it's clear what his intentions were and how what he said will always circle back around to Ace needing to find a reason to exist. I do not care what kind of reasoning was in Garp's head, because what he said to Ace didn't help him at all. Luffy helped Ace more than Garp ever did because Ace NEVER had to prove his life to Luffy, and Garp being a horrible mentor to Ace is only further proven when Dadan punched the shit out of Garp because he did NOTHING to help Ace.

Garp made some horrible mistakes with Ace, I see that as one of them. I don't care what the reasoning is, it should be acknowledged that Garp's answer was way too cruel for a child to hear. Especially when what Garp told him clearly followed him into his adulthood, and is one of the reasons he even THANKED people for loving him.

He showed gratitude for people LOVING him, because he didn't think he was WORTH that love, and you expect me to try and reason around Garp telling that child he needs a point to be alive? I don't think so.

#sorry it's genuinely crazy to me ppl try to defend Garp for that #grown ass man can't tell a child he should be alive point blank #it's the marine rot in his head #ask #melonask

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p2pecleanerwitheyes · 1 day ago

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Lilia's Venus

Pairing: Lilia Calderu x Reader

Summary: You were feeling insecure and Lilia would do anything in her power to make you feel better.

Warnings & content: insecurity, anxiety, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, fingering, nipple play, self doubt, smut.

A/N: thanks again, @aggieharkness for being an excellent beta reader!!

Ao3

The day had started out like any other, you woke up buried under colourful patchwork textiles, hand-crafted and worn over time. The warmth that had encompassed you throughout the night was no longer there as Lilia’s side of the bed sat empty with the lingering smell of vanilla and cinnamon. Lilia had to pry your hands off of her to get out of the bed and make breakfast, she always woke up earlier and liked to make sure you weren’t hungry at any point of the day - even the crack of dawn. She had a routine, and the most important part of that was making sure her girl had her chocolate pancakes, and that’s exactly what she was doing.

As you became more aware of your surroundings and eased back into consciousness, the smell of Lilia’s baking flooded your senses, sending low grumbles straight to your stomach as saliva all but seeped from your lips.With one labored stretch and a long groan, you had Lilia’s attention immediately. She turned to face you with a warm smile and her spatula in flour covered hands

~ Well good morning sleepyhead, how are you feeling?

You let out another low groan, too tired to form coherent sentences, and shoved your head into Lilia’s pillow, inhaling the comforting scent.

~ Looks like someone doesn’t want any of the breakfast I have just put so much love into making?

Lilia’s smile only grew wider as you shot up, you would never turn down anything she made and she knew that threatening to take away your breakfast would get you to do anything. You tore yourself from the blankets and made small steps in protest of having to get up.

~ Uh why can’t you just take my breakfast to me and then we can both eat in the comfy and warm bed

You moaned as you approached the chair Lilia had pulled out for you at the coffee table and sat, picking up your knife and fork. Lilia put down your plates and a jug of maple syrup as she replied

~ Because…

Lilia finally sat down opposite you, picking up your hand and stroking your knuckles as she spoke softly.

~ Then I would wake up to chocolate chips and crumbs in my cleavage, when I would much rather just have you there.

You grinned and let go of Lilia, picking up the maple syrup and tucking in to your pancakes as she watched and did the same. She always told you that you drowned her wonderful cooking with the amount of maple syrup you used, but it was never out of judgement.

Lilia was happy to cook for you whenever you needed and she had no care about calories or numbers. She loved how your body was sculpted like a goddess and would make a big parade about how perfect you were, and god, did she show that in bed. She would kiss you on every spot she could get her mouth on and she would happily stare at you all day if you both didn’t have your respective things to do.

Despite this, the past few days had taken a toll on you - you were beginning to grow out of all of your favorite clothes and had spent a lot of time in front of the mirror. Taking note of all the things you would change about yourself if you could, and worrying about when Lilia would finally see how ugly you are. These thoughts were never ones you let Lilia in on, and you sure as hell didn’t plan to.

However, this breakfast, Lilia noticed how you didn’t have the same joy on your features as you usually did, and you weren’t so eager to eat. She wiped her hands on a napkin and spoke with concern.

~ Honey, are you okay?

You were pulled from your string of thoughts and quickly put a smile on your face.

~ Yeah! These pancakes are really good, Lilia.

Lilia thanked you for the compliment but still carried a sense of unease about your unusual demeanor today. She would get to the bottom of this, she had to know what was up with her sweet girl.

The day continued like this, you were closed off and Lilia’s worry only grew. You were tending to the plants in your small garden when Lilia approached you, with a furrowed brow and a heart full of concern.

~ Y/N…

~ Yah?

You turned around and put down the rusty metal watering can at your feet, wiping the soil that coated your hands onto your trousers.

~ You know you're going to have to change those and wash your hands if you want to come anywhere near me.

Lilia joked but your smile faltered slightly, with all the negative thoughts whirling around your head, you actually believed her.

~ Hey…I’m only kidding.

Lilia gave you a sad smile and pulled you into her warm embrace, she didn’t mind getting a little dirty for the sake of hugging you.

~ What's going on in that pretty head of yours?

~ What do you mean?

~ Y/N, I’m not blind, there's something…off about you recently. I just want to understand what you’re thinking so I can at least try to help you.

~ Lilia, there’s really nothing.

You tried to convince her but she noticed the way your bottom lip wobbled slightly as you pulled away and your eyes found everything apart from her own.

~ How about we get you cleaned up. What do you think about a nice shower?

If your thoughts were bad before, they just got a million times worse. Lilia would see you… all of you. The scars, the stretch marks, the extra pounds you had added to your frame. Tears threatened to spill as you thought about the arrangement more, pooling in your eyes, but not falling. You never did that in front of Lilia - she had enough on her plate with her visions, the shop, her own trauma…Her visions were ghastly things and were often brought on by stress, if she knew the storm that was raging in your heart, she would feel and see it as much as you did.

~ Oh, it’s fine, you can shower without me.

Your voice was hushed as you looked down, playing with your fingers and chewing on your lip. Lilia’s warm palm found your face as she lifted your head up and stroked your cheekbone.

~ Darling…what’s going on inside that pretty head of yours huh?

~ I don’t want you to see me.

You walked away from her and entered the shop again, slouching down on the pillows of the couch, huffing and hiding your face in your hands.

~ What do you mean by that dear?

~ Lilia, have you not noticed? I’ve been putting on weight. How are you not repulsed by me?!

Your tears now spilled, as did Lilia’s as she listened tentatively, you knew she loved every part of you, but something fucked up in your head was screaming otherwise. You knew she would kiss every inch of your skin if you wished, but your brain pushed the idea that she would leave as soon as she saw you, the real you.

~ Oh, honey. I love you so much, every part of you. The scars, the stretch marks, all of it…they give you life, they show that you're human and you’ve had human experiences. So what if you've put on weight! It only gives me more of you to cuddle…and it means you love my cooking.

Her last sentence came out as more of a whisper as you both chuckled at Lilia’s egotistical remark. You knew all of what she was saying was true, but there was still some hesitation. Your tears stopped flowing and you looked up to see a mischievous expression painted on Lilia’s features.

~ Lilia?

She got closer to you now, her breath traveling over your neck as she left small pecks over your pulse point. Her lips moved higher and she approached your ear.

~ Maybe i need to show you how much mama adores her girl.

All you could do was let out a pathetic whimper and nod as her lips returned to your pulse point, this time nibbling and sucking on the sensitive flesh. Lilia’s hands found the hem of your shirt, not minding that it was covered in dirt, and lifted it over your head. You felt her hands on your own, moving them away from your stomach. You hadn't realized that you moved to cover it until Lilia whispered in your ear.

~ Mama wants to see all of you.

She reached around to unclasp your bra, with eased and practiced skill. You let out another small whimper as you felt her hand on your sternum, pushing you deeper into the pillows on the couch . Her lips left your neck and travelled down, along the top of your breasts and eventually to your nipples, taking them into her mouth one after the other and eventually grazing her teeth along the sensitive buds. You let out a gasp when you felt her bite down slightly, your hand moving to the back of her hair and pulling her closer to you. Her kisses travelled further, peppering delicate smooches all over your stomach. Lilia’s smile grew as she heard you giggling softly.

But as she got closer to where you wanted her, you became needy, erratically pulling down your trousers and underwear and showing her your glistening folds.

~ Someone’s eager.

~ Please, look how wet I am for you, mama.

~ I just want one thing from you first, do you think you can do something for mama?

~ Yes…anything…please.

~ Tell me you’re mama’s beautiful girl.

Your words got caught in your throat as you heard this. Was she really mocking you right now? You looked down to see Lilia’s genuine and knowing expression, her eyes locked onto yours.

~ I…

~ Darling, you can do it. Believe it for me.

~ I am mama’s beautiful girl.

Before you could even take back any of what you said, Lilia’s tongue was on your pussy, licking a strip up your folds and swirling around your clit - making you moan slightly.

~ Mama is going to reward you now sweetheart.

Her lips latched onto your clit and sucked hard as she pushed two fingers into you, slowly thrusting them in and out and curling them ever so slightly. She knew the exact things to do to make you feel good and she could feel how each thrust made you clench and drip with fresh heat. She doubled down on her efforts as your moans grew in pitch and your hips struggled to match the rhythm of her thrusts.

~ Does mama’s pretty girl want to cum?

~ P-please…I..Fuck.

Lilia’s free hand moved to stroke a single tear that fell from your eyes as you came undone, she remained looking up at how magnificent you looked when you came. Her fingers inside you slowed but didn’t stop, prolonging the pleasure you deserved to feel.

As your high flowed out of you, the thoughts returned. Not as bad as before, but still there. Lilia got off the couch and stood before you, slowly stripping down to her yellow, matching bra and knickers. You were too much in awe and in the afterglow to even make a noise, you just sat with your mouth hanging open. Lilia gently took your hand and guided it towards her crotch, you gasped as her wetness seeped through the fabric and coated your fingers.

~ That’s all from seeing you, my love, do you feel how my body responds to you, to how perfect you are.

Lilia sat down once again and spread her legs slightly, making a show of removing her ruined panties. She then unclasped her own bra and sat there, all spread and opened for you.

~ Can mama’s good girl make her feel good now?

You didn’t need any further instructions - your mouth was immediately on her breasts, suckling and nibbling slightly on her nipples, Lilia threw her head back and closed her eyes, you always were talented with your mouth. Your fingers soon found her clit, rubbing softly with the pads of your fingertips, making her almost growl.

~ G-god, you're so good for mama.

Her words only spurred you on, grazing your teeth along her nipple and speeding up the movements with your fingers, Lilia’s high was approaching quickly.

~ Fuck…mama’s gonna cum for her perfect girl.

You held Lilia in place with a hand on her stomach as she came hard. Both of you were now shaking and covered in each other's juices, but you were right where you wanted to be. You both got cleaned up and ended the night in each other's arms, you may not have believed you were beautiful, but Lilia sure did and she would remind you every chance she got.

#patti lupone #lilia calderu #agatha all along #lilia calderu x reader #lilia x reader

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aylinaliens · 2 days ago

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what if in that 10 month gap between s1 and s2, mel and frank absolutely run into each other OUTSIDE of work. at a coffee shop or grocery store or the park. maybe mel is coming off a shift and she’s dead tired. maybe it was a rough day. maybe frank is outside doing literally anything else because he knows abby can’t stand being around him right now. and he gets it. he does. he looks up and there is his least problematic trainee. and when she spots him too a complete look of elation passes her face as she practically bounces on her toes because ‘you’re here!! doctor langdon, what are you doing here—okay, i know what you’re doing here but how have you been? are you okay?’ for once frank doesn’t feel like nails dragging down a chalkboard at being asked that question. she’s standing in front of him with dark circles under her eyes and hair loose around her shoulders. but mel’s eyes are bright. the look on her face is genuine, like he could tell her honestly that no he isn’t okay and she wouldn’t judge or pity him. she would listen.

so alright. his marriage is a fucking joke. his career is hanging by a loose thread. and here is dr. melissa king standing in front of him exuding that same energy and excitement that she did on that shift that blew his life up. so he smiles back at mel without really noticing, and suddenly he was back to that day but he’s not remembering all the bad. no, he’s remembering the good parts. that all seem to involve a brilliant and sensitive doctor. ‘in the flesh mel,” he says, and then he’s asking if mel wants to grab a coffee sometime. she does because she has so much to tell him about work!!!! honestly he’s like a moth to a damn flame. he knows he shouldn’t head toward the flicker of fire, toward that bright light, but he still wants to. so they trade numbers and grab coffee a few times and maybe he starts bringing around that puppy his wife can’t stand for no other reason except the fact that benny likes mel and mel seems to decompress a lot better whenever she has her hands buried in the dogs fur. they don’t see each other a lot because frank has na & therapy & oh yeah he’s trying to repair his relationship with his kids and less so his wife and mel has her sister and work.

flashforward to july 4th. flash-forward to his first day back where he spent a good amount of time firmly declaring inside his mind that mel is his friend. maybe his only friend at this point. when they easily slip back into sync professionally like they do personally it becomes a lot harder as the months go on to pretend like he isn’t in the process—if not already—in love with mel. but he’s married and an addict and he can’t it even dispense tylenol by himself at work. it’s only a matter of time before his life implodes again. he doesn’t want mel to get caught in the middle of it. he’s already worried that their friendship is going to ruin all the good in her but oh yeah. frank langdon is a moth to the damn flame when it comes to melissa king. he could and should be a better man. divorce abby before even touching those feelings swirling inside his chest. yeah. he’s not a good man. never had and never will be.

#the pitt #kingdon #langdonmel #melissa king #frank langdon #he has one foot out of the martial home he shares with abby #big fan of abby/frank getting a divorce between the seasons because he does give off big divorced energy #but what if they try to stick it out and he does love abby but maybe neither of them are in LOVE with each other anymore #but they stay for the kids and for stability and he knows that he could be content with this life until he’s grey and old #wife & a couple kids & a white picket fence. that was always the plan #but then…mel happened

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bie-tch · 3 days ago

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To celebrate my return from break (and to release my pent-up thoughts), I proudly present: Bie's ninja headcanons! 1 silly, 1 angsty LEZGO

Kai first!! (Because fucking duh have you seen my blog)

– Has a separate bathroom for all his skincare and haircare stuff. The team makes fun of him for it regularly, but whenever there's another time crunch mission or something extremely stressful in general, he always looks the best. Maybe some eyebags here and there, but other than that, he's glowing.

– His coping mechanism is self blame. Team falls apart? His fault. Mission accident? His fault. Ninja captured? His fault. Innocents hurt? His fault. His friends in actual fatal danger? HIS FAULT. He used to lash out at others because of this mindset, but now he just sits with himself while anxiously waiting for someone to tell him what to do (in fear of messing up things even more) it's what drove him to the sidelines during planning and battle, he's afraid his "reckless" attitude will jeopardize everything. (He doesn't acknowledge that he's gotten better. He doesn't acknowledge that most of his hotheadedness is a farce. He won't acknowledge that his fears are irrational.)

Zane aww the baby the dude the little awww

– Has been betrothed to Pixal for YEARS already. Like, shortly after s10. He saw Jays proposal, saw Pixal have a physical body, and it just clicked in his head that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with his other half. He was so touched that he spent hours sourcing the perfect yinyang pendant, planning everything to the tiniest, most insignificant detail, only for her to be the one to get down on one knee. He cried a little (a lot)

– Was so genuinely hurt and upset at the administration calling him "equipment." When he got back to the Monastery he instinctively tried to find his safe place (Pix), only for him to be absolutely crushed when he realized that she simply wasn't there. He drowned himself in analytics and background work simply because if he thought about it too much he'd have a breakdown. But he can't have that. He needs to find pixal, right?

Cole ceo of goober town

– Is an actual god at cooking now. Seriously, he can make anything taste Michelin quality with a handful of ingredients. He prefers baking, though, for obvious reasons.

– Was isolated from his peers while he was in school, solely because he fought a lot. Kids would run away from him, spread rumors, or try to avert his path on a daily basis. Faculty tried to contact his father whenever things would escalate, but he was too busy drowning in alcohol to pay attention to his sons education.

Nya!!!!

– Contrary to popular belief, Nya is absolutely a bigger hothead than Kai. On a bad day, you can sniffle, and she'd just go off on how unhygienic the monastery was and start spite-cleaning only for the others to offer to help out of pure fear. This is her way of getting out of chores. Kai is onto her but finds it so funny how everyone scrambles to keep her from exploding.

– Her first word was "Hungry." She knows this. When she asked Kai what her first word was out of curiosity, he lied and said it was "mom." She went to ignacia for a simple errand and that was when she found out. An old shopkeeper said he remembered a barely 4 year old girl with sunken cheeks point at his produce and babble "hnngry.. unggry." Now, when people ask what her first word was, she'll still say "Mom."

The Master of jig (Jay)

– LOVESSS his parents but hates to admit it. Not because he finds it embarrassing, but because his folks will not shut up about it even after months. He'll go, "Yknow I love you a lot, right ma, pa?" And they will throw a legitimate PARTY FOR IT. When the ninja found out about it, the teasing lasted for exactly 7 months.

– The only thing he remembers after the merge are calloused, wrinkly hands holding him like he's the most precious thing in the world. He doesn't know who, or why, but he's determined to find out.

Laloyd

– The softest, shiniest, bounciest hair you will ever feel. He has never touched a single hair product in his LIFE. It's been Kai's mission to ruffle that hair atleast twice a week ever since he did it back when they were younger.

– Has burned every single photo of him and his father together after the events of s10. Every time he's reminded of how much he aspired to be like him when he was younger he gets physically sick. He could never idolize someone like that. Who views lives like collateral damage. Never. Never again.

#ninjago #lego ninjago #ninjago dragons rising #kai smith #nya smith #lloyd garmadon #cole brookstone #jay walker #zane julien #headcanons #shutupbie #ninjago kai #ninjago nya #ninjago lloyd #ninjago cole #ninjago jay #ninjago zane #ninjago pixal

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myinaru · 2 days ago

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Childhood Best Friend Complex - Part 2

You and Heeseung have been best friends forever. Emphasis on forever. Like, learned-how-to-walk-together type of forever. But college throws a wrench into your usual routine: one night blurs a line that was never supposed to move, and suddenly, everything feels different.

Now there’s weird tension, awkward silences, and unspoken things you’re both too stubborn to say out loud. You don’t know what’s worse, pretending nothing’s changed or admitting everything has.

Because staying friends? That was always the plan. Wanting more? That was never supposed to happen.

Pairing: Lee Heeseung x Fem!Reader

Genre: College AU, Childhood Best Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Smut, Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 39.6k Total (11.8k - Part 2)

Warnings: Dry humping (hell yeah), Corny maybe idc, Lots of misunderstanding, Mentions of multiple kpop idols, Cursing, Cunnilingus, Unprotected sex (pls don't), Praising, Heeseung is a yearner, Lmk if I missed anything lol

Author's Note: First time uploading here lol. This fic was heavily inspired by the manhwa/webtoon Childhood Friend Complex. I'll be splitting it into three parts since Tumblr won't let me post it in one go. Hope y'all enjoy T-T

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

It wasn’t that anything necessarily big changed.

There was no confession. No dramatic blowout. No sudden declaration that things between you and Heeseung had shifted.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because everything technically stayed the same. You still shared lunch sometimes. Still exchanged half-sarcastic texts about your departments. Still found him standing beside you when the vending machine wouldn’t work, muttering something dumb like, “You scare it.”

But underneath all that? The norms had started to feel... different. Like it was hanging on by habit. Like you were both still playing the roles you’d always played, but now, someone else was quietly writing herself into the scene.

You didn’t like admitting it.

You didn’t even want to think it.

Because it made you feel petty. Stupid. Insecure.

But the truth was there, in the way your eyes always seemed to drift toward them. Heeseung and Yeri. Your name and his used to be the ones always mentioned in the same breath. Now it was hers.

“Did you hear their duet’s going well?”

“They’ve got really good chemistry.”

“She totally matches his energy.”

You tried to ignore it. Tried not to care. But each time, your brain grabbed onto those words and refused to let go.

Now, the university’s interdisciplinary festival was in full prep mode. Meaning more meetings.

More chaos. More hours spent in shared spaces with students from every department, Performance Arts, Medicine, Dentistry, Science, Athletics, all of it combined together under one event.

And today was another all-department coordination session. Nothing fancy. Just a general sitdown in the multipurpose hall to go over final scheduling, check logistics, finalize performance slots, make sure no one had a complete breakdown before the actual festival.

You showed up on time. Not early. Not late. Just enough to be on time without looking like you were trying to bump into anyone.

But as soon as you walked in, your eyes flicked across the room, and there it was again.

Heeseung. Already seated in one of the middle rows. Laughing quietly with someone beside him.

You didn’t need to guess who.

Yeri was leaning slightly toward him, her elbow resting casually on the chair arm they shared. She wasn’t loud, not obnoxious. But she had that kind of confidence that made everything she did seem intentional.

She looked at him when she spoke. Touched his arm to emphasize a point. And even from a distance, you could see the way her lips curled upward when he actually responded.

He wasn’t laughing like she was. Not nearly as much. His smile looked tired, his posture a little off. But he wasn’t stopping it either. He wasn’t moving away. He wasn’t brushing her hand off or even shifting slightly to the side.

He was letting it happen.

And you hated how much that sat with you.

You didn’t even realize you’d paused at the doorway until Vicky came up beside you and tugged your sleeve.

“Come on,” she said, nudging you gently toward the far side of the room. “I saved you a seat.” You sat down beside her without a word.

And for the next thirty minutes, you tried to focus. You really did. The facilitator’s voice echoed off the walls as they ran through updates; venue maps, booth assignments, emergency protocols. Someone asked a question about audio equipment. Someone else groaned about the last-minute changes to the talent showcase lineup.

You took notes. You nodded when needed. You acted like you were present.

But you weren’t.

You kept catching yourself glancing sideways. Watching the two rows in front of you. Watching her.

Yeri laughed again, not loudly, but clearly. She leaned over to whisper something to Heeseung, her hand briefly brushing his shoulder as she leaned in.

This time, you saw it clearly.

Heeseung didn’t laugh. But he let her lean in. Let her touch linger. He didn’t look at her like she was the only person in the room, but he didn’t look uncomfortable either.

And for some reason, that was what stuck.

Not the closeness. Not the flirting.

But the fact that he didn’t flinch.

You kept your expression neutral. Quiet. Collected. You didn’t frown. Didn’t glare. You just... watched.

Then you stopped watching.

And you stared down at the paper in your lap instead.

Vicky glanced sideways, but didn’t say anything. Not right away.

It wasn’t until the meeting let out and the students started packing up that she finally bumped your knee with hers.

“You okay?”

Her voice was quiet. Soft.

You hesitated for a beat too long before nodding.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just tired.”

She didn’t believe you. You could tell. But she also didn’t press.

“Okay,” she said simply. “Tell me if you wanna skip next shift. I’ll cover.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Thanks.”

As you both stood up to leave, someone from the volunteer team, a girl from the med department, you think, walked past with two others. They were chatting too casually, not thinking about who was near them.

“Honestly, I thought Yeri and Heeseung would’ve made a great couple anyway,” she said, laughing under her breath. “Like, come on. That chemistry? It just makes sense.” You didn’t look up.

Didn’t say anything.

But something inside you dropped. Like a part of you had just been officially replaced, and no one had bothered to tell you.

Later that night, you found yourself sitting on your bed, lights off, laptop open but forgotten beside you.

You weren’t even sure what you were looking for when you opened Instagram. Just scrolling. Mindless.

Then you saw it.

Someone from the performance team had posted a candid photo from today’s meeting. The lighting was bad. The image slightly blurry. But there, in the background, caught midconversation, Heeseung and Yeri.

He was turned slightly toward her. She was smiling. Their heads tilted together just enough to look close. Familiar. Like two people who belonged in the same frame.

You stared at it for a long time.

It wasn’t even a particularly romantic photo. Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious.

But it still made your chest feel tight.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

You didn’t believe it.

Things had been off for a while, but you didn’t want to admit it.

At first, you chalked it up to the mess of the semester with the schedules tightening, responsibilities piling up, everyone scrambling toward festival season. Heeseung was busy. You were busy. That was normal. That was expected.

But over time, it stopped feeling like a phase. It felt... like something slipping.

The texts started slowing down. First it was a few hours without a reply. Then full days. You’d send something light, “Did you sleep through lunch again?” or “You alive?” and get a thumbs up emoji hours later. Sometimes not at all.

And it wasn’t just that. You used to see him every day without even trying. Now you couldn’t remember the last time you bumped into him outside of some committee gathering or prep session. It was weird. And quiet. And nothing like you were used to.

Still, you kept giving it time. You told yourself he’d come back around. That he was just busy. That things would settle.

But things didn’t settle.

You kept showing up to lunch at the same table out of habit, only to sit alone with your food going cold. Heeseung would arrive twenty minutes late, sometimes more, always out of breath, his hoodie half-zipped, hair damp like he’d just left dance practice. And when he finally sat down, he’d dive straight into updates about the festival. About Yeri. About choreography tweaks and rehearsal conflicts.

You listened. You nodded. You even asked questions, just to fill the air. But it was getting harder to ignore how your name didn’t seem to belong in the sentences anymore.

That Wednesday, you waited ten minutes longer than usual before pulling out your phone.

No text. Not even a missed call.

By the time Heeseung showed up, you had already finished half your drink.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, sliding into the seat across from you with a huff. “Choreographer added a last-minute segment to block in.”

You looked up from your sandwich. “It’s fine.”

He gave you a crooked smile. “You sure? I feel like I’ve been flaking on you.”

“You’ve been flaking on everyone,” you replied lightly, pretending it didn’t bother you. “It’s equal opportunity neglect.”

He laughed a little at that, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess that makes it better?”

You shrugged. “Depends who you ask.”

There was a beat of quiet as he opened his own lunch box, but his eyes stayed on his phone. You caught the edge of a notification lighting up the screen. A name that was all too familiar now.

[12:37pm] Yeri (Performance Arts)

“got the water bottles u like!! want one?” You didn’t mean to look. But you did.

You took a sip of your drink and forced your voice to sound casual. “You and your partner getting close?”

He glanced up, chewing. “Huh?”

“Yeri,” you clarified, trying to sound like it was just a passing comment. “You’re practically glued together these days.”

Heeseung blinked like he hadn’t even thought about it. “We’re just working a lot. She’s on top of logistics too, so there’s been a lot of overlap.”

“Right,” you said. “Must be nice, having someone so... dedicated.”

He didn’t notice the shift in your tone. Or maybe he did and chose not to mention it.

You looked down at your half-empty plate. The air felt heavier now.

Then you tried again, stretching a smile across your face even if it didn’t feel real. “Maybe I should start calling you ‘partner’ too.”

Heeseung blinked, clearly confused. “What?”

“Nothing.” You waved it off too quickly, stood up before the silence got worse. “Anyway. I should get back. Vicky’s waiting.”

He didn’t stop you. Just looked up, lips parting like he wanted to say something, but never quite did.

You left without looking back.

Later that day, you found yourself holed up in a study room with Vicky, trying to finish a lab write-up, but your mind kept drifting.

She noticed.

“You’ve read that sentence like five times,” she said, nudging your arm.

You blinked down at your notes. “Sorry.”

Vicky leaned back, arms crossed. She wasn’t prying, she started not to, but she also didn’t beat around the bush. “Heeseung?” You stayed quiet.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

You let out a soft, bitter laugh. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Y/n,” she said, gently now. “You’ve been pretending this doesn’t hurt for weeks.”

“I’m fine,” you said, voice too sharp. And then softer, with a break you didn’t mean to show, “I’m just tired.”

Vicky didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she reached over and closed your notebook.

“You don’t have to be okay all the time, you know.” You didn’t answer. Just stared at the table.

The next day, on your way to the library, you passed the studio again.

You didn’t mean to stop. But the door was open. And your eyes flicked toward it without thinking.

Inside, Yeri was handing Heeseung a bottle of sports drink. He smiled as he took it, looking surprised but grateful.

Then he looked down.

And you noticed the small, scrawled letters across the label.

Heeseung ♡

It was dumb. A joke, maybe. Or not.

He muttered a ‘thank you,’ voice too soft to hear.

You didn’t stay to watch the rest.

You kept walking, not fast, but just enough to leave it behind.

That night, you went up to the rooftop. You didn’t know why. Habit, maybe.

You used to go there together. Late-night study breaks, ramen cups in hand, laughter echoing into the dark sky.

Now it was just you. The air was colder than you remembered. The city lights stretched out far beyond the campus, but it didn’t feel comforting tonight. Just... distant.

You sat there, arms wrapped around your knees, staring at nothing.

And for the first time, you wondered if maybe he wasn’t just busy.

Maybe he really was slipping away.

Maybe you really were replaceable.

The hallway was quiet by the time the last of the volunteer boxes were packed away. You rubbed your temples, body aching from the back-to-back shifts; morning coordination meeting, afternoon cleanup rotation, and then the impromptu rehearsal run you weren’t even scheduled for but ended up dragged into anyway.

Heeseung was still here. That was rare lately.

You found him near the vending machines, crouched down, digging through his bag for something. The hoodie he wore was damp at the collar, his hair messy like he hadn’t had a break in hours. He looked up when you walked past, surprised.

“Oh. You’re still here?”

You shrugged. “Didn’t have a choice.”

He straightened, offering a tired half-smile. “Yeah. Today was brutal.”

There was a long pause after that. Not the easy kind you used to fall into. This one sat heavy, awkward between you.

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the flickering light above. “At least you’ve got someone bringing you snacks and drinks now. Makes it easier, I guess.”

Heeseung blinked. “What?”

You didn’t look at him. “Nothing. Just... must be nice.”

He stood straighter, tone shifting just enough to be noticeable. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You finally turned to face him, voice too even. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

“Y/n.”

The way he said your name, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t teasing. It was cautious. Like he was trying not to set something off.

“You’ve got Yeri,” you said, hands tightening at your sides. “She seems really invested in helping you out.”

Heeseung frowned, genuinely confused. “She’s just helping with rehearsals.”

“And labeling your drinks?” you asked, raising a brow. “Cute touch.”

His face tightened. “Seriously? That’s what this is about?”

You scoffed, stepping away from the wall. “I didn’t realize we were doing the whole ‘defend her immediately’ routine now.”

“I’m not defending anyone,” he said, voice low but sharper now. “I just don’t get why you’re acting like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’ve committed some crime for accepting a drink.”

You shook your head. “Forget it.”

“No,” he pressed, following a step closer. “Say what you mean for once, Y/n. What’s going on with you?”

You swallowed hard, not ready to spill it, not like this, not when it already felt like he was miles away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It clearly does,” he said. “You’ve been cold for weeks.” That stung. More than you expected.

You looked at him then, eyes meeting his. “I’ve been cold?” He hesitated.

“You’ve been distant too, Y/n. Don’t act like this is one-sided.”

You stared at him. “Of course I’ve been distant.”

The next words almost came out, almost spilled out of your mouth too fast.

I’ve been hurting. I’ve been watching you drift and I didn’t know how to reach for you without embarrassing myself.

But instead, you bit them back.

“Whatever,” you muttered, grabbing your tote off the floor. “You’ve got your partner now, right?” His expression changed. Like you’d slapped him without touching him.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.

You didn’t answer. Just slung the bag over your shoulder and turned toward the stairwell.

Behind you, he didn’t say your name again. Didn’t stop you.

And this time, the silence was unbearable.

You left first.

You pull your blanket tighter around you, burying your face into the pillow like maybe the pressure can hold everything in. You’re not crying.

No way.

But your eyes sting and you can’t tell if it’s from exhaustion or from the way your chest has been aching for hours, like someone’s wedged a stone behind your ribs and keeps pressing down.

Earlier, you hadn't meant to see anything. That part matters. You weren't snooping. You were just tired.

Just needed your charger from the volunteer room before heading home. Just needed five seconds to grab your stuff and disappear.

But when you turned the hallway corner, the faint sound of laughter stopped you in your tracks.

Not just any laughter. His.

You froze, blinking at the thin crack of light spilling from the studio across the way. The door was slightly ajar, just like that day, like someone had forgotten to pull it closed all the way, and for some reason, you found yourself standing there.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough.

Yeri was there, leaning against the mirror wall, hair tied back, cheeks flushed from rehearsal. Her eyes sparkled under the soft lighting, exhausted but still bright, still full of something lighthearted. And Heeseung stood just a step away from her, loose hoodie slung over his practice shirt, posture relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in days. Weeks, maybe.

He looked comfortable. At ease.

And then she held something out to him. A drink, one of those canned vitamin waters he liked. The kind only a few people knew he actually preferred after practice, even if he always claimed he didn’t care.

“Found the last peach one,” Yeri said with a small grin. “Thought you’d want it before Jungwon hoards the fridge again.”

He laughed. Not loud, not showy. Just that warm, tired laugh that sounded like something slipping past his defenses.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it without hesitation. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“You looked like you were gonna collapse,” she teased, nudging his shoulder lightly. “I thought I’d have to carry you out of here.”

Heeseung let his head tilt to the side, mock dramatic. “Honestly? Might not be a bad way to go.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile softened. “Please. You’d be the most stubborn patient.”

“Oh, definitely.” He nudged her back, and the contact lingered just a little too long before he stepped away.

They laughed again. It was soft. Familiar.

It shouldn’t have felt like a gut punch.

But it did.

Because he looked at her the way you remember him looking at you, when it was just the two of you waiting for the bus, sharing fries outside the cafeteria, stealing moments between classes where the whole world felt like it slowed down around you.

That drink? You used to buy those for him. Knew exactly which one to grab even when the shelves were chaos. You’re the reason he even liked peach to begin with. He hated it at first, said it was too artificial, until you forced him to try it during one of your late-night study sessions. You laughed when he made a face, and he kept drinking it anyway.

But now someone else was handing it to him.

And he took it like it was normal. Like it wasn’t anything.

Your hand tightened on your phone. You stepped back, heart hammering too loudly in your ears. The ache started small, sharp and shallow, but it grew fast, spreading under your skin like bruises you didn’t see coming.

You didn’t stay to hear the rest.

Didn’t want to see what else would unfold in that room where your place used to be.

You moved quietly, careful not to let the door click too loudly when you slipped into the volunteer room. Grabbed your charger. Left without saying goodbye to anyone.

Now, hours later, you lie there in the dark, teeth clenched against the thoughts clawing at your insides.

You’d kept telling yourself: He doesn’t owe you anything.

He doesn’t.

He never said he was yours.

But that didn’t stop it from hurting.

Because somewhere in your mind, maybe somewhere stupid, buried deep under all the teasing and the soft moments and the near-confessions, you thought maybe you were his.

Even just a little.

Still, the image stayed with you. The ease. The comfort. Like maybe she’d earned that closeness now.

Like maybe she’d replaced you.

You roll onto your back and exhale slowly, staring up at the ceiling.

“He doesn’t owe me anything,” you mumble, like saying it out loud will make it true.

It doesn’t.

Because underneath all the justifications and reassurances you’ve been feeding yourself, about timing, and misunderstandings, and maybe-it’s-all-in-my-heads, you know the truth. You’ve always known.

That night you told each other to forget what almost happened? It was a lie. A stupid, flimsy lie that neither of you ever really believed.

And now, all those memories you kept locked up are surfacing like waves you can’t stop.

You remember the way Heeseung crouched in front of you on the sidewalk after that terrible group date, his gently laying on your knees for balance, eyes steady as he said, “I’m not leaving you alone like this.”

You’d been tipsy, humiliated, ready to walk home barefoot if you had to. But he knelt down anyway, even when people stared, and let you rant or throw something or just breathe. And he stayed. The whole time.

You remember that night you crashed at his place after that incident. The restaurant the next morning, ordering greasy breakfast food and paying for his omelet with exact change because “he let you use his toothpaste and everything.” The grin he gave you when you teased him for adding too much syrup to your waffles still lingers in the back of your mind.

You remember the pact you recalled in the park, laughing about being single forever and getting married at thirty just for the tax benefits. But then he looked at you, really looked, and said, “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.” Like maybe it wasn’t a joke to him either.

You remember the little things, too. The way he used to wait outside the dental building with a coffee in hand, already knowing how you liked it. The walks to the bus stop, the way his shoulder would brush yours, solid and warm and always there.

And then, there was that night.

You were both too drunk, too loud, too everything. You’d ended up tangled on his carpet floor, laughing about something stupid. And then there was silence. The kind that hums between two people right before they make a mistake, or maybe, something they’ve always wanted to do. His hand on your face. His breath against your skin. His voice, barely above a whisper, saying your name like it meant something.

It hadn’t just been alcohol. Not for you. And if he’d pulled away right then, maybe it would’ve hurt less. But he didn’t.

You cover your face with both hands now, breathing slow and shaky.

You want to believe it was all just a phase. A passing crush. But it wasn’t. It never was. You whisper it to yourself like it’s a confession. “It wasn’t just a crush.” You don’t say the rest.

I love him.

The words come to the edge of your lips and then stop, like if you say them out loud, they’ll shatter whatever’s left between you.

You turn over, curling into your blanket again, arms wrapping around your pillow like it could make up for the weight in your chest.

You thought admitting it would bring some kind of clarity. Closure, maybe. But it doesn’t. It just makes everything hurt more.

You press your face into the pillow, willing yourself to sleep, even as the memories keep playing in your head like some kind of cruel reminder.

And when the silence grows too loud, you finally whisper, just to yourself, “This is way too fucking much.”

This time, you don’t try to fix it. You don’t try to make it okay.

You just let it sit there with you.

Because what else can you exactly do?

Heeseung stared at the open document on his laptop, but nothing was sinking in.

The rehearsal schedule was sitting in front of him, highlighted dates, times, deadlines, but his mind kept wandering to the empty chair across from him during last week’s prep meeting. The one you usually sat in. The one that had stayed cold and unoccupied.

You hadn’t shown up on time like you always used to.

You hadn’t texted since the last time you’d walked away from him, shoulders stiff, expression unreadable.

And maybe it shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did. Maybe he shouldn’t have looked up every time the door opened, hoping it would be you. But he did. Every single time.

You were still around, of course. He still saw you during volunteer work, during festival stuff. But it was different now. You showed up right on time or late. You didn’t look for him. You didn’t nudge him during boring announcements or send him dumb memes when the coordinator rambled too long. You kept to yourself, sitting beside Vicky or someone else. Always someone else.

And you never texted first anymore.

Heeseung scrolled through your chat thread last night. The last message was from him. A week ago. A casual "you get home okay?" that went unanswered.

He tried not to take it personally. But that ache had been growing.

Rehearsals were colder, too. Yeri noticed.

"You good?" she asked one evening, tossing him a water bottle during break.

He caught it, barely. "Yeah. Just tired."

She gave him a look that said she didn’t believe him, but she didn’t press.

The truth was, he was tired. So fucking tired. But not in the way they thought. He was tired of pretending nothing changed when everything had. Tired of trying to act like he didn’t notice the subtle way you avoided his gaze, the way your responses had turned careful, clipped.

He missed you.

God, he missed you.

He thought about the night after the group dinner, when you stayed over and kissed him like you were scared of what it meant but still did it anyway. The warmth of your hands on his jaw, your voice soft and unsure when you said his name like it was fragile.

He never forgot it. Not for a second.

But now?

Now, it was like it never happened at all.

You didn’t look up when Heeseung walked into the room.

You’d seen him coming, caught the shadow through the frosted glass, but you kept your eyes on your notebook, pen scribbling something meaningless. Just something to do with your hands. Just something to look at that wasn’t him.

You knew he noticed. He always noticed.

But he didn’t say anything either.

Not that you expected him to. It was easier this way, right? Keeping the peace. Keeping the distance. He had Yeri now, anyway. She brought him snacks. She knew when his rehearsals ended. She stayed behind to help him go over cues even when everyone else had gone home.

She called him “partner” like it was a nickname, and he never corrected her.

So no, you didn’t have a place anymore.

And still, that didn’t stop you from glancing at him when you thought he wasn’t looking. It didn’t stop the sting when you overheard Yeri teasing him in rehearsal the other day, laughing too hard at some joke only the two of them understood.

“Bet your partner can’t survive a rehearsal without you,” she’d said, voice warm.

And he had smiled. Not a full laugh. Not the way he used to with you. But still, he smiled.

You didn’t tell anyone what that did to you. But you did leave early that day, saying something about a group project that didn’t exist.

You kept rerunning your last real conversation with him. The not-quite-fight. The half-sarcastic, half-sincere jab about Yeri and the snacks and the attention. The way he blinked at you like you were the one being unreasonable.

“Don’t act like this is one-sided,” he’d said.

It wasn’t one-sided. That was the problem. You just never told him.

“You’ve got your partner now, right?” That’s what you said instead.

And you regretted it the moment it left your mouth.

Later That Week,

“Y/n,” Vicky said one afternoon, her voice gentle, “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

You didn’t respond right away. You were mid-task, helping tape decorations for one of the festival booths, trying to keep your focus on folding stupid streamers just right.

When you did speak, your voice cracked halfway through. “I’m fine.” Vicky didn’t push. She didn’t have to. The silence was enough.

Heeseung didn’t say goodbye when he left that day. He’d looked at you, he always did, but you weren’t looking at him. You were talking to someone else, your voice quieter than usual.

He lingered a second longer than he should’ve. Then turned and walked out.

That day, you took the long way home. It wasn’t planned, really. Your feet just sort of led you there, the corner outside the convenience store, near the apartment where Heeseung lived. The one you’d crashed in after a group night out, both of you tipsy, tired, laughing at things that didn’t even make sense.

You paused in front of the same sidewalk you’d stood on that night. The one where you’d clutched his coat and tried not to shiver. The one where he’d leaned in close, breath warm as he said something that made you laugh and forget how cold the night was.

You stared for a while. Didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.

Then you walked home, arms folded tighter around your chest.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

The club office was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards. Heeseung sat alone, the glow of his laptop casting a pale light on his face. The rehearsal schedule blinked back at him, but his eyes were unfocused, staring through the screen rather than at it.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then dropped to his lap. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the past few weeks.

The door creaked open, and Jay peeked in, a teasing smile on his face. "Still here? Burning the midnight oil?"

Heeseung offered a half-smile. "Just tying up some loose ends."

Jay stepped inside, glancing around the empty room. "Or still thinking about her?"

Heeseung paused for a moment, sighing. “I think Y/n’s avoiding me.”

Jay blinks now, leaning against the doorway. “Like avoiding you-you? Or just people in general?”

Heeseung leans against his chair. “Haven’t seen her since Tuesday. She keeps skipping prep meetings. And if she’s there, she leaves the second we’re done.”

Jay shovels a mouthful of chips. “Damn. That’s serious.” Heeseung waits for more wisdom, but none comes.

“I don’t get it,” he mutters. “We were… fine, weren’t we? I mean, I thought we were fine.”

Jay sets the bowl down. “You guys fight or something?”

“Not really. Not directly. But she’s… different.” Heeseung exhales through his nose. “Did I do something?”

Jay shrugs. “I mean…” He stretches his arms out like he’s just warming up for the bomb he’s about to drop. “Well, Yeri’s been attached to you lately.”

Heeseung frowns. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Jay stares. “Dude.”

“What?”

“If Y/n likes you, and I’m not saying she does, but like, if she does, then that would piss me off too.”

The words hit like a body blow.

Heeseung goes quiet.

Jay raises his brows. “What?”

“She doesn’t like me,” Heeseung mutters.

Jay snorts. “You sure? You guys had, like, a thing. I don’t know what kind of slow-burn drama you’ve been cooking, but even I could tell something was there.”

“Yeah, was,” Heeseung snaps. “That was before.”

Jay just shrugs again, totally unbothered. “I’m just saying. If it were me, I’d be mad too.

Watching someone I like hanging out with someone else. All the time. Smiling. Sharing snacks.” “We’re not dating,” Heeseung mumbles.

“But were you ever just friends?” Jay counters, surprisingly sharp. “I mean, did it ever feel… just friendly to you?”

Heeseung looks away.

That silence is answer enough.

Jay raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "Alright, man. Don't stay too late."

As Jay left, Heeseung's gaze drifted to the corner of the desk, where a small, half-written note lay beside a closed drawer. He reached out, fingers brushing the paper, then pulled back. With a swift motion, he slid the note into the drawer and closed it.

He opened his messaging app, a blank draft addressed to you staring back at him. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then he sighed and deleted the draft.

His eyes landed on his old film camera perched on the shelf. He reached out, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. A soft smile played on his lips as he whispered, "She always liked this kind of stuff..."

The camera clicked softly as he pressed the shutter, the sound echoing in the empty office.

All of a sudden, something odd happens.

It starts on a Monday.

The morning had it out for you from the start.

First, your alarm glitched and woke you up twenty minutes late. Then you opened your cabinet to the horrifying sight of an empty instant coffee box. And your oral path notes? Still buried somewhere in your room under two textbooks, one laptop charger, and a heaping pile of unresolved stress.

By the time you made it to school, you were already sweating through your uniform and running on two hours of sleep, half a granola bar, and pure academic anxiety.

You shuffled into the hallway, barely noticing the hum of fluorescent lights or the sharp sting of antiseptic in the air. The dentistry building always smelled like stress and sterilization, and this morning was no different.

You reached your locker on autopilot, expecting the usual cluster of dusty handouts and last week’s anatomy quiz shoved inside. But something made you stop.

There was something taped to the door.

Your fingers slowed before they reached the handle. A small, crinkled packet of candy, taped slightly off-center like someone had stuck it on in a hurry. Your favorite kind, too. Not the kind you could find at the nearby convenience store, but the one you used to keep in your bag during high school, the brand you hadn’t talked about in ages.

Your first instinct was suspicion. Not fear, just confusion.

You looked around. No one was near you, except a junior from the ortho track yawning into his phone a few lockers down.

There was no note. No “from,” no explanation. Just the candy.

You stared at it for a second longer than you meant to.

Part of you wanted to laugh. It felt weirdly out of place, like a random act of kindness from someone who knew exactly what to get, but not how to say why.

You peeled it off, tape clinging to the edge of your thumb. It wasn’t heavy or dramatic or anything worth overthinking. Probably someone from your class. Or a friend. Or someone pulling a subtle prank. Right?

Still, you slipped it into the pocket of your bag instead of throwing it away.

You told yourself it was no big deal. But you found your fingers brushing against the wrapper again when you were halfway to lecture.

It stayed in your pocket all day.

The next day, you were early. Not by much, but enough to catch the tail end of the building’s weird, pre-lecture silence. The kind where the hallways sound more like libraries and less like war zones. Your breath fogged up a little in the over-airconditioned room. It was always too cold in your department. Even your bones complained.

Your lab coat hung over your arm. Your bag dug into your shoulder, heavier than usual from two atlases and the water bottle you forgot to empty yesterday.

The classroom lights were already on when you stepped in.

A few of your classmates were scattered around, some seated, some still dragging stools across the tiled floor. The usual chatter filled the space: someone whining about the lab manual, someone else reciting mnemonics for nerves. The projector flickered to life in the front, bathing the whiteboard in that cold blue light.

And then you saw it.

Your desk.

Second row from the front. Right side. Your safe spot.

And sitting right there, dead center on your desk, like it belonged, was a banana milk. The kind you hadn’t bought since… forever ago. Not the generic brand, but the nostalgic one, cartoony packaging, yellow cap, slight condensation fogging up the sides.

There was a note.

Pink. Square. Curling a bit at the corners from the humidity. You recognized the handwriting immediately, though your brain scrambled to deny it.

Hope today goes easy on you. Drink this.

You froze.

Just for a second. Then your eyes scanned the room, casually, act normal, your head not even moving an inch, as if expecting someone to be staring right back at you.

No one was.

Everyone looked half-asleep. A few people waved when you looked their way, distracted. You caught the eye of your seatmate, who raised an eyebrow like long night? You shook your head.

You touched the note once, then peeled it off the bottle like you were handling evidence.

Whoever left it… either knew you very well, or had been watching too closely.

But it didn’t feel like a prank. It didn’t feel threatening. Not like the wrong kind of attention you’d learned to dodge in your first two years here.

It felt… specific.

The note stayed in your hand longer than it should’ve. You didn’t drink the banana milk right away. Just slid it to the side and opened your laptop, acting normal, though the back of your neck felt hot the whole time.

That one didn’t feel random.

That one… sat with you.

A little too well.

By Wednesday, it stops feeling like coincidence.

There was a cycle to college days, especially by the middle of the week, where exhaustion blended with routine and your brain ran mostly on autopilot. You knew when to wake up, when to walk, when to nod politely at upperclassmen you didn’t know.

So when you saw the photo, it felt like your internal programming glitched.

It was just there.

Waiting on your seat as you returned from your locker, right before prosthodontics. Most of the class had already taken their places, notebooks out, laptops humming. Your professor’s voice buzzed quietly over the mic system, giving last-minute quiz reminders. Someone at the front groaned dramatically. You were half-listening.

Until your foot bumped your chair, and you noticed it.

A square. Slightly curled edges. Off-white.

You picked it up, cautiously at first. A polaroid. The faded kind that developed with too much contrast and too little clarity.

It was a photo of a café.

That café.

The one from that rainy afternoon sophomore year, the place tucked behind the old printing press building. You hadn’t been back in what felt like forever. The sign in the photo was tilted, the glass slightly fogged. A pair of hands, yours, rested on a chipped ceramic cup. The memory was so specific it made your stomach lurch.

No note.

No initials.

Just the picture.

At first, you tried to reason it away.

Maybe someone found your old post on Close Friends. Maybe it was a weird throwback prank. Maybe- No.

It wasn’t random. Not this time.

The drinks, the candy, maybe you could dismiss. But this? A photo of something that happened years ago, between just the two of you?

No one else knew this memory.

Except Heeseung.

And maybe… Yeri?

Your heart twisted.

Yeri had been around more lately. Laughing louder when he was near. Finding excuses to rehearse longer. She wasn’t cruel, exactly, but she knew how to toe that line. Knew how to smile at you a second too long. How to tilt her head when Heeseung looked your way.

Was this her?

Is she trying to taunt me?

Your throat went dry. That weird prickling feeling crawled up the back of your neck again, the same one from lab yesterday. You looked around the room, slowly this time. No one looked suspicious. No one even seemed to notice the photo.

You slipped it into your folder. Carefully. As if hiding it would make the knot in your chest unravel.

But it stayed.

You couldn’t shake the feeling.

Not that someone was being kind, but that someone was watching.

The noise in the hallway was enough to make your skin feel paper-thin.

Groups of students moved in packs, some fresh from their lectures, some just arriving from lunch, some laughing too loud on a casual Thursday morning. The Dentistry hallway was warm, humid from too many bodies and not enough airflow. The linoleum tiles squeaked under cheap sneakers and worn boots.

Your bag thudded on the bench as you dug for your notebook.

You’d been rushing all morning. Late for oral path. Your clinical partner had forgotten her gloves again, and you’d run out of time to print your readings. So now, all you wanted was to get through this lab with minimal human interaction and maybe five minutes of silence after.

You pulled your notebook out.

And something slid out of it.

Your breath hitched as the folded paper fluttered to the floor. It landed face-up. Neat creases. Familiar pen pressure. You picked it up slowly, heart already pounding before your eyes even scanned the words.

Maybe you’ll notice me again one day.

Your fingers clenched.

You blinked once. Twice.

Something about the handwriting tugged at your nerves, not because it was completely unfamiliar, but because it was almost familiar. Soft loops. Deliberate slant. A little too tidy to be yours. A little too warm to be your blockmate’s.

Your stomach turned.

You’d seen it before.

On the edge of a clipboard during rehearsal. On the corner of a script printout. Scribbled across a whiteboard when Yeri took over warm-ups.

That same Y.

That same Maybe.

Your breath caught again, this time sharper.

Your head snapped up, scanning the hallway instinctively. No one was looking your way. No one looked suspicious. Just your classmates, shuffling and talking and complaining about case requirements.

You looked back down at the note.

The first thought was: This is weird.

The second was: Wait… was this Heeseung?

The third hit harder: No. This looks like Yeri’s handwriting.

You stood there, frozen, the paper still between your fingers. The more you stared at it, the more your gut twisted. It felt like something Heeseung would say. Something quiet and aching and leftover from the version of him who used to wait for you outside class just to walk five extra steps beside you.

But the writing... It looked like hers.

Your throat closed up. This wasn’t just a message anymore. This felt like a performance. Someone writing lines in someone else’s voice. Playing pretend with something fragile. Something sacred.

You dropped the note.

Your hand flinched back like it burned.

A few feet away, someone called your name. A labmate, probably. You didn’t respond. You bent down, picked the note back up mechanically, folded it, shoved it back into your notebook without even thinking.

Your heart was pounding.

What if it was Yeri?

What if she was trying to taunt you?

She’d been everywhere lately. Always lingering near Heeseung. Always looking when she didn’t need to. Always acting like she knew something you didn’t. Like she owned something that used to be yours.

Maybe she was trying to twist the knife.

You tightened your grip on the notebook.

It had started as a simple doubt. But now... now it was a full sentence circling in your skull:

They're together.

She knows it.

She wants me to know it, too.

And the worst part?

You couldn’t tell if that note had come from someone who missed you, Or someone who wanted you to suffer.

You don’t tell anyone. Not even your best friend in the department, and she’s the one who catches you zoning out mid-convo and missing half the answers during study review. You just laugh it off. Say you’re tired. Say it’s the festival stress.

Because what would you even say?

“I think someone’s leaving me weirdly affectionate notes... and the handwriting looks like someone I don’t trust?”

It sounds paranoid. But it feels worse.

On Friday, you showed up to rehearsal with your guard up.

Even as you entered the campus theatre building, its echoey halls and scratched laminate floors, you felt it. That knot in your chest. That hum beneath your skin. Like your body was prepping for something it hadn’t been told yet.

And there she was.

Yeri.

Perfect posture. Her hair clipped neatly to one side. A Starbucks drink in her hand, matcha, probably, and a laugh caught on her lips as a freshman from your batch said something stupid and charming.

She didn’t see you at first. Or maybe she did and didn’t care to show it.

You didn’t say anything either. You moved toward your corner of the practice room, unrolled your mat, checked your laces. Did all the normal things people do when they’re pretending not to watch someone else.

But she kept hovering.

During warmups, she drifted near your stretch line. During the blocking run, she ended up beside Heeseung again, like it was just a coincidence. Like she hadn’t spent the whole week orbiting him.

And then came the break.

You were tying your shoelaces when you felt it.

A glance.

You looked up.

Yeri.

Just a flicker. A second. Her gaze slid off you like water, back toward her phone.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Not obvious. Not lingering. Just enough to make your chest tighten like it was warning you of thunder.

You stood. Back against the wall. Bottle in your hand. And then she walked past you. Water bottle in one hand. That same unreadable smile.

She slowed. "You look tired lately," she said lightly. “Are you okay?”

You blinked. The question wasn’t harsh. Wasn’t mocking. But it felt… wrong. Off-key. Like a compliment with the teeth filed down.

Your mouth moved before your brain caught up. “I’m fine.” Too fast. Too defensive. It slipped out like a shield.

But she didn’t react. Just nodded like she expected that answer. Like she already knew what you’d say. And then she walked into the studio, quiet and graceful like nothing had happened.

You stood there too long, holding your water bottle like it might help you stay grounded.

Was that concern?

Or was it mockery in disguise?

You thought about the handwriting again. The photo. The note. The timing.

Heeseung.

Yeri.

Together, maybe. And laughing behind your back. Pretending it wasn’t weird. Pretending you weren’t still flinching from a memory they’d made sacred and left behind.

Was it a coincidence she was suddenly always there?

Was it your imagination?

Or was she really trying to tell you, without saying it out loud, that she had him now?

That she’d taken something you didn’t even realize was still yours?

By Weekend, it stopped being cute.

It wasn’t a game anymore. Wasn’t flattery. Wasn’t mystery. It was something else now. Scarier. Personal.

You found the note on Saturday, wedged beneath your water bottle during the afternoon rehearsal block. You hadn’t even stepped out that long, just enough time to stretch your legs and grab a snack from the vending machine. The hallway had been nearly empty.

But when you came back, there it was.

The paper was thick. Folded precisely. Just one line, handwritten in blue ink.

“If I hated you, I wouldn’t know your favorite ice cream or where you hide when you’re overwhelmed.”

You stared at it for a full minute before picking it up.

Your hands started to shake before your brain even finished registering the words.

That quote, that quote, was from the show you and Heeseung used to watch in middle school. Not a popular show. Not the kind you’d quote online or reference to new friends. Something small. Silly. Yours.

You hadn’t mentioned it in years.

No one knew about it.

Except Heeseung.

Except… maybe someone else heard.

Maybe someone overheard. Or maybe he told someone.

And the only person who had been consistently, strategically close lately… was Yeri.

You thought back to the last few days. Her glances. Her perfect timing. Her voice that never sounded quite as soft as it pretended to be.

“You look tired lately. Are you okay?”

That nod, like she expected you to say you were fine.

And now this?

Was this still a note?

Or was it a warning?

You folded the paper so tightly it creased like a blade. Tucked it into the bottom of your bag like it might burn if anyone saw it.

You started locking your backpack zippers.

You kept your locker closed, even between classes.

You stopped hanging around after rehearsal. You left first. Arrived late. Walked the long way around the Music building even if it made you sweat through your shirt.

Your earbuds stayed in, even when your playlist had long since stopped.

Because it wasn’t just about the note anymore. It was about the way you felt seen.

Not admired. Not even observed.

Seen like you were something to be watched. And that feeling… that was new.

You avoided Heeseung. Entirely.

You didn’t know what to think. Whether he was part of it, or just too close to the one who was. Whether he gave her that memory. Whether he was laughing with her about you, the way old friends sometimes do when they feel sorry for someone they used to care about.

He waved at you once on Sunday during the last cleanup before the festival officially starts. You didn’t wave back.

Didn’t even look at him. Just reached for your bag, turned, and walked away. The music was still playing, the room full of chatter, but your ears were ringing.

It hurt. God, it hurt.

Because maybe the worst part wasn’t the fear.

It was that the person who used to know you best had no idea what you were going through. Or worse…

What if he did?

You don’t wake up rested.

Even though you got a full seven hours, your body feels like it never stopped moving. Your limbs ache, not from physical work, but from tension. Like your muscles have been clenched for days and you forgot how to let them go.

You stare at the ceiling for a while before you get up. Today’s the first day of the Interdisciplinary Festival. Booths. Selling. Mingling. Crowds. Too much noise and not enough distance.

You already feel too drained, and the day hasn’t even started.

As you get ready, your mind keeps circling back to the gifts, the notes. The way they just kept appearing like pieces you were never meant to read. You haven’t found a new one since the weekend, but the silence doesn’t help. It only makes the air heavier.

What if it was her?

What if it wasn’t?

What if he knows?

You shove the thoughts aside with your toothbrush, with your hoodie, with the bag of booth materials slung over your shoulder. You’re here to work. You’re here to help. You're here to get through the damn day.

The festival grounds are already packed by the time you arrive. Colorful tarps, handmade signs, extension cords running like veins under the booths. Laughter, chaos, music thumping from cheap speakers. The scent of grilled street food already clings to the air.

You check in at your department’s booth, dentistry is doing a cute, mildly educational thing with mini tooth kits and enamel pins. There’s a raffle, too. You’re in charge of tracking sales and organizing the freebies.

Which is perfect. It gives your hands something to do.

It helps you focus.

Mostly.

"Hey, can you pass the price tags?" someone calls out.

You nod, grabbing the pack and sliding it across the table without looking. Your eyes drift again, without your permission, really, across the field of tents and student bodies. Searching.

You spot him halfway across the lot.

Heeseung.

He’s wearing a simple long-sleeved shirt rolled to the elbows and a lanyard with his department tag. He’s crouched by the performance art booth, helping adjust a foldable whiteboard that keeps sliding down.

Even from here, he looks… different. Focused. Calm on the outside, but you can tell he’s tired. There’s something about the way he moves, like his mind’s somewhere else. You know that version of him. You’ve seen it more times than you care to count.

Then he straightens, and as if sensing it, his head turns in your direction.

His eyes meet yours.

You don’t mean to freeze, but you do.

He smiles.

Hesitant. Small. Like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to.

You look away before you can decide what it meant. Before he can read your face. Before you can start wanting again.

You bend over to reorganize the freebies.

He doesn’t approach.

You don’t either.

Yeri shows up around mid-morning.

Of course she does. She's part of the performance committee, and her name is basically embedded into every schedule and announcement slide. She’s not wearing anything flashy, just a cropped cardigan over a simple top, jeans, but she still stands out. She always does.

She greets a few people near your booth, dropping smiles and soft waves like it costs nothing. People gravitate toward her naturally. She laughs easily, her voice lilting in a way that makes conversations sound lighter than they probably are.

And then she moves toward their booth.

You try not to look.

You really try.

But there’s a lull in booth activity, and your hands are still, and there’s nothing left to organize.

So you glance up. Just once.

Yeri’s standing next to Heeseung, her hand brushing his arm as she says something. He laughs softly, barely. He doesn’t pull away. Again.

Stil, he doesn’t lean in either.

You’re too far to hear the words, but you see the way she tilts her head. The way her eyes linger. The way he shifts his weight slightly like he wants to be somewhere else, but doesn’t know how to excuse himself.

Your stomach twists. Like it always does.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You’re not together. You haven’t even spoken properly in days. You’ve been the one avoiding him. This, whatever this ache is, shouldn't even exist.

And yet, your throat tightens.

Your hands curl around the edge of the table.

Around noon, one of your booth mates offers to run and grab snacks. You nod along and stay behind, glad for the excuse to avoid walking through the crowd. The last thing you want is to cross paths with either of them.

Your phone buzzes on the table.

It’s a message from your best friend in the department.

[10:34am] Vickypedia

“he’s been glancing over here all morning, btw.” You don’t reply.

You don’t know how to.

Because you’ve felt it too, in flickers. But you don’t know what to do with it. You don’t know if it’s guilt or affection or just residual habits.

You tell yourself again that it’s fine.

You’re okay.

That this unease in your chest is just the festival stress. That the weird notes were probably someone trying to be sweet in a way that landed… wrong. That maybe it really isn’t Yeri. Or maybe it is. Or maybe…?

You’re spiraling again.

By the afternoon, the sun gets warmer, and the energy of the crowd swells. You’re elbow-deep in raffle tickets, half-listening to the excited chatter around you, but your heart hasn’t caught up to the moment.

You feel disjointed.

Every time someone passes behind you, your shoulders tighten. Every time someone leans close to speak, you flinch a little too easily. The world feels a bit too close, like you're moving through static.

And every now and then, from the corner of your eye, you catch sight of her.

Yeri.

Sometimes alone. Sometimes not.

Always smiling.

Always composed.

Always a little too aware of where you are.

You catch her looking once, in the late afternoon. Not long. Not obviously. Just long enough.

And this time, she doesn't smile.

She just nods once, like an acknowledgment.

And then turns back to whoever she’s talking to.

You barely register the end of the day when it comes. Someone claps near your ear to get your attention, laughing when you jump.

"Sorry," they say. "You just looked really zoned out."

You smile thinly. “Yeah. Long day.”

You help pack up your booth’s supplies into a box. Your hands are sore. Your chest is heavier than it was this morning. The festival energy doesn’t cling to you, it bounces off. You feel untethered, like you never quite touched down the whole day.

You don’t know what you’re hoping for.

A confrontation?

A confession?

Clarity?

But there’s nothing.

Just a field full of tired students, taped-up posters, and lingering music.

Just the sound of your own heartbeat trying to convince you this isn’t what it feels like.

You wake up again, already bracing for the day.

It’s the kind of morning that feels too bright, like the sun’s mocking you for not sleeping properly. You barely touched breakfast. Your stomach’s too knotted up to hold anything.

Today’s the performance.

And that means Heeseung.

And Yeri.

You stall in front of your closet longer than necessary, pretending you’re just indecisive. But really, you’re just thinking about what to wear that’ll make you look fine. Not affected. Not like you spent half the week thinking about handwritten notes and brushing off your closest friends and avoiding the one person who used to know you better than anyone else.

In the end, you settle for something simple and casual, but not lazy. The kind of outfit that says, I’m not here to impress, but I also didn’t roll out of bed crying.

You arrive at the venue just before the crowd thickens. The makeshift stage is already set up.

Complete with lights, speakers, and a colorful backdrop painted by the Fine Arts department. Foldable chairs form a semi-circle around the stage, though most students are content to stand or sit on the grass.

It’s loud. Warm. Packed with energy.

The Performing Arts kids own the space like they were born for it. There’s already buzz going around about the final number. Someone mentions it’s going to be dramatic. Emotional. “The one with Heeseung and Yeri,” they say.

Of course it is.

You find a spot near the back, away from the crowd, where the lighting’s dimmer and no one’s paying too much attention. You can see the stage, but you don’t feel like you’re being seen.

You scan the performers setting up.

And then, there he is.

Heeseung, standing offstage in his performance outfit. Black long sleeves, flowy fabric, minimal accessories. He’s talking with one of the stagehands, nodding, focused. You know that look. It’s the same one he used to get before big recitals or exams.

Then Yeri walks over to him.

She’s in costume too. Her outfit matches his, fluid lines, soft fabrics. They look… good. Like they belong in the same setting.

They exchange a few words. She smiles. He smiles back, tight-lipped but polite. Then she reaches up to fix something on his collar.

Your nails dig into your sleeve before you can stop yourself.

The performance begins in full force.

First, it’s ensemble acts. Some lighthearted, some poetic. Spoken word, a musical duet, a monologue that earns a teary sniffle from someone behind you.

And then, the lights dim.

A hush falls. The final number.

The opening notes boom low and smooth through the speakers, a stripped-back instrumental. Two spotlights fade in.

Heeseung walks onto the stage from one side. Yeri from the other.

The crowd leans forward.

And you stop breathing.

It starts slow.

Just movement at first. Their silhouettes circling each other. Graceful. Every step like a wave. Not a word is said, but you understand it. It’s a story told through choreography. A story about distance. Yearning. Resentment. Reconnection.

And God, they sell it.

You try to remind yourself that it’s acting. That it’s what they do. Heeseung’s always been good at disappearing into his roles and so has Yeri. You’ve seen them rehearse, you’ve seen them prep. You know this.

But when their hands touch?

When Yeri’s palm finds his chest and she pushes, gently, like she’s letting go of something?

When he doesn’t react?

It doesn’t feel like acting anymore.

Your eyes sting.

You blink fast. Shake your head.

Don’t be ridiculous. You know what this is. You know how this looks. And still. Still, your chest burns like you’ve swallowed something wrong.

And then it happens.

Near the end of the piece, there’s a still moment, part of the choreography, you’re sure of it.

Yeri steps close.

Cups his face.

Just for a moment.

But it’s a long moment.

Too long.

The audience gasps. Cheers. Someone shouts, “Just kiss already!” which earned a few giggles in the crowd.

You turn your head, eyes darting down and away. But not before you catch it.

Heeseung sees you.

He sees your face.

And your hurt isn't hidden fast enough.

You turn away before you can register his reaction. You pretend to be interested in your phone, in the grass, in anything that doesn’t look like jealousy.

You don’t look back at the stage.

When the piece finally wraps, the crowd explodes.

Applause. Whistles. Phones up, cameras flashing. The host rushes out to thank the performers, but it’s clear who stole the show. People start pushing forward to get closer, half for pictures, half just to gush.

“Heeseung and Yeri, seriously…” a girl says beside you, practically squealing. “Like, are they dating? They should be. They’d be such a power couple if they got together for real.” You step back.

And then again, as more students surge forward to get a better view of the stage. Someone bumps your shoulder, and your balance falters. You steady yourself, the applause ringing too loud in your ears.

That’s enough.

The walk back to your dorm is quiet. The sun’s still out, but it doesn’t feel warm anymore. You take the long route, hoping the extra time will help you process what you just felt. What you saw, but your mind keeps looping back to the same thing.

That look on his face before you turned away.

He saw you.

When you get back to your door, there’s something waiting. Another note. Folded neatly, like it’s been sitting there all day.

You hesitate.

Then pick it up.

Your stomach drops as you read it.

You’ll regret ignoring this.

No smiley face. No name. Just that.

You stare at it for a while, your fingers tightening around the paper. A chill slips down your back. This one doesn’t feel romantic. It doesn’t feel soft. It feels like a threatening whisper at the back of your neck.

The third day is supposed to be the chill one.

That’s the whole point.

The sun’s out but gentler, the air buzzing with leftover festival energy. There’s an acoustic stage on the grass where students are passing around a guitar. A few first-years are on picnic mats playing card games. Others are threading beads for last-minute friendship bracelets. It’s mellow, warm, a little bittersweet. The high is wearing off, and everyone’s in that weird inbetween space where nothing’s urgent, but everything still feels important.

You spot the photo wall they put up, a collage of Polaroids from the past two days. You spot one of yourself behind the booth, half-laughing with your group, sweat clinging to your temples. The version of you in the photo looks... lighter. Like she wasn’t holding in a hundred burden.

And there he is.

Heeseung, smiling in one of the shots, arms around his team. Yeri’s just behind him. You glance at it for half a second too long before turning away.

It’s fine. You’ve been holding yourself together this long. One more day won’t kill you.

Your department’s booth is halfway disassembled. Tents down, tables cleared, only boxes of supplies left.

Your shirt sticks to your back. You’re sweaty. Your legs are sore. Your throat’s dry from giving out instructions and calling over people who clearly weren’t listening.

“Man, please tell me that’s the last one,” one of your blockmates groans, dramatically stretching their back.

You chuckle tiredly. “That’s the last one.”

“Thank God,” another adds. “I’m never organizing an event again. I swear I aged ten years.”

Someone collapses beside you on the grass. “Remind me why we volunteered again?” “Free food?” one of your blockmates offers.

“Trauma bonding?” another guesses.

Laughter ripples through your group, loose and tired.

Sunoo, a close friend you’ve met after volunteering, pats your back. “You killed it this week, by the way. Thanks for making sure we didn’t die.”

You give a small, crooked smile. “Of course.”

Then you glance at the stacked boxes beside you. “I’ll take these to storage.”

“Seriously?” Sunoo asks. “That’s like five floors up.”

“I need the break,” you say, hoisting two boxes up into your arms. “Aircon elevator ride? Yes, please.”

They wave you off with half-hearted cheers. “Stay alive!”

“Text us if you get stuck in the horror movie elevator!” someone jokes.

You roll your eyes, already trudging toward the building.

The halls are quieter than usual. Most students are still outside, too busy soaking up the last bits of festival atmosphere.

You elbow the elevator button, shifting the weight of the boxes. The elevator doors slide open. Empty.

Thank God.

You step inside, back hitting the cool wall. You exhale deeply, adjusting the boxes in your arms.

The doors finally start to close.

And then- SLAM.

A hand shoves between the doors at the last second. You flinch instinctively, your grip tightening on the boxes. The doors bounce open again with a ding. And there he is.

Heeseung.

Sweaty. Breathless. A single box in his arms. His eyes widen the moment he sees you.

The air leaves your lungs.

He steps in silently. The doors close.

You’re both frozen.

You can hear his breathing, shallow and fast. You’re not sure if it’s from running or from this.

From you. From this.

Seconds tick by.

“Didn’t know we were still doing the silent treatment.” His voice is quiet. Tired. A little raw.

You don’t look up. You stare at the elevator buttons instead. “Didn’t know we were still friends.” The silence that follows is loud. Crushing.

All of a sudden-

The elevator jerks. The lights go out.

You both flinch as everything goes dark, save for the faint red of the emergency lighting.

Your heart drops.

“God,” you mutter under your breath. “I shouldn’t have ignored why nobody takes the damn elevator.”

He drops his box with a thud. “Of course it does.”

You press the emergency button half-heartedly. Nothing but the same dull buzz.

The silence creeps back in.

Then, his voice again, quieter.

“Why weren’t you accepting them?”

You blink, confused. “Accepting what?”

He exhales. Shaky. Like it’s costing him something to speak.

“The gifts. The notes. I thought you’d… I thought you’d understand. I didn’t sign them, but I thought- I hoped, you’d just know.” You finally look at him.

His jaw is clenched. His eyes glimmer in the dim light.

“You…?” you whisper.

“You didn’t even keep them,” he says, hurt flickering in his voice, barely concealed.

You frown. “Not all of them…”

He shakes his head. “But enough.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then, softly, “I thought they were from someone else.”

Heeseung laughs, bitterly. “Yeah. You looked scared. Like you were being stalked. Like I made you afraid of me.”

“I didn’t know it was you, Heeseung,” you whisper. “You never said-”

“I didn’t know how!” he bursts out. “You stopped talking to me. I didn’t even know if I had the right to show up in front of you anymore. I just… I just wanted you to feel me there. Even if you couldn’t look at me.” His voice cracks.

“I missed you so much, it hurt,” he chokes out. “And I saw it, you know? You flinched when you read them. You started walking faster. Stopped looking me in the eyes. I thought I ruined everything.”

You swallow hard. “But I didn’t hate you.”

“I didn’t know that.”

His hands twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them anymore. “All I wanted was to fix things. And I kept waiting for the right time. For something to change. And then the rehearsals keep happening and Yeri and I just-” His voice breaks. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” There’s a pause.

Neither of you move.

The elevator hums quietly under the emergency lights.

You don’t know who steps first.

Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you.

But suddenly, his arms are around you.

Not smooth. Not choreographed. Not clean like their dance.

It’s messy. Clumsy. A little panicked. Your box hits the floor beside his with a hollow thunk, but neither of you care.

He wraps his arms tight around your shoulders, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“Please don’t hate me,” he whispers, face buried in your shoulder. “I didn’t want to lose you. I just didn’t know how to fix this.” He trembles.

You’re frozen for a second. Then your hands slowly reach up, clutching the fabric of his shirt. Holding him back.

Your voice barely comes out.

“Are you… crying…?”

He lets out a soft, trembling laugh. Pulls back just a little. His eyes are red, but he’s smiling. Barely.

He looks at your face.

Then your lips.

And then, He kisses you.

Softly. Slowly.

Like he’s scared he’ll break you.

You don’t pull away. You kiss him back. Your fingers grip tighter into his shirt, grounding yourself.

The elevator hums. Then jolts.

The lights flicker back on. The machinery whirs.

But neither of you move away.

Not until the ding of the elevator bell cuts through the silence like a gunshot.

The doors slide open.

Heeseung hesitates to pull back.

It’s his floor.

He hesitates. Steps forward just as the doors begin to open.

And you, your voice finally finds the courage.

“Heeseung.”

He pauses just in front of the door.

You say, “Meet me at my apartment later.”

The doors slowly close between you, and he holds your gaze until the very last inch.

And nods.

Then he’s gone.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

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