#i like the first one better but i think they both make sense

[okaylikeschaewon]

Chapter 10: Choices

~6k words, male reader, smut

“I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what?” Sakura yawned, rubbing her eyes.

“Kkura I’m fucking scared.”

She took one proper look at you and that was enough to let the drowsiness instantly fade from her face. The fact that it was the break of dawn and that she had just rolled out of bed a moment earlier seemingly no longer mattered. Shrugging her shoulders to protect herself from the cold, Sakura shut the door behind her and stepped out into the crisp morning air, pulling her robe tight around her body.

“What happened?” she asked softly, her beautiful, round eyes widened. Her expression was warm, despite the chilly morning air.

“What if she doesn’t take it well?” you asked, your breath catching in the cold and your teeth clattering.

“Let’s slow down for a second,” Sakura began shivering. “But first, can we go inside? It’s freezing out here.”

“Uh…”

“Oh, right,” Sakura frowned. “Car?”

“That works,” you agreed, turning around and leading Sakura towards where you parked.

Sakura got into the passenger seat as you turned on the car.

“Much better,” Sakura shivered, holding her hands up to the vents as you started blasting the heat. “Alright, now do you want to explain what you’re talking about?”

“I slept on it, like you said,” you began anxiously. “I can’t shake my head around… I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Sakura sighed, her eyes shimmering with compassion. Her gaze was soft and understanding, radiating a soothing energy that promised there would be no judgment on her end.

“You’re going to need to clarify who you’re talking about.”

“Sorry. It’s Zuha. I can’t get that girl out of my head. I swear ever since she confessed, I’ve felt something inside me that I just haven’t been able to shake.”

“Then I guess you have your answer.”

“Isn’t it fucked up though?” you raised your voice unintentionally, nearly shouting at the girl without even realizing it. “Sorry, I just mean like, for Chaewon, I feel awful. I still really love her, I think, but I think I also have feelings for Kazuha? I don’t know, nothing makes sense to me anymore, what am I supposed to do?”

“I’m not here to tell you what’s right and wrong,” Sakura replied calmly. “I love both of those girls with all of my heart.” 

“And I still have a lot of love for both of them.”

“But you can’t see both of them romantically,” Sakura smiled gently. “There’s no real nice way to put it, you have to pick one.”

“It just feels wrong,” you let out an exasperated sigh. “Why can’t I just have them both?”

“It’s one thing to sleep with both of them, but it’s another to have feelings for both,” Sakura chuckled. “Unfortunately, I don’t think it would be fair to either girl if you tried keeping both.”

It sucked to hear, even if for just a moment you tried to trick yourself into thinking it would be possible. “You’re right, I know, it just blows.”

“And I’m not telling you which one you should pick, that’s your decision,” Sakura continued. “Lucky you, by the way, in the grand scheme of things there are worse choices to be left with.”

“I know, I’m making my own life difficult.”

“I’m not saying it’s an easy choice.”

“But I have to make it.”

“Yeah, you do,” Sakura pursed her lips as her expression bled empathy. “They both really like you, more than you probably know.”

“That doesn’t make it easier.”

“My bad,” Sakura chuckled before her expression turned more serious. “If it makes you feel better, I know better than anyone that you’ll do right by Chaewon even if you decide to move onto Kazuha.”

Better than anyone. Something about that comment didn’t exactly sit right with you, and immediately you figured something was wrong.

“Sakura?” you gave her a look of confusion as you fixated on that one line.

“I’m fine,” her voice cracked as she quickly turned away from you to look out the passenger side window.

“I… are you…” your voice trailed off, and it was like there was a rock in your throat. All of a sudden you couldn’t speak, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. You reached out for Sakura’s shoulder with your hand.

“I said I’m fine,” she repeated firmly, pulling her shoulder away from your touch, still staring out the window. “Just… give me a second, please.”

“Sure, let me know,” you leaned back slowly.

This couldn’t be much further from what you expected the conversation would be like. It all happened too fast, you were still trying to comprehend how it turned into this. You kept your gaze fixated on Sakura’s back, confused and worried about her, forgetting about your own dilemma for the moment.

She brought one of her hands up to her face, presumably wiping her eyes with the cuff of her robe, followed by a couple of silent sobs. Her body trembled just enough for you to notice, as if she was still outside in the cold, but the car was as warm as it could be. She let out one final sniffle, shrugging her shoulders as she took a deep breath and turned back to face you.

“Sorry about that,” she stated, her beautiful round eyes stained scarlet. “As I was saying-”

“Sakura,” you cut in, barely hearing your own voice over your thumping heart. “Are you okay?”

A shaky exhale escaped her lips as her brow furrowed. Her lip began to tremble, and her eyelids began blinking rapidly. She nodded, unable to find her voice.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” Sakura laughed as a couple of tears flew down her face. “About how pathetic I am? How it takes one mention of our past to send me down a fucking rabbit hole all night?”

“What are you talking about? You’re not pathetic-”

“Aren’t I?” she shouted, her voice unstable and shaky, each syllable wavering and threatening collapse. “I bet you didn’t think about it at all after we stopped talking last night.”

“Of course I did,” you responded unconvincingly, fully aware that she knew you were lying.

“Yeah? Did you also spend all night looking at pictures? Pictures that I refused to delete? Even though I told myself I would?” Sakura snapped back. “That’s what I thought.”

It was tough to hear and you were admittedly at a loss for words, staring at Sakura as she was on the verge of fresh tears. It hurt so unbelievably bad to see her like this. You’ve known this girl for years and seeing her in this state was a rare occurrence, but it was so fucking difficult whenever it happened. You hated it. You hated every second of what was happening in this car.

“I’m fine,” Sakura choked, still struggling to get the words out. “Being reminded last night just really had me thinking about those days.”

“I’m sorry-”

“It took me a really long time to forgive you,” Sakura confessed, ignoring your apology. “Like, a really fucking long time.”

“I had no idea-”

“I once told Zuha I was going to murder you in your sleep.”

“Oh,” you raised your eyebrows. “Understandable, very reasonable.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Sakura scoffed. “What you did was… honestly it’s been long enough, I’m going to say it. What you did was fucked up.”

“Excuse me? We both agreed to end things when we ended them,” you finally found your voice and defended yourself. “How can you put all the blame on me like that?”

“You’re right, we both agreed,” Sakura retaliated with her voice full of rage. “I’m talking about the reason you gave and what you did right after.”

“You mean-”

“Yes you fucking asshole,” Sakura interjected. “Do you have any idea how much that hurt me? And it’s not like she knew a thing, I made sure to never tell her, because it wasn’t her fault, she didn’t deserve to have that in her mind.”

“I didn’t plan for things to happen the way they did, you know this. It just… things just happened the way they did, no one could have seen it coming.”

“I. Fucking. Know,” Sakura sighed with exasperation, frustratingly agreeing as if she knew she had no other option. “Of course I fucking know, I’m the one who basically…” she sighed deeper with heavy pent up frustration behind her before adding in a nearly-silent whisper. “But it still really hurt.”

“I’m really sorry Kkura, I-”

“Never thought about it? Had no idea? Why would you? You had a pretty girl obsessed with you while all I had was fucking nothing, nothing but the pleasure of watching you replace me in less than… however long it was. I don’t even give a fuck about that part, it’s just the reason you gave me.”

She was right, to a degree. It’s not that you hadn’t thought about it, but you clearly did not realize how much you put her through, or perhaps you were just too much of a dickhead to care. She deserved better, and it took you far too long to realize this, you hurt the girl who was there for you far more than you ever could have known.

“Kkura-”

“Alright, fine, maybe I did care about that part as well, maybe I felt like what we had wasn’t very special if you could replace me that quickly. I don’t know, but I could have overlooked it,” Sakura kept going, not letting you get a word in. “Really it’s probably my fault, I could have said no when you asked me that night, I could have just ignored your text, never set you up on that date.”

“That’s not fair at all, no one could have ever predicted that night to turn into what it did. Chaewon wasn’t even in the picture at that point. It wasn’t even supposed to be her, you know this, things just kinda fell into place after.���

“Obviously I do, I set it up,” Sakura snapped at you. “And we both know damn well how I don’t have it in me to ignore you like that, but I probably should have.”

“Sakura, I know I hurt you,” you began as you chose your next words carefully. “But you know my first date with Chaewon was before the announcement, right? I had no idea she was going to debut again, she didn’t tell me until way later.”

“Even if you knew, it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but it still matters,” you replied softly. “The reason I gave you was genuine, and I don’t think I would have gone forward with Chaewon had I known about the group. You believe me, right?”

She paused for a moment to think about what you said. “Yeah, I do, and honestly I don’t really blame you, I know I don’t,” Sakura replied, her voice losing the anger and being replaced with a touch of dejection - one that stung much more than when she was yelling at you. “I get it, I saw the way you looked at her. It was clear as day you were madly in love with her, and you two were just so perfect together.”

“That must have made it even harder on you,” you muttered, your vision starting to blur. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Sakura replied bluntly. “How could I be upset? Chaewon was happier than I had ever seen her. I was happy for her. Of course I was. It’s not her fault.”

Words once again escaped your brain.

“As mad as I was, I was also secretly happy for you as well,” Sakura confessed with a smile stained with melancholy. “It may sound stupid, but even though we didn’t work out, deep down I still wanted to see you happy. Oh, who am I fucking kidding, it wasn’t that deep down. I wanted you to be happy, even when you hurt me. Pathetic as fuck, right?”

“And I also want to see you happy, does that make me pathetic too?” you replied, wiping your eyes with the back of your hands. “I hope you know I really mean that, I’m not just saying that to make you feel better. And my reason wasn’t bullshit, I swear I really felt that way, I just wasn’t expecting that whole thing to unfold the way it did.”

“I know, I don’t think either of us expected it, I didn’t even know it was an option,” Sakura mumbled quietly under her breath. “I promise I never held it against Chaewon.”

“Just against me.”

“Only at the start,” Sakura laughed softly as the tears finally spilled. “You know how I said I know you’d do right by Chaewon? Yeah, as much as you hurt me, there’s a reason I didn’t actually murder you in your sleep.”

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know, but sometimes things happen,” Sakura smiled faintly, her eyes glistening as she fought the losing battle against the wave of emotion threatening to break through. “Seeing how happy you made Chaewon made it a lot easier for me to forgive you.”

Just like that, tears also began flowing down your face in a way you couldn’t control.

“That… wasn’t supposed to be…” Sakura stammered quickly.

“Sakura I’m so-” you choked up before finishing your thought.

“It’s okay,” Sakura whispered, leaning over and wrapping you up in her arms. “I promise it’s okay. I’m here with you.”

It took you a few moments - squeezing Sakura tenderly - before you were able to compose yourself again. You let go of her slowly and another wave of warmth shot through your body when you saw her face tear-soaked.

“It’s all behind us now,” Sakura said softly. “Just like I was able to forgive you, I’m confident Chaewon will, too.”

“Does that mean you think she’ll be mad at me?”

“No! I didn’t mean it like that,” Sakura quickly backtracked. “This situation is different.”

“Isn’t this one worse?” you asked nervously. “Fuck, Sakura I don’t know anymore, maybe this is all a mistake.”

“I don’t think you should doubt yourself, just listen to what your heart’s telling you. It’s also kinda too late to back out now, think about Zuha.”

“You really think so?”

“I don’t see a better option, but it’s definitely complicated,” Sakura replied nervously. “Just be thoughtful when it’s time to tell Chaewon, if you’re mean to her, maybe I will have to murder you in your sleep.”

“Then let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” you half-smiled. “But let’s be honest, we both know I could never hurt that girl on purpose, ever.”

“You probably thought that about… actually let’s not go there again,” Sakura returned your smile half-heartedly. “I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”

“I really hope you’re right.”

“Fingers crossed,” Sakura chuckled, wiping her face clean as she opened the door.

The two of you stepped into the brisk air once more. You walked around your car to Sakura who was waiting for you. Without speaking a single word, the two of you embraced in a tight hug, properly this time.

“Thank you,” you mumbled into her shoulder, the coldness of the morning being completely replaced by the warmth of Sakura’s hug.

“Good luck with everything, I’m always here for you if I can help with anything,” Sakura whispered back before letting go of you and shooting you a nervous glance. “When do you plan on talking to them?”

The talk with Sakura ended up creeping just a bit of doubt into your decision, but your mind was still set. You knew, as much as you didn’t want to do it, this conversation had to happen at some point soon because the longer you waited the worse it would become. With that in mind, you returned Sakura’s nervous expression with a look of determination.

“Right now.”

—

“Hey,” you whispered, peeking your head through the door to see if she was awake.

“Oh! I thought it was Kkura,” Kazuha blurted out as she looked up from her phone. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I came to see you, actually,” you answered while opening the door a bit more. “Mind if I come in?”

“Oh, uh, yeah of course,” she replied, sitting up in her bed and putting her phone aside. “Come, sit. What’s up?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Kazuha raised an eyebrow at you as if you were an idiot. “I pieced together that much,” she giggled softly. “Did you not sleep well? Your eyes are a bit red.”

“Oh no that’s just-”

“You don’t have pinkeye do you?” Kazuha leaned back away from you. “I really don’t want to wear an eye patch, not during promos.”

“No, Zuha, it’s not pinkeye,” you smiled meekly.

“Okay good!” she giggled again, leaning back in and cuddling up next to you before quickly pulling away in fear. “Uh, sorry, that was… I probably shouldn’t do stuff like that right now with the whole… sorry…”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” you scooted closer to her as her face turned a shade light pink. “Forget everything else for a moment, because things are a bit complicated, but just listen to me. I like you, Zuha. A lot.”

“Oh,” Kazuha blushed even harder. “T-Thank you? I also like you, a lot.”

“I want to make you my girlfriend.”

“What?” Kazuha began blinking rapidly as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “But what about-”

“I told you, please just for a moment forget everything else, we’ll figure that stuff out,” you cut her off. “Just tell me, would you like that?”

Kazuha pondered your words. Unknown to you, her heart was beating harder than it ever has before. “I… I would…” she muttered before smiling brightly at you with her eyes twinkling. “Yes, I would.”

Just like that, you knew you made the correct choice. The way she looked at you, the way you felt right now, everything was perfect. You wanted nothing more in life than this girl sitting next to you, that precious smile and those pure eyes. Your insides were burning up in a warmth of comfort and love that you didn’t know you felt towards this girl, all of a sudden it just came rushing in. That gnawing sensation you’ve had inside you ever since her confession, it finally made sense.

Unfortunately, the feeling only lasted for a fleeting moment before reality came crashing in and Chaewon popped into your mind again.

“What’s wrong?” Kazuha looked concerned as she immediately noticed your shift. She pulled you into her arms, just like Sakura did earlier. “I guess we need to address the elephant in the room.”

“How am I supposed to tell her?” you whispered, pulling away from Kazuha slowly. “I want this, I really do, but I don’t want to hurt Chaewon.”

“And I don’t either,” Kazuha agreed as worry filled her expression. “Should we talk to her together?”

“You think that’s better? It’s a bit of a unique situation, I don’t really know what to do.”

“I don’t either,” Kazuha smiled softly. “You’d be my first relationship, remember?”

“I guess we’ll be traversing some uncharted territory together,” you smiled back at her before leaning in.

Without thinking, you kissed her. As soon as your lips touched, you froze, regretting and realizing this probably wasn’t the right time - but then you felt Kazuha kiss back. You let her take control as she ended up on top of you, her lips pressed softly against yours.

“Zuha,” you whispered into her mouth.

“You asked me to forget everything else, just for a moment,” she whispered back before kissing you again. “Can we really forget it all, please?”

“You mean?”

“Yes,” she gasped as she sat up and began taking off her shorts. “Can we?”

Your mind went a bit hazy as you thought back to the other night. The memories of how good Kazuha felt flooded into your brain.

“Fuck it,” you also began lowering your pants before you flipped Kazuha onto her back and spread her legs.

“Is this wrong?” she asked, looking up at you with her hair framing her face as if she was some sort of angel laying there beneath you.

“Probably,” you shrugged as you pulled her underwear to the side. “We could stop, we don’t have to do this right now.”

“No!” her voice cracked, immediately followed by an intense red glow of her cheeks. “I just mean… uh…”

“Don’t explain, I understand,” you smiled down at her as you lined yourself up. “Whatever happens in this room this morning, it’s between us and only us, let’s agree to put everything else on pause, alright?”

“I’d like that,” Kazuha nodded at you before spreading her legs a bit wider. “Go slow?”

“Let me know,” you whispered back as you pressed yourself forward carefully. You leaned in close, slipped your hands under Kazuha’s body, and pressed your mouth to her neck, kissing it softly as she flexed her body. “Try to relax, if you can.”

“It’s really fucking tight,” Kazuha whispered, arching her back.

“Should I stop?”

Kazuha hesitated, taking a couple deep breaths before speaking. “No, not yet, just… just slowly…”

“Okay,” you moved up a bit and began lifting Kazuha’s shirt up.

She helped you take it off, exposing her perky tits, letting a sweet moan escape her lips as you pressed your mouth to her chest.

“Oh that’s nice,” she whispered as you started moving your hips. “Good, but still really tight.”

“Hold on,” you moved your hips back and pulled out. “How about we slow down even more?”

Kazuha bit her lip. “I’m sorry, for some reason I’m more nervous this time.”

“It’s okay,” you smiled reassuringly while bringing your fingers between her legs. With delicate and deliberate movements, you tried your best to ease her nerves, slowly pressing where she was most sensitive. “We can take our time, or we can try again another time, it’s up to you.”

“How about a different position?” Kazuha suggested as she pressed her fingers down on top of yours and pressed them down a bit harder. “But this feels nice.”

“Yeah? Should we just keep doing this?” you asked before leaning into her again and kissing her collarbone.

“This feels really nice,” Kazuha moaned softly as she pressed her fingers even harder, guiding your hand around her pussy.

Your fingers began sliding easier as time passed. The gentle sound of wetness, accompanied by Kazuha’s eyes shutting and her features softening, put you into a state of ease. It was working, and you didn’t want to stop. You had her entire body relaxing, you could almost see each and every fiber of Kazuha’s toned muscles relax.

She began moaning in a musical-like tone, one that screamed class and innocence with just a touch of naughty. It fit her so well, that pretty - unbelievably pretty - face. Even as she scrunched up her expression, she just looked so fucking pretty. You could stare at her all day.

While this was going on, the pressure building up in your cock was becoming too much. You couldn’t help but start stroking yourself to the view, trying to relax your own body as Kazuha began squirming beneath your fingers. It took a lot of self control, you knew that you could finish in just moments if you let yourself go, but right now you were more concerned with how Kazuha felt.

“You’re so beautiful,” you muttered softly under your breath as Kazuha’s body began trembling. He moans crescendoed, that beautiful voice of hers piercing your ears, but despite the increase in pitch, she stayed quiet. Elegant, in a way, even as she started cumming on your fingers, the epitome of grace and tenderness.

“I want it,” Kazuha moaned, fluttering her eyes open as she let go of your hand.

“What were you thinking? You wanna try being on top again?”

“No,” Kazuha smiled before pulling you closer. “Just like this, I want to see you, to kiss you. Is that fine?”

“Absolutely,” you gasped as Kazuha spread her legs a bit wider for you and took hold of your cock. She gave you a couple of soft strokes before rubbing her thumb against your tip, pressing against the little glob of precum. “That sounds perfect.”

With your cock in hand, you slid forward between her legs, pressing your tip against her entrance.

“Come on,” Kazuha replied while spreading herself even more, showing off her flexibility. “I need this.”

“So do I,” you muttered as you eased your cock into her pussy.

This time was a million times better than last time. She was still perfectly tight, but her pussy accepted your cock beautifully. The warmth and snugness hugged your cock like a blanket, bringing you unmatched comfort and sensation. She had the most ideal pussy.

She was like a flower, her soft and delicate curves moist to your touch. There was this warmth, this allure, that kept you captivated. You were entranced by Kazuha’s body, so much so that you felt this irresistible urge of greediness within you.

As carefully as you could, you grabbed Kazuha’s neck from behind and began kissing her deeply. Once you started, you pressed your thumb against her clit, making little circles along her skin. Your tongue slipped past her lips, gently intertwining and mixing against hers, while you worked her entire body.

“You feel so good,” you whispered as you leaned away from the kiss.

“Give it to me,” Kazuha pleaded with her eyes wide. “Please.”

So you picked up the tempo, pushing your hips harder, pressing your cock deeper. You slowly broke down that layer of delicateness that you viewed Kazuha through - her expression was basically begging for it. The more you fucked Kazuha, the harder you went, and the better it felt.

At this point, your thrusts had lost almost all degrees of tenderness, and both your hands had found their way to Kazuha’s hips. She took it well, bracing herself as you pressed your fingers into her skin and slammed your cock against her pussy. She showed no signs of anything other than raw pleasure as she took your cock over and over.

If she felt good, you felt fucking amazing. You lightened the grip you had on her hips as you slowed down your thrusting. This wasn’t a moment you wanted to rush, but you could only slow down so much - your body wouldn’t let you stop completely, it was out of your control. Still, you made do, sliding your hands up Kazuha’s body and giving her tits a few little squeezes. Her body was fucking amazing.

It didn’t take long for you to realize that you were too close to hold back. Despite your best efforts, it was already too late, so you took hold of Kazuha’s hips once more, pushing down on Kazuha’s body and shoving your cock into her as hard and fast as you could. Kazuha’s moans filled your ears as she shut her eyes and arched her back beneath you.

She looked so fucking good right now, even as your vision was going blurry. You held on for just a bit longer, fighting back any fatigue as your cock throbbed harder than ever. Her warm pussy felt better than heaven in this moment, and with a couple of final thrusts and grunts, you began launching your cum deep inside her pussy.

“Zuha,” you grunted a final time as your body gave up, collapsing onto her.

The next few moments had you in a trance as you let your cock pulse inside Kazuha’s warmth as she wrapped her arms around your body, rubbing your back softly.

“You feel so good,” Kazuha whispered against your ear. “Oh fuck, you feel so damn good, cum for me, fill me up.”

Such gentle words when delivered through her voice, but she was driving you insane right now. You almost felt paralyzed inside her as your cock just kept on spilling cum again and again, the pulsing felt like it went forever. It took so much strength for you to finally, carefully ease yourself out of Kazuha’s body. Even lifting yourself up off her was a task.

“Fuck, that’s a lot,” you mumbled as you pulled out, leaving your cum spilling between Kazuha’s legs as you reached for some tissues. “One second.”

“Wow,” Kazuha muttered as she gently rubbed herself, spreading your cum around, playing with it between her fingers. “That was something.”

“Something good or something not good?” you asked as you sat back down on the bed next to her.

“Something amazing,” Kazuha smiled softly. “But also a bit inappropriate.”

“If it makes you feel better, Chaewon technically wanted me to do this,” you carefully wiped her inner thighs clean before tossing the tissues away. “Although it still feels a bit wrong.”

“Oh,” Kazuha turned her head away from you.

“Not you, that felt amazing,” you quickly pulled her into your arms for a hug before grabbing her by both shoulders and staring tenderly into her eyes. “Zuha, let there be no confusion, that was fucking perfect.”

“Right, sorry, I guess I’m still just a bit…” her voice tapered off as she looked up at you and gave you a weak smile.

“You’re. Perfect. And. Amazing,” you whispered, kissing her neck between each word. “It’s totally natural to be a bit-”

“Sensitive?” Kazuha finished your sentence. “Because I am, I’ll admit it.”

“And that’s completely okay. What I said was stupidly phrased. I’m sorry,” you wrapped an arm tightly around Kazuha’s shoulders, pulling her to sit next to you, and leaned against her head. “Things are just messy, but we'll figure it out. Together.”

“I hope so,” Kazuha sighed softly. Her hand began exploring your thigh, inching towards your shaft slowly until she gently caressed it with her fingertips. “I wish there was some sort of way that we could do this without all the mess.”

“Zuha, you know it doesn’t work like that.”

“I know,” her voice faded softly and she unwrapped your arm from her shoulder, leaning away from you and turning towards you. “Okay, this might sound stupid since you call me Zuha all the time, but I loved that. This time it felt… different?”

“I’m glad,” you smiled as a wave of warmth flooded your body. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly,” you kissed the top of her head. “But one thing - do not call me daddy.”

“Oh no I could never,” Kazuha agreed quickly, sounding completely put off just by the thought of it as she rested her head against your body again. “I guess we should probably talk about boundaries and stuff at some point.”

“We have a lot to talk about, but maybe we should wait until…”

“Until after you talk to Chaewon?”

“Yeah, I think,” you replied as your mind drifted into thought, trying to figure out how to go about things, gently stroking Kazuha’s hair. “Hey, I thought you said we should both talk to her together?”

“Well, I think you got it, I don’t know what I’d say.”

“I don’t even know what I’m going to say,” you sighed. “Zuha, do you think this might cause problems with the group dynamic?”

“Truthfully? At first, yeah, I did,” Kazuha answered quietly. “But then I got to thinking.”

There was a pause, a bit longer than you expected. Kazuha lifted and turned herself slightly so that she could look up at you.

“And?” you encouraged her to continue as the anticipation grew.

“Promise you’ll keep this between us?”

“I promise.”

“I’m serious, you can’t tell anyone.”

“Zuha, yes, I know. Not a soul.”

“Alright,” she bit her lip nervously. “I think there might have been a bit of… something… between Sakura and Chaewon at the very beginning.”

“Oh?” you waited for her to continue as you thought back to what Sakura told you in the car earlier.

“Look, I met them a bit after everyone else, but I could tell there was some sort of… resentment? I don’t exactly know, and maybe it was just because we were all getting to know each other.”

“Well, most of you were.”

“So you see what I’m saying?” Kazuha pursed her lips. “Chaewon and Sakura barely talked. I never understood it since they knew each other already, but then, seemingly overnight, the two of them became closer than ever. I don’t know if the others ever noticed it.”

“Chaewon never gave me details, but I sort of know around when this happened,” you explained. “She told me she spent a night with Sakura, and I didn’t really ask questions.”

“Right. Anyway, the reason I brought this up is because I really think no matter how the conversation with her goes, as a group we’ll get through things, we always do.”

Her words were reassuring at least, and you couldn’t help but feel a bit better. “Thank you, really.”

Then, you leaned in, but before you could kiss her, Kazuha lunged up towards you and pressed her lips against yours, catching you a bit by surprise. She kissed you aggressively until you fell onto your back with her on top of you. It felt like this kiss would go on forever, and maybe it would have if it weren’t for the knock on the door.

“I don’t know what’s going on in there, but I really need to get ready!” Sakura's voice came through the door.

---

A/N:

I posted a poll and based on the first day responses, Dating Seraphs was in the lead. Ask and you shall receive!

The Kazuha arc continues! Maybe? Probably? I guess next chapter will have more answers. The talk with Chaewon, the history with Sakura, sex with Kazuha, there's so much to cover in the next few chapters! Also, there's a cameo appearance coming soon that I can't imagine anyone will be able to guess because I don't know if I've ever talked about this idol, but we'll see how popular she is among my readers (ex-izone member). I'll give this chapter at least a few days to marinate before my next post.

Based on how things are going in my writing world and the initial responses to that poll, Dating Seraphs needs attention. My next post will probably either be Debauchery p2 or something in the roommates universe, followed by Dating Seraphs ch11, and then most likely I'll give Twice some love and post an update to that story. Of course, this is subject to change!

Feedback, requests, messages, comments, asks, whatever you feel like sending, feel free. I'm a bit more active these days with writing stuff, but just please be considerate if you're going to send something. I've gotten a few questionable DMs recently. Use common sense!

[hufflezki]

summary: remus thinks you're way out of his league. but, to his own surprise, you're here to prove him wrong.

-> remus lupin x gn!reader, just remus yearning & pining, swearing (because, cmon, its remus), inspired by role model's song (with the same name), word count: 1,503

Remus first met you during one of his Herbology classes. Where you helped him with his trouble with the Venomous Tentacula plants. The teethy little bastards annoyed him to no extent—his words—but you had come to his aid and stunned them every time they tried to bite him. He really wanted to make it up to you then, but you insisted. And you never really crossed paths again.

Until James barged into their common room, with you following behind him. Remus noticed you immediately and his breath caught. Turns out James knew you, he had for a while. Ever since he was paired with you for a Charms homework. And you have apparently taught him how to make a flower crown. Which was why James traveled from the courtyard to his common room, just to show his friends the ones you both made.

Remus didn't exactly know how they got you to start hanging out with them. One day you just sat next to them during lunch, and now they’re adding you to every weekend plans that they have. Remus’ friends accepted your addition to the group as if it was just any other day. But for him, it felt quite a lot.

Not to sound like he doesn't like you, it's actually quite the opposite.

Remus could go on with a list about why you're the sweetest person he has ever met. But that’d be never ending, which is probably why he’s in his bed right now, moping to himself about why you just have to be so out of his league. And this was purely coming from after he saw you interacting with Amos Diggory. Even though he probably just asked you a question. Remus shivers at the thought, embarrassed by his own jealousy. He was barely even eating the chocolate you’d given him this morning, having lost the appetite.

Merlin, how did you get him to act like this? He wasn't even supposed to be this miserable so early in the month. And yet here he was curled up in his bed, hiding himself under his blanket, as he let his guilt eat him up. You did look comfortable talking to Amos, though. He wonders if you ever looked at him that way too. If you feel comfortable talking to him at all.

A whine emits from the back of his throat, as he buries his face on his pillows. He was fucked, definitely fucked. You’re too good for him, you deserve someone better. But then he didn't like the image of seeing you with somebody else. So what the fuck is wrong with him?

“Remus? Hey, Moons.” He hears James’ voice as he comes in, closing the door behind him. The curly haired boy comes into Remus’ view with a wide smile, which falters when he sees his friend looking like.. shit. “Woah, what’s gotten into you?” James sits down next to him, eyebrows furrowed, worried. Remus sighs, his mood completely shifted now that James is here. After all, it's hard to wallow in your self-pity when you’ve got company.

“Nothing, I just woke up. What’d you need?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, James, I am quite certain.” Remus presses on, and James lifts his hands up in mock surrender. So, he starts talking about how he’s playing a board game with Sirius and Peter downstairs, and asks Remus if he wants to join. Which he originally said no to, but then James mentioned you’re also downstairs. So, now Remus is making his way down to the common room, following James’ steps.

Did he just spend the last couple of minutes crying about you? Yes.

Was he about to miss an opportunity to be with you? No.

Is he pathetic and a coward? Yes. Abso-fucking-lutely.

And turns out, the only way out of his miserable, depressing, and guilty state is you. You and the sweater you're wearing, that looks oddly similar to his. “Hi, Remus.” You smile once you see him—and it's so bright you might as well put the sun into shame—and he sits down next to you on the sofa.

You must’ve sensed that something's up with him, as you immediately rest your head on his shoulder. And he welcomes it, completely melting once you’re in near proximity. You don’t talk, you don't ask him any questions, you just sit there and offer him your comfort—silently. And maybe that’s just what Remus needs. A moment where he could turn his mind off, and don't let his thoughts consume him.

In a span of an hour, you managed to convince Remus to walk outside. And maybe it's just him trying to distract himself, but he’s pretty sure you might have Legilimency. Because why else would you take him to the Black Lake to see the sunset? If you didn’t know, he felt absolutely horrible? But, on a more serious note, you’ve always been spontaneous. And he likes that about you. Especially, when you pay attention to him so much that you know when things start to feel off.

Things like this, it makes him think if he really does have a chance with you or not.

“This is yours, by the way.” You admit, pulling on his sweater that you’re wearing while looking up at him, expectantly. And his eyes widened. “How?” He seems much more amused than you expected. “I was cold earlier, and this was the first thing Sirius gave me.” Remus raises his brow at the mention of Sirius’ name. “I asked him where he got it, and he said you let him borrow it.” Then you let out a laugh, finding it ridiculous. “Which I was suspicious about, but I didn’t ask him again.”

Fuck, Remus knew exactly why Sirius gave his sweater specifically to you.

“Looks like I have to talk to him about stealing my things.” You smile, glancing up at him and then down on the ground. He watches you kick a few pebbles to the lake, as a comfortable silence falls into you both. Then you say his name, and he hums, meeting your gaze once again.

“If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.” It's sudden, and he doesn't exactly know where it came from, but Remus appreciates your sentiment. More than so, when he finds your hand inching closer to his. And he’s never been brave enough to initiate the first move, yet here is, intertwining his hand with yours.

“Is this alright?” Remus whispers, voice coated with uncertainty. He’s already bracing himself to pull away, expecting the worst. But you tighten your hold, pulling him closer to you. “More than alright.” You assure him, lifting the weight off his shoulders. And he thinks this is the most convinced he’s been that he might have a chance with you. Because, all this time—as pathetic as it sounded—he would only wish for something to happen.

So, what if he did sneak into the Divination classroom, and tried to look into a crystal ball to see if there’s a future with the both of you together? He was desperate! Okay? He wouldn't have done it if it wasn't for the nagging voice inside his mind.

But it seems that he no longer has to come up with such desperate measures. As the universe presents with something more interesting. “Can I tell you something, Remus?” You ask, and he nods his head in response.

“I’ve liked you for so long. And this isn't exactly how I imagined I’d tell you–”

“You like me?”

He didn't really mean to interrupt you, but his mind may have short circuited the moment he heard the words ‘I like you’ . You look at him, baffled as to why he’s acting like this is a new discovery. Which it is, for him.

“Wait. You didn't know?” He shakes his head, and you cover your mouth in surprise. “How come? I thought I’d made it so obvious?” You really did think so. I mean, you’re wearing his sweater for Merlin’s sake! But, typical Remus, he’d rather assume the worst than ever think you had the same intentions as him.

“There might’ve been, uhm, some slight issues with the transmission, perhaps?”

“You mean you really didn't have a clue?” He nods his head, and you can't help the sudden laugh that comes out of you. “Did you tell James or Sirius?” Remus asks, and you nod your head. “I told both of them.” He gawks at you, before looking away to run a hand through his hair, currently in distress.

“Is that bad? That I only found out about it now?” You shake your head, things were already going the different direction, anyway.

“No, not at all.”

Maybe this isn't how the both of you expected for things to go. Remus thought you’d never like him back, but here he is pulling you closer after you just told him otherwise. And he felt the strong urge to really make it up to you this time.

marauders era masterlist ꩜ .ᐟ

[mahajio]

Hey, I remember this comic! I am beyond happy to see this absolute gem polished to perfection and packed with so much beautiful detail! At first I began typing out a comment on Bluesky, but then I realized you also uploaded it to Tumblr, so I can just ramble to my heart's content without having to divide it into several smaller comments. This is especially nice since there's three whole pages of beautiful artwork I want to gush about!

First of all, the dire wolves look EXCELLENT! Supremely intimidating fellows, alright. You've drawn their fur immaculately with so many little individual tufts of hair, and the way you drew their maws ups their intimidation factor significantly. It's a killer panel to open up with, if I do say so myself. Neither Marcille nor Falin look particularly impressed by their display though, which makes perfect sense considering they're both experienced adventurers and one of them is perfectly capable of blowing their heads off with very little effort. I will say that it makes the whole scene look very funny!

Every single panel is a delight to look at. You really did go all out with this, and I couldn't possibly be happier! One fun thing about writing comments like this is that I get to look at every panel for an extended period of time, and it just never gets old, I tell ya! Marcille looks so tired and fed up with everything, which is very funny, but I also absolutely ADORE the way Falin gestures at Marcille to stand back. That genuinely adorable face, followed up with her confident, sparkling smile and a big ole thumbs up, is just perfect. Seeing the back of Marcille's head with the black lines and little sweat droplets had me in shambles for some reason. I honestly don't know why I spent a full minute laughing at that, but I think it's probably because it contrasts Falin's confidence so insanely well.

The shot of Falin hyping herself up and preparing to deal with the dire wolves just as Laios instructed her is epic! I've said this many times before, but HOLY MOLY, your art style is EPIC! It suits Dungeon Meshi perfectly, and man oh man you draw the red dragon like no other! Falin looks confident, and the fact she feels as though she's backed by the most powerful creature in existence just hyped me up, even despite the fact I know exactly what happens next. I also love the line "No dogs will push me around anymore!" Because she was always dead last in the dog hierarchy back home. She'll make her brother proud, she'll show Marcille she makes for a great mate, and she'll show these dire wolves she is not to be messed with! Even though the red dragon is such a small, borderline negligible part of her being, I like the idea of Falin entertaining little urges here and there and feeling empowered by the idea of having a little goober inside of her. Falin's expression in the last panel of the first page looks freakin' INTENSE, which makes Marcille's tiredness and confusion even better, hahaha! I absolutely love what you did with the two in this comic!

When I saw the small critter you drew to show how Falin's bark sounded, I nearly died. I was drinking a cup of tea with honey and a cloud of milk, and all of that shot directly into my lungs! I'm surprised my desk and keyboard remained completely clean, because I was coughing for a solid minute or two just laughing at Marcille's expression with delicious, smoking hot tea on my face and clothes AND THAT SILLY LOOKING CHIHUAHUA IS SO FRICKIN' AAAAAAAAHHH!! FALIN LOOKS SO INTIMIDATING WITH THE WAY SHE BARKS BUT IT'S JUST A YAP LIKE HOLY MOLY I CAAAAAAAAN'T!!!! The dire wolves look so confused, too! That little doodle of two looking at each other and just wondering what the hell this random feathered fleshbag they encountered is trying to accomplish before going right back to their initial plan of tearing her throat out is incredible. Again, they look incredibly intimidating, and that makes their confusion all the more funny!

Falin's enthusiastic yapping turning into a single, confused yap as the dire wolves close in on her was drawn very nicely, and that shot of Marcille's disappointed face is PERFECT! PER-FECT! That grimace was drawn SUPREMELY, chief! The way Falin recoils in surprise from the sudden explosion that completely deletes the head of a dire wolf, with little tufts of fur getting flung around together with a healthy helping of blood was also drawn wonderfully! This entire comic is incredibly expressive, and I haven't even gotten to my favourite expression yet! As an aside, the cave backgrounds in the first and last panel of the second page look nifty. Me likey.

The third page has an absolutely wonderful background in each panel, which I think deserves some special praise, because it makes it all look even more beautiful than it already did! I really need to find myself a better job so I can afford to commission you. Your artwork is incredible! Ha, Marcille's tiredness is very apparent throughout this comic, so her deciding it's about time to call it quits makes perfect sense, and those black lines descending on Falin as she's buried her head in her arms gives me the idea she's ready to call it a day too after that horrible humiliation. The two panels of Marcille sighing and asking Falin if she's okay are very sweet, and I think the sheer tiredness of her expression adds to it.

Now, THIS is my favourite expression in this entire comic! Falin looks surprisingly composed and neutral when she tells Marcille she's okay, but just beneath the surface both she and the little red dragon are utterly devastated. That face right there, THAT FACE OF FALIN! IT IS PERFECT. I CANNOT ADD ANYTHING. IT IS SIMPLY PERFECT, hahaha ooooohhh man! Ooooooh I am cropping that for posterity's sake! PGIsiagduysdgluyllHEEEERR NOOOOOOOOOOSE AND THE WAY HER MOUTHOHAIUGIUASIUGDIUAGUDAGDUI IT'S SO GOOOOOOOOOOD!!!!

Gosh, that last panel cracked me up, too. What an exquisite comic! You never fail to impress, chief!

🐲Dragon vs Wolves🐺

(Read right to left)

[adelliet]

Joel Miller x f!reader

NEW THERAPIST II.

Part 1 | Part 2

Summary: After your incident with Joel, born out of a moment of weakness, you both silently agreed to pretend like it never happened and continue with the therapy sessions. But it’s not that simple, not for either of you.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, age gap (Joel in his 50s, youre age is not mentioned, but it's legal!), masturbation,, unprotected sex (piv), nickname ( first time being called baby ), strong language, getting caught

A/n: Hi! You wanted next part, so here it is! I hope you like it, I'll maybe think about writing another part🤭 , anyways if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

You see him every day now. Just like you agreed.

Joel shows up without fail — every single workday, without exception. He never misses a session, never cancels, never even shows up late. And somehow that should feel like progress. Like he still wants to see you. Like he still wants you. But the moment he sits down and you begin the session, the illusion breaks.

He barely speaks. One sentence per hour, if you’re lucky. Otherwise it’s grunts, shrugs, subtle nods, all taking you back to the very beginning. To when he first stepped into your house with arms folded and walls higher than Jackson’s outer gates.

It’s like nothing ever happened between you. Like that night was a glitch in the timeline. Like you dreamed it, and now you’re awake.

And maybe it’s your fault. No, it is your fault. If you hadn’t invited him in, hadn’t handed him the joint, hadn’t let your hands wander… maybe you two could’ve actually been friends by now. Close. Laughing. Maybe he’d trust you. Maybe you wouldn’t sit across from him now, counting how many times his jaw clenches, wondering what it would feel like to touch it again.

But you did sleep with him. And the worst part? You fucking liked it.

There isn’t a single day that passes without the memory clawing its way back to the front of your mind. Joel — his hands, his voice, his breath against your neck, the way he whispered your name like it was a prayer he didn’t believe in. The way he fucked you like he was angry about it.

You’re wet the second you think about him. Every. Damn. Time.

You know it’s wrong, in a thousand different ways. He’s your client. You’re his therapist. He’s so much older than you. And while it’s not illegal, it’s morally a fucking disaster. If anyone in Jackson found out, you’d both be drowning in whispers for the rest of your lives. He’d be torn apart. You’d be discredited, outcasted.

So why do you keep wishing he’d shove you against a wall and fuck you like tomorrow doesn’t exist? Why does your desire scream louder than your conscience?

Joel’s no better.

He thinks about that night constantly, sometimes in fragments, sometimes in full color, detail by aching detail. He’s zoning out more than usual. Tommy catches him doing it, asks him what’s wrong. So does Ellie. Maria. Everyone. Joel just mutters something and brushes them off. But he’s not here, not fully. Because his mind’s still with you.

The way you moaned beneath him. The look in your eyes right before he lost control. The sound you made when he came. And more than anything, the thing that plays over and over in his head, is what you said right before you left:

“I wasn’t that high.”

You knew what you were doing. That morning, when you got dressed in silence and slipped out the door, he didn’t know what to think. He still doesn’t. Did you regret it? Did you hate it? Were you ashamed of him? Of yourself? Because he sure as hell doesn’t regret a fucking second of it.

You hear the knock just after noon. Right on time. Like always.

You open the door, and there he is — same worn flannel, same unreadable stare, same posture that’s somewhere between exhausted and closed-off. Joel steps inside with a quiet grunt of acknowledgment. No smile. No words. Just routine. Just him.

You try not to look at the space between his fingers as he shoves his hands in his pockets. You try not to remember what those hands looked like gripping your thighs. You try, but you fail.

He sits down on the couch across from you without waiting to be asked. Like he always does. You follow, notebook in hand, heart in your throat.

“How’s your sleep been?”

No answer. He shifts. His eyes flick to the side.

“Any more fights with Ellie?”

A shrug.

“Have the headaches gotten worse?”

Silence.

You press your lips together and glance down at your notes, but you’re not seeing the page. You’re seeing him. The way he looked that night. That moment his voice broke into a groan, face twisted in something between pleasure and guilt, whispering your name like it burned.

You want to ask. God, you want to ask so badly. What are we doing? Are we pretending it didn’t happen or are you just pretending for my sake? But you can’t.

This is his session. He decides what you talk about, not you. And clearly, he doesn’t want to talk about it. You don’t push. You just sit in silence with him, again.

The minutes crawl by. The clock ticks too loud. Joel’s eyes barely meet yours. You think about how different it felt that night — when his gaze locked with yours like he was drowning and you were the only air. Now, you’re back to being strangers who know each other’s skin.

When the session ends, you close your notebook slowly, half-expecting him to leave without a word and throw something he would pay with onto the table right in front of you.

But instead, he reaches into his coat. And pulls out a small bag, of weed.

He hands it to you, no explanation, no preamble. His fingers brush yours for a second too long. That same electric sting, that same unspeakable tension hums between your skin. You take the bag automatically before you can stop yourself.

“Seriously?” you ask, eyebrows raised, trying to make it light. Trying. Joel doesn’t say a word.

You give a breathy, nervous laugh. “Last time this shit got us in a mess, remember?”

It’s out before you can stop it. Before you can think. Joel’s jaw tightens.

That was the first time either of you ever acknowledged it out loud. The sex. That night. Even just referring to it as a mess was enough to stir the air into something thick and unbearable.

You instantly regret it. His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes. You can’t tell if he’s angry, or ashamed, or maybe just tired.

There’s a long, aching pause. Your stomach twists. He finally speaks, voice low. “You want it or not?”

You nod, clearing your throat. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You hate how small you sound. Joel nods back, once, then walks to the door without looking at you again. He leaves without another word. The door clicks shut. You’re left holding the bag. Not just the literal one. God, why the fuck can’t you just shut up sometimes?

The evening sky is full of stars, a light breeze is blowing outside and your house is quiet. Too quiet.

You sit curled up on the worn couch in nothing but a loose t-shirt and underwear, your legs folded beneath you, a cup of lukewarm coffee cupped in your hands.

A single lamp casts a soft amber glow across the room, painting golden edges onto everything , your book, the edges of your thigh, the faint lines under your tired eyes. The town outside is asleep, and the world feels so still it almost hurts.

You’re reading, or trying to. But your eyes have scanned the same sentence for the fourth time now, and none of the words are sticking. Your mind drifts. Again.

You don’t mean to let it happen. You never do.

But there he is — Joel. In the dark corners of your thoughts, in the way your chest tightens, in the way your thighs press just a little closer together. He’s always there now. He has been since that night.

The book slips from your lap without a sound.

You don’t even hear it fall. All you hear is your heartbeat, thudding dully in your ears like a warning, or a promise.

You’re stretched out across the couch now, one leg bent lazily, the other draped over the edge, toes curling slightly against the fabric. The mug rests abandoned on the table beside you, half-full, forgotten. Your skin feels too tight for your body, as if every inch is strung with tension.

It starts slowly. Hesitant. You let your fingers skim over your lower belly through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. The hem has ridden up, exposing the curve of your hipbone, the faint trail of hair leading downward. You trace that line gently, barely brushing your skin, as though testing your own restraint. But there’s none left.

You push your hand beneath the waistband of your underwear.

The fabric is already damp. That warm, sticky kind of damp that makes your breath catch, even if no one else is there to notice. Your fingers slide against your folds — swollen, sensitive, aching — and a sharp gasp escapes your lips before you can catch it. He did this to you.

You imagine it’s his hand instead of yours, large and rough, the pads of his fingers pressing where you need it most. He wouldn’t be careful. Not now. Not after the way you left. Not after the things you said.

Your fingertips circle slowly at first, barely pressing, just enough to make your hips twitch. You close your eyes and let your head fall back against the cushion, breathing heavier now, the heat curling low in your belly like smoke.

You can feel your arousal gathering, thick and wet, coating your fingers as you push deeper. The pressure is delicious — enough to make your thighs tense, enough to make you whimper. You imagine his voice again, rough and low, whispering filth in your ear. “You gonna come for me again, sweetheart?” The phantom sound of it makes your whole body jerk.

You bring your other hand up, slide it under your shirt, palm your breast, thumb grazing the hardened nipple. You moan softly, helplessly. You can’t stop. Don’t want to.

You fuck yourself harder.

Not fast — not yet — but deeper. One finger becomes two, and the stretch makes your breath stutter. You twist them just enough to make your back arch, hips lifting from the couch. Your slick walls clench around the intrusion and the tension inside you starts to burn.

Your thoughts blur.

You see him, above you, inside you, all over you, his mouth on your neck, your breasts, between your legs. You imagine his weight pinning you down, the gruff sounds he’d make when you clenched around him, the way he’d look at you like he was both furious and starved.

Tears prick your eyes. You hate that you want him like this. That your body remembers him more clearly than your mind ever could. That your release is building faster now, helpless and hot and overwhelming.

Your thumb circles your clit in messy, frantic motions, and your body trembles, thighs shuddering, breath shallow.

You cry out when it hits you.

Not loudly — the sound is broken, strangled — like you’re trying to keep it in, like if you make too much noise someone will know. Your body curls around the sensation as waves of heat crash through your core, and your fingers don’t stop until it starts to fade, until you’re shaking and overstimulated and aching with the weight of what just happened.

You lie there afterward, hand still tucked between your thighs, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

And all you can feel… is empty. No warmth. No comfort. No Joel. Just the ghost of him. And the terrible silence he left behind.

You have the day off, and it should feel like a gift. But instead, it feels like a sentence.

No obligations, no appointments, no expectations — nothing but time. Time to sit with yourself, with your thoughts, and the longer you’re alone, the louder they become. They crowd into your mind like smoke under a door. And no matter how hard you try to distract yourself, with coffee, with reading, with cleaning, even with music, it’s no use.

Everything leads back to him. Back to Joel.

The silence of your home is saturated with the memory of his voice, his hands, his mouth. Your body seems to pulse with the echo of what he did to you. Of what you let happen. Your core aches around nothing, emptiness pressing against the very place you want him most.

It’s unbearable.

You drag yourself to the bedroom and start to get dressed, throwing on a pair of jeans and a loose shirt. You’re not going anywhere specific — not yet — but you know you need to go. Anywhere. Out into the woods, into the town, maybe even into the little bar Maria runs near the edge of Jackson. It doesn’t matter where, as long as it’s not here.

You need space from your own head. You’re pulling your hair up when the knock comes. Three firm raps at the door. Confident. Familiar. You freeze.

For a second, your mind scrambles through names, possibilities. Maybe a client forgot your schedule. Maybe it’s Kate with a surprise visit. You already feel yourself preparing a polite excuse “Sorry, I’m off today,” when you move toward the door.

But when you open it… Joel’s standing there. Your heart stutters so violently it feels like your whole chest trembles.

He’s in that worn flannel again, the one with the tear near the elbow, and his hair is still damp from a recent shower. His face is unreadable — maybe just the hint of tension in his jaw, maybe not. His eyes find yours and you swear they hold every sin you’ve tried to forget.

“Joel,” you say, your voice tighter than you meant it to be. “Hey.”

He gives a short nod, like it costs him something. “Hey.”

Silence swells between you like smoke in the lungs.

You grip the door just a little tighter, unsure what to say. You weren’t ready for this — you hadn’t planned this scene, hadn’t run through the dialogue in your head a dozen times like usual.

Then Joel speaks first. His voice low, like gravel dragged across concrete.

“I came by last night.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t fidget. Just says it plain, like a fact.

“I knocked. Waited a while.” A pause. “You didn’t open.”

Your stomach twists.

You force a soft breath and give a strained smile. “I was already asleep,” you lie.

Were you asleep? No. You were wide awake, wrist-deep in thoughts of him, biting your own knuckles so you wouldn’t say his name out loud.

Joel nods slowly, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but doesn’t push. You blink, trying to re-anchor yourself. “What are you doing here?” you ask. “Everything okay?”

There’s a beat. And then he shrugs. Casual. Too casual.

“Just figured I’d let you know they’re talkin’ about openin’ up a flower shop over near the old mill,” he says. “Could be good for Jackson. Maybe you’d wanna see it sometime.”

A flower shop.

You stare at him, stunned by the absurdity of it. “Oh,” you manage. “Thanks… that’s nice of you.”

Another beat of silence. You’re both standing there like statues — two people who’ve done things they can’t take back, pretending to be normal on a quiet morning.

He nods again, then finally steps back.

“I’ll… see you around,” he mutters, voice lower now. Almost hoarse.

And then he turns, walks off your porch, hands in his pockets like it’s just another morning. Like he didn’t drive himself crazy last night, standing in the cold outside your door, trying to work up the nerve to ask what the hell you both were.

You close the door gently, then lean your back against it. Your fingers grip the wood behind you, nails digging in, trying to ground yourself.

What was that?!

You didn’t notice right away. You’d been going through your things casually — restocking your small cabinet of items you keep for sessions: herbal supplements, teas, oils, pain relievers, and the occasional light sedative for especially anxious clients.

Your fingers move automatically through the jars and boxes… until they stop.

The tiny glass bottle with the white label — the one that holds your low-dose headache relief capsules — is empty. Fucking empty.

You stare at it in disbelief for a moment, then double-check. Then triple-check. You even crouch down and look behind the shelf, like the bottle could’ve magically rolled out of view. But it’s gone. And so are the backups. You’re completely out.

You mutter a curse and stand up quickly, grabbing your bag.

The pharmacy in Jackson isn’t far, and you make the walk briskly, hoping it’s just a quick fix. A refill. Nothing serious. But when you step inside and ask, the answer you get is exactly what you didn’t want to hear.

“Sorry,” the pharmacist says, not even looking that sorry. “We’ve been wiped clean since last week. Next shipment’s delayed. Could be a few more days.”

You press your lips together, managing a tight nod before stepping back out into the street. Days. You don’t have days.

You can’t treat people without being properly stocked — not when so many of them come to you barely hanging on. You need your tools. Your basics. This isn’t optional.

So your mind goes straight to the only possible solution. You’ll have to go to the next town over. But that means driving, and you don’t drive. Which means you need someone who does.

There weren’t many people in Jackson with working vehicles. And fewer still you knew personally. You considered asking one of the women from the community board, or maybe Maria, but you quickly scratched that idea.

You weren’t exactly “close” with anyone here. Not yet.

Which leaves you with Joel. Goddamn it.

Half of you sparks at the idea. The other half wants to slam your head into a wall.

The last thing you need right now is to sit next to him for hours — in a confined space, the air thick with unspoken tension and memories you can’t scrub out of your brain. And yet… part of you wants it. Craves it. Needs to see him, to be around him, even if it hurts.

Before you can think your way out of it, you’re already walking.

His place isn’t far. And with each step closer, your pulse climbs higher, fluttering like wings under your ribs. When you reach his door, you pause, press your hand to your chest, and take a deep breath.

Then you knock. You hear the familiar shuffle of footsteps, the sound of a door unlocking. And then — there he is.

Joel.

He looks like he always does, which is to say, fucking unfair. Fitted jeans, a plain gray shirt that hugs his shoulders just enough to make your stomach clench, and his usual scruff that you know feels exactly as rough as it looks. You blink and force your throat to work.

“Hey,” you say softly.

“Hey,” he echoes, brows raising just slightly in curiosity.

“I, uh…” You glance down briefly, regroup. “I need a favor.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes shifts. He stays quiet.

“I need to get to the next town. The pharmacy here’s out of something I use in sessions and… I can’t really go without it.”

You stop, letting the weight of your request land. Then continue, quieter now.

“And I know you drive. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, but I don’t have another option.”

Joel doesn’t say anything at first.

He looks at you, really looks, and for a moment it’s impossible to read what’s going on behind that dark gaze. It’s not that he’s debating whether or not to help. You can tell that part of him already decided before you even knocked.

What he’s weighing… is something else. Something heavier.

But in the end, he just gives a small nod. “Alright,” he says. “Lemme grab my keys.”

You watch him disappear into the house, and a strange mix of relief and dread spreads in your chest. Your body feels hot. Anticipatory. Like you just stepped into something dangerous and didn’t have time to check the water’s depth.

When Joel returns, keys in hand, he doesn’t say much. Just jerks his head toward the road. You fall into step beside him. And together, you start walking toward the truck.

Silence stretches like a taut thread between you and Joel. Outside, the world is still. Inside, the air feels heavy, thick with everything unsaid, everything you’ve both been pretending not to carry. There’s something hanging between you, undeniable and tense, and it’s begging to be addressed.

You shift slightly in your seat. Even though you’ve made a life out of understanding human minds, of listening and guiding, this… this is something different. Something raw. Something far too personal. You don’t know whether speaking up will mend it, or ruin everything.

Joel seems just as conflicted.

His hands tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the low light. He breathes in slow, calculated. His mind is circling too. He doesn’t want to fuck this up. God, the last thing he wants is to fuck this up with you. But this thing between you—the tension, the distance—it’s driving him insane. You shared the most intimate night, and now you’re sitting like strangers.

So he speaks first. Careful. Low. His voice thick.

“I keep thinkin’ about that night.”

You look at him. He keeps his eyes on the road, but you can see it—how much it costs him to say it aloud.

“I keep thinkin’ about you.” He exhales sharply through his nose. “Doesn’t matter what I do. Can’t stop.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him. Watch his jaw flex, his lips tighten. Your heart is hammering so loud you can’t tell if it’s yours or his. There’s hope fluttering inside your chest, rising like smoke.

Then Joel glances at you, quick but intense.

“I was at your place yesterday. Lights were on. I—I heard you.”

Your breath catches.

You blink. “You… what?”

But before you can ask more, he veers gently to the side and pulls the truck over by the trees, killing the engine. Quiet wraps around you both like a second skin. He turns to face you. And then it all spills.

“I’ve been losin’ my goddamn mind. I hear your name and my chest tightens. I see your house and my legs go numb. Every night, it’s the same. I close my eyes and it’s you. Always you. That night—what you looked like, the sounds you made, the way you touched me…”

His voice lowers. Gravel, but soft.

“My body remembers. Even when I wish it didn’t. Even when I know I probably shouldn’t… I can’t stop.”

Your mouth is parted, stunned. Everything in you stills.

This wasn’t just lust. He felt it. He’s been feeling it—drowning in it just like you.

You want to say something. Anything. But he keeps going.

“I know I was scared. I didn’t know how to deal with it. You’re my goddamn therapist.” He laughs, bitter and breathless.

“But I can’t ignore it. You’re not just some woman. You’re the woman I think about before I sleep. When I wake up. When I breathe.”

He looks wrecked. And beautiful. His lips, soft and cracked. His hands, strong but trembling slightly. His jeans, creased tight against his thighs. His hair, mussed from his hand running through it too many times. His eyes, like an open wound, filled with you. And his beard, messy, perfect, framing the mouth that ruined you and made you all at once.

You can’t hold it back anymore. You reach for him—grab his jaw with both hands, your fingers curling along the scruff of his cheeks, your thumbs brushing the edge of his lips. You pull him toward you. Hard.

Your mouth crashes against his in a kiss that’s been waiting far too long. It’s deep, desperate, a little messy. His breath hitches against your lips. Then he groans low and melts into it.

His hands grab your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His tongue meets yours like he’s trying to taste every ounce of pain and need that’s lived in him since that night. Your teeth graze his bottom lip and he growls.

But then he pulls away. Just slightly. Breathing ragged.

“This ain’t right,” he whispers. “We said it was a mistake. It was the weed. We—we can stop now. Do it different.”

“I don’t want different,” you breathe out, already leaning in again.

“I want this. You.”

And before he can answer, your lips are back on his. His tongue swept inside—slow, thick, possessive. You whimpered, clutching the front of his shirt in both hands, your knuckles white. His hands were everywhere: cupping your jaw, sliding behind your neck, running down your spine with a firm, greedy touch. Each graze of his calloused skin against yours made your entire body light up.

There’s no guilt, no hesitation, no logic, just heat. Raw, blistering heat. Your fingers dig into his hair, fisting the strands while his hands roam over your body with a kind of urgency that makes your skin burn.

Joel growls low against your lips. It’s a deep, primal sound that goes straight to your core. You feel it throb through you, pulse between your legs.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, breathless. “I need you.”

He pulls you over the console, desperate hands sliding under your shirt. You gasped when his palms touched your bare stomach. Your muscles twitched. He noticed, smirked against your lips, and then yanked the fabric up, over your head, tossing it somewhere behind you.

Your bra followed. You didn’t even remember him undoing it, but it was gone, and so was any sense of shame. His mouth was on your collarbone, then your chest, trailing kisses along the top of your breast, murmuring filthy praise in between breaths.

“Been thinking ‘bout these,” he rasped. “Since the fuckin’ second I saw ‘em.”

His lips closed around your nipple and you nearly cried out. His tongue swirled, flicked, sucked, while one of his hands kneaded the other breast—rough, reverent, aching with need. You arched your back, grinding down into his lap, and that’s when you felt it—all of him. Hard. Thick. Pulsing through his jeans.

“Oh, fuck—Joel…”

Your voice broke, hoarse with lust. He bit down gently, then released you, panting, eyes dark and molten.

“You feel that?” he growled, thrusting his hips up against you. “That’s what you do to me.”

You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe. All you could do was kiss him again, deeper this time, messier. You needed to feel more—all of him. Your hands fumbled for his jacket, his shirt, pushing layer after layer away until he was bare from the waist up. His skin was hot. Taut. Scarred and strong, and utterly beautiful.

Your palms slid across his chest, over his shoulders, down the ridges of his stomach. He shivered under your touch. And then his hands were on your jeans.

“You want this?” he asked, voice rough like gravel.

“Fuck yes I want this,” you gasped.

He unbuttoned your jeans with practiced urgency, tugging them down along with your panties in one fluid motion. The cold air made you shudder. So did the way his eyes dragged over every inch of your now bare skin. Slow and heavy, like he was memorizing you.

“Christ…” he breathed. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

You reached for him next, your fingers trembling as you undid his belt. His cock sprang free the moment you got his jeans open—thick, flushed, already leaking. You swallowed hard.

He groaned the second your hand wrapped around him.

“Jesus—fuck.”

You stroked him slowly, teasingly, watching his eyes flutter shut, his jaw clench, his hips jerk forward with every pump. His precum smeared across your thumb. You spread it, tightened your grip, made him hiss.

But it wasn’t enough.

He pulled your hand away, grabbed your thighs, and lifted you into his lap again. His tip brushed against your entrance—hot, heavy, throbbing—and you both froze, trembling.

“Please,” you whispered. “Joel. Please.”

He didn’t need more. With one hand guiding himself, he pushed inside you—inch by inch, stretching you wide, filling you to the point of breaking. Your head dropped back. His mouth fell open.

“F-fuck—you’re so—tight—”

You whimpered at the stretch, at the burn, at the overwhelming fullness. He didn’t move, not yet, just held you there, buried deep, chest heaving.

“Look at me,” he said, breathless. You did. And in that second, the whole world disappeared.

Then he started to move.

Slow at first—pulling almost all the way out, then slamming back in with a force that made your body jolt. The car creaked. The windows fogged. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, thighs shaking with every sharp thrust.

“Fuck—fuck—Joel—”

His name was a prayer on your tongue. A desperate, broken sound.

You rode him hard, grinding your hips against his, panting into his mouth, chasing the high you knew was coming. Every thrust made your stomach tighten. Every slap of skin against skin pushed you closer to the edge.

He held you tight, one hand on your ass, the other on your back, growling curses and your name like they were one and the same.

It’s not just sex. It’s release. A collapse into each other. A confession spoken through sweat and heat and skin. Every time you moan, his name slips out like a prayer. Every time he curses, it sounds like worship.

Your bodies moved in rhythm, tangled and burning with need, every breath a gasp, every touch a spark.

The inside of the truck was sweltering now, heat coiling around you both like a fever, the creak of the leather seats became a steady soundtrack to the way your hips met his, desperate and relentless.

His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, dragging you down harder against him, fingers spreading across the curve of your back as if anchoring himself to reality through your skin. His breath was ragged, hot against your ear, each groan vibrating straight through your spine.

“Fuck…” he muttered, voice thick, low, strained. “You feel so goddamn good.”

Your thighs trembled as he thrust deeper, harder. The car rocked with each movement, soft creaks and thuds echoing off the frame like a chorus to your desperation.

You dug your fingers into his shoulders, sweat slick under your palms, your nails dragging lines down his back through the cotton of his shirt.

The pressure inside you built with every grind, every sound that left his lips—gritty, breathless, hungry. He was chasing it, just like you, both of you straining toward that breaking point.

The slap of skin, the warmth of his chest pressed to yours, the way his mouth found your neck, open-mouthed and fervent, only added fuel to the fire in your belly.

And then he wrapped his arms around you tighter—one strong, grounding embrace. A quiet, guttural noise tore from his throat as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. You could feel the shift in him—deeper, slower at first, then faster again, his body determined and burning.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, your voice trembling, your hips rolling down to meet every push of his.

“I’m not,” he growled. “I’m right there with you, baby…”

Your bodies met in a frantic pace, sweat dripping down your spine, the muscles in his arms flexing as he held you close, locked you to him like the world could fall away and he’d still keep you safe—keep you his.

Your moans turned breathless, rhythmic, until you were both caught in it.

Eyes squeezed shut, nerves alight, lungs gasping for air. And then it hit you both at once, like a crashing wave, your bodies seizing, clinging, shaking in each other’s arms, a quiet cry leaving your throat as Joel’s hand fisted in your hair and his mouth caught yours in a trembling, open-mouthed kiss.

He came with a broken moan, gripping you tight, spilling deep inside, trembling as he collapsed against you. You came with a loud cry against his mouth, legs shaking, core clenching until you released on him.

You stayed like that for a long moment—pressed together, drenched in heat and breath, hearts pounding in sync.

Your breath was still uneven, but the chaos had ebbed. The sweat cooling on your skin mingled with Joel’s as he stayed wrapped around you, his arms strong and secure, one large hand splayed gently across your spine. His other traced slow, soothing circles along the curve of your hip, grounding you, steadying your racing heart.

The rhythm of his touch shifted, no longer frantic, but tender. Worshipful. The kind of touch that said I’ve got you. I’m not letting go. And you felt it, every muscle in your body slowly unwinding under his fingertips, like knots being untied one by one.

You breathed in the scent of him, salt and pine and something undeniably Joel. You’d never felt safer. Never felt more seen.

And when you finally lifted yourself from his lap, pulling away just enough to catch your breath, you found him staring at you with eyes so soft it nearly knocked the wind from your lungs.

Big, brown, puppy eyes. Vulnerable. Full of unspoken questions: Are you okay? Did I go too far? Do you regret this?

You smiled, gently, warmly, and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his lips. Not hungry this time. Not desperate, but quiet and loving. The kind of kiss that answered every silent worry in his gaze.

Joel exhaled through his nose, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your cheek. He let out a small, breathy chuckle.

“We should… probably get dressed and get movin’,” he murmured, his voice husky, still soft from what you’d shared.

You laughed lightly, nodding. “Yeah… probably a good idea.”

The two of you began putting yourselves back together. You slowly started pulling out of him, both of you growling through clenched teeth, Joel squeezing your bare hips. You glanced sideways, becuase you wanted to. Maybe it was intuition, or you just had the urge to look towards the forest, but something caught your eye.

Out the window. Beyond the fogged-up glass, two small figures. On horseback. Emerging from the trees.

You squinted. One of them—a girl—looked young. Both did, actually, but the one in front… her face. There was something so familiar about it. She stared straight at you.

Her expression wasn’t just surprise. It was disbelief. Fear. And maybe, just maybe, even disappointment. Your breath caught and your heart skipped a beat.

“Joel…” you said, voice suddenly tight.

He followed your gaze, turned to the woods, and the second his eyes landed on her, his whole body locked up, his face went pale and his breath stopped.

“Ellie,” he whispered, the name leaving him like a punch to the gut.

You snapped your head toward Joel, panic wide in your eyes, your chest tightening as a thousand thoughts crashed into each other.

What did she see? How long was she watching?

Joel turned to you, his eyes just as shocked, just as lost, then flicked back to the woods where the girl still sat on her horse, motionless. You didn’t speak and neither did he.

You didn’t need to, because you both knew, that you were fucked. Badly.

HEYY! Thank you so much for reading!

If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a beautiful day!

LOVE YA!🥭🍂

[levanterhaze]

SUPERNATURAL, BANGCHAN

♡  ― 󠀬󠀬producer!bangchan x f!reader praise kink, unprotected sex, rough sex, possessiveness, creampie, mention of anxiety, slightly toxic relationship, phone sex, dirty talk, fingering, thigh riding, overstimulation, masturbation (both receiving), angst and a bit of fluff bc why not?

♡ synopsis ― You left Bangchan to protect your heart. He waited, hoping you'd come back. A silent month, one crowded room, and the gravity between you never left. Some loves don’t vanish—they haunt, they ache, and if you’re lucky, they bloom again.

[14.3k words ]♡― guys, it was supposed to be a one-shot, but tumblr wouldn't let me post it all at once? rude. so i decided to split it in half and tomorrow i'll post the second part!

This love's possessin' me, but I don't mind at all It's like supernatural It's takin' over me, don't wanna fight the fall It's like supernatural

Bangchan never thought you’d actually dump him. Not him. Not when he spoiled you rotten, kissed every bratty little pout off your lips, and let you steal the covers every damn night without a single complaint.

But you did.

You broke up with him on a random Tuesday, mascara clinging to your lashes, pout on your lips, arms crossed tight like you were trying to hold yourself together. You didn’t want to leave — he could see it all over your face — but you did it anyway. Because apparently "love isn't enough when all we do is fight," or some other dramatic bullshit you said while he sat there blinking at you like you’d just grown two heads.

He laughed. Actually laughed.

"You're breaking up with me?" he repeated, like the words didn’t even make sense in the same sentence. You? Leaving him? The girl he practically worshiped? His spoiled pretty girl who threw a fit when he forgot to buy her favorite snack, but still made his whole damn world brighter?

Yeah, no. He wasn't letting you just walk away like it was some casual Tuesday errand.

But you were stubborn. Always had been. You slammed the door to his apartment like you meant it, like you weren't about to miss the way he pulled you onto his lap every time you argue just to shut you up with his mouth.

Spoiler alert: you missed it.

And Chan? Chan was a fucking mess. 

Studio sessions got longer. Songs got sadder. His friends started looking at him like he was one bad day away from showing up at your place with a giant boombox over his head. And honestly? He almost did.

You were still everywhere — in the worn hoodie you stole, in the coffee order he still got wrong because you weren’t there to fix it, in the damn songs he tried and failed to write without thinking of you first. You were the muse he never asked for but needed like oxygen. The bratty, perfect princess who ruined him for anyone else.

So yeah. You thought you could just walk out of his life? Cute.

Because Bangchan had a plan now: He was going to get you back — messy, dirty, stubborn and completely in love with you.

No matter what it took.

Luckily for him — or maybe unluckily, depending on how you looked at it — you had way friends in common. Which meant every time there was a party, Bangchan knew you'd show up. And he used every damn opportunity to haunt your space like a lovesick idiot with a cocky smile.

And fuck, did he miss you.

He missed your laugh, your stupid eye-rolls, the way you stole his hoodies and looked ten times better in them. He missed your mouth — talking shit, teasing him, gasping for him. He missed how you’d curl up against him at night and pretend you weren’t clingy. He missed how you were a pain in the ass and his favorite thing in the world at the same time.

He could make a fucking list. It would take him until sunrise. 

His spoiled little brat. His princess. His goddamn downfall.

One of those nights, after a brutal day at the studio, Bangchan stumbled home at nearly three in the morning, muscles aching, brain fried. He should've passed out the second his head hit the pillow.

But no. His brain decided to go into hyperdrive, and every single fucking thought led right back to you.

After a hot shower, he sat on the edge of his bed, hair dripping, sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips. He grabbed his phone like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He stared at your contact. The one still saved under that stupid nickname he used to whisper in your ear when you got bratty just to hear you whine. The one no one else would ever understand — your secret language.

He should’ve gone to sleep. He really should’ve. 

Instead, he muttered "fuck it" under his breath and pressed call.

Impulse. Stupidity. Loneliness. Love. Maybe all of the above.

But he just needed to hear your voice. Even if you hated him for it.

Bangchan honestly didn’t expect you to pick up. Especially not at ass-o’clock in the morning. But the second your voice floated into his ear — sleepy, annoyed, real — his heart damn near jumped out of his chest.

"Still awake?" he asked, voice low, rough with exhaustion and something else he didn’t dare name.

You sighed like he was the biggest inconvenience in the world. "What do you want?"

He leaned back against the headboard, squeezing his eyes shut, trying not to say the first hundred filthy, desperate things that came to mind.

"I miss you," he said instead, voice soft, almost boyish.

You didn’t answer right away. He heard the faint rustle of your bedsheets, imagined you curled up with your laptop, rolling your eyes so hard they almost got stuck.

"And how exactly," you said sweetly, "is that my problem?"

Chan winced, grinning despite himself. Damn, he missed that mouth of yours. The way you could make him want to kiss you and bend you over in the same breath.

"Ouch. Don’t be snippy, princess," he teased, letting the nickname slip, letting it cut you both a little. "We both know you don't actually want to be."

You bristled. He could practically feel it through the line. You didn’t want to be rude. You wanted to be angry. There was a difference and you were losing the fight fast.

"Are you done?" you snapped, fake-sweet. "I'm hanging up."

"Wait! Wait, princess, c'mon..." he rushed, sitting up straighter, hand dragging through his damp hair in frustration. "You really don’t miss me?"

Silence.

It was deafening. Torturous. Delicious.

He let it stretch just long enough before letting his voice drop, dirty and coaxing.

"Don't lie to me," he said slowly. "I bet you're sitting there all pretty in bed, pouting at your screen, squeezing your thighs together because you can't even think about me without getting worked up."

"You sound drunk," you hissed, but your voice was shaking.

"Believe me, I’m not," he chuckled darkly. "I just know exactly what you need, even better than you do."

You hated him. You hated how good he was at getting under your skin.

You hated that your body responded before your brain even caught up.

"Go to sleep, Chan," you muttered, but it sounded weak, pathetic even to your own ears.

"Not until you say you miss me," he pushed, voice downright sinful now. "Or better yet... say my name like you used to when I had you squirming under me."

Your whole body burned.

Bangchan grinned into the silence. He could wait all night if he had to. After all... when it came to you, he never fucking gave up.

"Bangchan, we're done. It doesn't matter," you said, trying — and failing — to keep your voice flat.

Your eyes flicked back to your laptop, pretending you could still focus on the blurry article in front of you. But all you could actually hear was him — that stupid voice, low and raspy and somehow everywhere.

"It matters to me," he said, softer now, almost cocky. "I miss you, you know. All fucking day."

It wasn’t what he said — it was how he said it. That wrecked, teasing tone like he was right there, mouth at your ear, smirking when he saw the goosebumps rise on your skin.

"Stop saying bullshit like that," you snapped, but it was weak. Pathetic. You hated how easily he could undo you with nothing but his voice.

Bangchan has always been your greatest weakness. And he knew it.

"I wish you were here," he rasped. Silence fell. Thick. Heavy.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding way too fast. You slammed your laptop shut with a frustrated groan, tossing it to the side.

Studying was officially over.

"It's almost three," you hissed, hugging your knees to your chest like it would somehow protect you from how stupidly warm you felt.

"Exactly," he said, that cocky smile dripping through the phone.

Bangchan was sprawled out in bed, back against the headboard, sweatpants slung low. Eyes closed, hand fisting the sheets because just thinking about you — your bratty little voice, your body, your mouth — had him half-hard already.

"What were you even doing at this hour, huh?" His voice dropped, that slow, lazy slur that always meant trouble.

You rolled your eyes even though you knew he couldn’t see. "Studying. I have an exam next week."

Bangchan let out a low grunt of approval that vibrated straight down your spine. It made you shift uncomfortably, thighs pressing together on instinct.

"That’s my brilliant girl," he murmured, voice thick with awe.

Your stomach flipped. Your whole body burned. And you hated yourself for the way you smiled into the darkness like an idiot.

The words caused irreversible damage to your mind. Bangchan knew exactly what he was doing — that wicked, cocky little smirk playing on his lips like he could already feel your walls crumbling.

He knew how you loved being praised. How dirty words slid under your skin and stayed there, rotting you sweet.

"I'm not your girl," you shot back, weak, stupidly defensive.

He chuckled, low and dirty. "You’ll always be mine, princess."

God, that voice. That fucking voice.

It made your thighs press tight without permission, heat blooming under your skin like wildfire. The room suddenly felt suffocating.

"Bangchan, I'm fucking serious," you said through gritted teeth, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to will him  and yourself  into behaving.

"Yeah, same," he muttered, so casually it made you want to throw your phone across the room. Then he paused — and the silence wrapped around your throat like a velvet rope. "Do you still wear my clothes?" he asked, almost smug.

Your whole body jolted like you’d been caught red-handed.

Because yes, you were still curled up in his old T-shirt right now, drowning in it, still obsessed with how it smelled like him. Still stupidly aching for a boy you pretended to hate.

"No," you lied, instantly hating yourself for how fake it sounded.

Bangchan let out a lazy, knowing laugh. "Liar."

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly fell out. "Actually, I burned everything," you snarked, sarcasm dripping off every word.

"Mhm," he hummed, voice thick and teasing. "I bet you’re wearing it now. Nothing else underneath."

He shifted on his bed, the mic picking up the delicious rumple of sheets.

"Fuck, just thinking about it..." His breath hitched. "You have no fucking idea what you do to me, princess."

You clenched the phone so tight your knuckles turned white, heat pooling low in your belly, unbearable and sweet. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath.

"Want me to tell you what I’m picturing right now?" he asked, voice filthy, honey-thick. 

Like a devil whispering in your ear.

You should have said no. You didn’t.

"In my shirt. No panties," he murmured. "Squeezing those pretty thighs together 'cause you’re aching so bad for me." He chuckled darkly when you didn’t respond — didn’t have words anymore — like he could see straight through the phone how wrecked you were becoming. "I know you, baby. I know you’re wet just hearing my voice."

You whimpered before you could catch yourself, face burning. You buried your face in the pillow, mortified.

"I can almost feel it, you know," Bangchan rasped. "How tight you always get for me. Fuck. The way you used to whine when I fucked you slow, made you cry for it."

Your whole body trembled.

The desperate, humiliating slickness between your legs soaked through your panties, leaving you throbbing, aching for relief.

"Don't..." you gasped, so weak, so embarrassingly close to shoving your hand under the waistband and finishing yourself off to nothing but his voice.

"Don't what?" he taunted, smug as hell now. "Don't make you cum without even touching you? Shit, princess, you’re so easy for me. You always were."

You bit your lip so hard it hurt, a desperate little noise catching in your throat.

"If you were here," he groaned, the sound making you whimper, "you’d see the mess you made of me. Hard as a fucking rock for you. Only you."

You closed your eyes — and that was your first mistake.

Because the second you imagined him, sprawled out lazy and wrecked on his bed, cock tenting his sweatpants, leaking just from thinking about you, you were done for.

"I could fuck my hand," he rasped, voice thick and ragged, "but it wouldn't be the same without you. Should be your pretty little mouth drooling on my cock right now."

"Chan..." you gasped, helpless, your free hand already sliding into your panties like it had a mind of its own.

Fuck him. Fuck him for making you this way. Horny. Hopeless. So easy.

If that was his plan all along, he’d won.

Bangchan groaned softly at the sound of your breath hitching. He could feel you through the phone — could see you in his mind, legs spread wide, fingers playing with your dripping cunt, just the way he liked it.

Fuck. It should be his fingers knuckle-deep inside you, his cock stretching you open until you forgot your own name.

He reached into his boxers, hissing through his teeth as he wrapped his palm around his aching cock, smearing the leaking pre-cum around the tip with a slow, dirty twist of his wrist.

"Angel," he growled, voice ruined and low, "stick those fingers in your pussy. Let me hear you fuck yourself for me. Is that what you want? My fingers in your tight little pussy, making you drip all over my hand?"

A moan tore itself from your lips — raw and real — and his cock twitched at the sound.

"Yeah, fuck. Whine for me," he urged. "Say my name like I'm there, fucking you so slow it drives you crazy."

"That's wrong..." you whimpered, but your voice betrayed you — soft, needy, trembling.

And worse, he could hear the obscene slickness of your fingers moving between your folds. He could hear how wet you were.

"Fuck," he groaned. He squeezed the base of his cock, fucking up into his fist, pre-cum slicking him up, panting like he was already right on the edge. "Wish you were here, princess... wish you were on your knees, swallowing every inch like the good girl you are."

You bit your lip so hard it almost bled, hips rocking desperately into your own touch, mind blank except for him him him —

"How's it feel, baby?" he taunted, voice molten. "How's it feel to fuck yourself thinking about my cock splitting you open?"

"So good," you choked out, pathetic and ruined.

"Stick another finger in," he commanded, and you obeyed blindly, whimpering at the stretch, at the shame of how much you needed it. "Think of my fingers making you drip down your thighs. Making a fucking mess of you."

You rubbed frantic circles over your clit, needy noises spilling from your lips without permission, fingers pumping in and out of your tight, soaking hole.

It wasn’t enough. You needed him. Needed his weight crushing you into the mattress, his teeth against your throat, his cock inside you, claiming every inch.

"I'm so fucking hard, shit baby," Bangchan growled, breathing like he was seconds away from snapping. "Wanna fuck that snippy mouth until you couldn’t speak."

You whimpered, high and broken, hand moving faster and faster, chasing the blinding, hot rush pooling low in your belly.

"Fuck, I'm gonna—" you gasped, hips stuttering. "I'm gonna—Chan—"

Bangchan didn't stop, didn't let up.

"My pretty girl, cumming on her fingers like a desperate little whore for me," he moaned, voice all grit and pleasure. "Cum for me. Fucking cum all over yourself thinking about my cock fucking you dumb.”

A ragged cry ripped from your throat  “Oh fuck, yes!” as you felt hot slickness gush from your pussy, spilling over your fingers, making a filthy mess.

Bangchan’s mind spiraled, picturing you like this: spread open and desperate, cumming hard with his cock buried ass-deep inside you, slamming into you over and over, stuffing you full of his cum, ruining you exactly the way you needed — sloppy, dripping, and his.

The orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, brutal and mind-shattering. You cried out, his name ripped from your throat, body convulsing around your fingers as wetness gushed out, soaking the sheets beneath you.

Somewhere through the haze, you heard him groan raggedly — the unmistakable sound of him cumming too, thick ropes splashing across his stomach. You could practically see it — Bangchan flushed, sweaty, wrecked — all for you.

When you finally caught your breath, shame and heat tangled together in your gut. You snatched the phone from the bed, heart pounding.

"You're an asshole," you snapped, your voice still shaky and fucked-out. "Don't ever—" you gasped for air, "don't ever fucking call me again."

And then you hung up on him — before you could do something even stupider — like beg him to come over.

The next day was a full-blown disaster — because all you could think about was him. Not your to-do list. Not your deadlines. Not the fact that you were supposed to be a responsible adult with goals and ambitions. No.

 Just Bangchan — and the memory of last night, which was exactly what you didn’t need right now.

You had promised yourself you’d be serious this time. Work. Study. Prioritize yourself. Not get dragged back into Bangchan's orbit like some hopeless idiot with no self-preservation instincts.

What happened last night was a slip-up. A pathetically delicious, toe-curling, dignity-shattering slip-up.

Still, you got dressed like it was just another Tuesday. Skirt. Heels. Lip gloss. Maybe you spent a little more time in front of the mirror. Maybe your skirt was a little shorter. Maybe you were absolutely ridiculous. 

Who could blame you? Inspiration was a bitch.

Bangchan had always spoiled you rotten. He got off on it, honestly. Clothes, jewelry, shoes, lingerie, makeup, salon appointments — if it sparkled or looked good on you, he bought it.

You never even had to ask. You were his favorite luxury item. All he wanted in return was your heart, served on a silver platter, the way you used to give it to him without thinking twice.

And God, did he love fucking you after a long day. You, dripping in brand-new lace he had picked out himself — letting him ruin you in it.

He was simple like that. Didn't need much. Just you. Always you.

You were his girl. You always have been. And if he had to move heaven, earth, and your stubborn ass to make you admit it again, he would.

The day dragged on, but the routine was good for you. Work, study, grind — all the mindless stuff that keeps your heart on mute. And when it was finally over, when you powered down all your screens and the office emptied out, you just sat there — in the quiet, in the dark — pretending you weren't still thinking about him.

After wrapping up, you powered down your equipment and stretched, only to realize you weren’t as alone as you thought. Mingi was still there, jacket slung casually over his arm like some corporate heartthrob out of a drama.

“Hey, you heading out?” he asked, falling into step toward you.

“Yeah. I think I’ve hit my limit for today.” You smiled, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.

“Mind if I walk with you?” Mingi asked, giving you a lopsided half-smile that, unfortunately, was very effective.

You couldn’t exactly say no. Not to Mingi — handsome, polite, alarmingly smart Mingi — who had always been a quiet sort of presence on the team. You worked well together, but you’d never really crossed into friend territory.

Which made this... surprising.

You ended up walking together toward the elevators, his stride easy next to yours.

“There’s a happy hour tomorrow,” he said, pushing up his glasses, brown hair falling slightly into his eyes. “Are you going?”

You hesitated. Exams were coming up. You really should prioritize studying over cheap drinks and questionable decisions. But also? You desperately needed to hit the mental reset button before you spiraled.

"Sure," you said, surprising yourself. "I’ll be there."

The cold slapped you the second you hit the building’s exit. You cursed under your breath for skipping the coat this morning — your legs bare and goosebumped, the cold air feeling a little too personal against your skin.

Going back home to grab a jacket and then heading straight to college? Yeah, that was going to be hell.

You bit your lip, stuck in a ridiculous debate with yourself over what to do next. That's when your phone buzzed.

Bangchan: Who the fuck was that?

You frowned, confused and immediately suspicious.

You: First of all, what the fuck are you talking about? Second, who said you could text me?

A pause. Then two rapid-fire replies:

Bangchan: So mouthy. Missed that.

Bangchan: The guy you left with. Don’t play dumb, angel.

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. He was insufferable.

You: Newsflash: not your business anymore.

A beat.

Bangchan: Cute. You almost sound like you believe that.

You swore under your breath, fingers flying over the screen.

You: I don't have time for your little tantrums.

Bangchan: Tantrum?

Bangchan: You looked real cozy with him. Thought maybe you needed a reminder.

Your stomach twisted, infuriatingly, traitorously.

You: Reminder of what? That you're insane? Pass.

Bangchan: Reminder of who makes you cum so hard you forget your own name.

You squeezed your phone like it personally offended you. God, he was infuriating.

You: Go fuck yourself.

Bangchan: Would rather fuck you, babe. You free?

You groaned, stuffing your phone into your bag like that could muffle your rising pulse. You told yourself you were done. Totally, absolutely done with him.

And yet... as you walked down the main avenue, your eyes scanned the crowd, the streetlights, the parked cars — searching for him.

You pretended the night air didn’t feel like knives against your bare skin. You pretended your phone hadn’t gone silent. You pretended you weren't half-hoping it would buzz again.

And then — because the universe hated you personally — a black sports car prowled up to the curb beside you, slow and steady.

You didn’t even have to look. 

You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your brain. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

The window whirred down and there he was, grinning like the devil himself. “Get in the car," he said, casual, like he hadn’t been stalking you from the shadows two minutes ago.

“No.” You kept walking, clutching your skirt before the wind could flash half the city.

Horns started screaming behind him. Someone yelled something. Bangchan didn’t so much as flinch.

"Get in the fucking car," he repeated, inching along beside you. "You're gonna turn into a popsicle."

You whipped around, teeth chattering. "I would rather die of hypothermia than get in your stupid fucking car."

Another volley of honking. A guy behind him leaned out the window and made an obscene gesture that probably wasn’t in any official driving manual.

"You’re blocking traffic, you maniac!" you hissed, arms folded tight over yourself.

Bangchan just shrugged, infuriatingly unbothered. "Not my problem. My problem’s standing out here being stubborn and freezing."

He leaned in, smirking slowly and mercilessly. "I'll leave... if you get in."

You glared at him so hard your vision blurred, and for one perfect, freezing second, you honestly believed you might resist.

Then another gust of wind hit, cutting straight through your willpower. You muttered something that could generously be called a curse, yanked open the door, and threw yourself into the passenger seat.

"Happy?" you snapped, slamming it shut.

Bangchan just smiled. Slow, victorious and pulled back into traffic like he hadn’t just held half the city hostage for you.

"Ecstatic," he said.

The second you slammed the door, Bangchan hit the gas like he was escaping a crime scene. He kept his eyes locked on the road, which was impressive, considering your skirt had ridden halfway up your thighs — one of his favorite skirts, by the way.

He’d definitely fucked you in it. Several times.

“You’re so stupid,” you muttered, arms crossed like a bratty little princess.

Bangchan just laughed — that low, rough laugh that made your pulse misbehave — because of course he loved you like this. He loved all the versions of you.

“‘Thank you, Bangchan. If it weren’t for you, I’d freeze my ass off,’” he teased, pitching his voice higher in a brutal imitation of you. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” you snapped.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, veins flexing under golden skin, and you hated yourself a little for noticing.

Self-control, girl. Pull it together.

“You don’t have to owe me, princess," he said, voice casual but his knuckles whitening on the wheel. "You just have to get in the fucking car when I tell you."

You glared at him, arms still folded like a shield across your chest.

A beat. Then he said, way too casually: “That guy. Gonna tell me who he was?”

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh and whipped your head toward him. “Seriously? Who the hell do you think you are, Bangchan?”

He said nothing, just drove — jaw locked tight, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in that way he always did when he was about two seconds from losing it.

Good. Let him simmer.

“You don’t get to stalk me and interrogate me like some jealous ex-boyfriend,” you snapped. “You don’t even get to ask.”

Still silent. Still fuming. Still looking better than any man had a right to look while being told off.

You shifted in your seat, the silence between you thick and hot and dangerous, and for a wild second you wondered what it would take for him to pull the car over and remind you exactly how much he hated — and loved — being told no.

"I should fuck that bratty little mouth of yours, I swear to God," Bangchan muttered under his breath, but you caught every sinful syllable.

You forced yourself to roll your eyes, pretending that your thighs weren't already pressing together at the sound of his voice. Pretending that your pulse wasn’t hammering in your ears.

"You should fuck off to that precious studio of yours and stay there," you shot back sweetly, voice dripping with sarcasm. You flashed him a sugary, fake smile, the kind you knew drove him insane.

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. "Or," he growled, "I could just drag you into my studio and fuck you against the soundboard. Shut you up properly. What do you think, princess?"

You let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "You're such a fucking idiot. Why am I even here? Stop the car."

Bangchan just laughed, that low, cocky rumble that sent unwelcome heat curling through your stomach. "I'm not stopping the damn car. Stop being a little pain in my ass and let me drive you to college, alright?"

You hated him. You hated him because he was still the only person who could talk to you like that and somehow make you want him even more. He kept his eyes locked on the road, cool as ever, while you stewed in your own frustration and something else much, much filthier.

When he finally pulled up in front of your college, you immediately reached for the door handle, desperate to escape. But click—he locked the doors.

You snapped your head toward him, glaring. "What now?"

"Don't you think we need to talk?" he asked, arching a smug eyebrow like he already knew you weren't going anywhere.

Your heart thudded against your ribs. You knew what he meant. He was talking about the night before—the filthy moans, the breathy whimpers, the way you'd fallen apart just from his voice. But you weren’t about to hand him that satisfaction.

"We have nothing to talk about. Now unlock the damn door."

Bangchan chuckled darkly, humorless. "Don't play dumb, angel. You think I forgot the way you said my name last night? Fuck, you practically begged for me."

Your face burned so hot you wanted to scream. You slapped your hands over your cheeks like that could erase the memory—or the way your body still reacted to him like a live wire.

"For fuck's sake, stop," you groaned, wanting to disappear into the seat.

He tilted his head back against the headrest, grinning like the devil himself. "Why? You love it."

You sucked in a shaky breath, slumping in the seat like you could somehow sink through it and escape him. He was impossible. Irrefutable. Catastrophic.

"Chan," you began, voice strained, "what happened yesterday was a mistake. I—I got carried away, and it’s not happening again. We’re over. You need to get that through your thick skull."

He turned toward you fully now, his playful smirk fading into something far more dangerous. His dark eyes raked over you, making your skin tingle.

"Funny you say that," he murmured, voice low and almost cruel, "when your body’s telling a whole different story."

You froze. Only then did you notice—your chest heaving, the frantic way you were breathing, the way you were basically squirming in your seat. Like a junkie itching for a fix.

His fix.

You ripped your gaze away, humiliated, scrambling for the door handle again. "Just—just let’s forget it. Please. I have to go."

Bangchan stared at you for a long moment, jaw tense, but in the end, he relented. He reached into the backseat, grabbed his jacket—his jacket that still smelled like him, still clung to him—and tossed it into your lap.

"Take it," he muttered gruffly.

You didn't argue. You couldn't. You just grabbed it, clutching the worn fabric between your fingers like a lifeline. You didn't even look back as you shoved the door open and slipped out of the car.

Bangchan didn't say another word either. He just watched you walk away, jaw clenched, hands tight on the steering wheel.

And you could feel it—the burn of his gaze drilling into your back the whole way inside.

You were so exhausted after the endless grind of the week that the idea of happy hour with your coworkers felt like salvation. 

As soon as the clock hit the end of the workday, you, Mingi, and the rest of the creative team slipped out and made your way to a cozy bar not far from the office—a place famous for cold drinks and some of the best barbecue you’d ever tasted.

It was another one of those freezy nights, the kind that wrapped around your skin like a second, unwanted layer. You grabbed your own jacket on the way out—your jacket, not the black one that still hung in your apartment entryway, quietly mocking you with Bangchan’s lingering scent every time you walked past it.

Everyone at work adored you, and you knew it. Women, men, it didn’t matter—everyone said the same thing: you were the prettiest damn girl the office had ever hired. Some of them said it shyly, others more bluntly, but either way, you never let it go to your head. You were too busy being genuinely grateful to them for welcoming you so warmly, especially your boss.

Mingi refilled his glass with another shot of soju, raising it in your direction. You clinked glasses with him and everyone else, laughing as the room buzzed with conversation and the cozy clatter of plates and glasses.

The food was incredible—juicy, smoky barbecue, spicy side dishes, sizzling meat still crackling on hot plates—and the conversation even better. You all talked about work, about who was secretly seeing who, about how much alcohol was "too much," and laughed yourselves stupid.

Soyeon, one of your colleagues, kept throwing not-so-subtle glances between you and Mingi across the table, hiding her giggles behind her hand. It was ridiculous—and a little hilarious. Apparently, the office fantasy was that if you dated someone like Mingi, it would somehow restore everyone's faith in love.

But Mingi was just a friend. A nice guy. Respectful. Safe. The kind of guy who smiled warmly at you and never, ever crossed any lines.

One shot led to another. Then another. And before you realized it, your vision blurred, the world spinning slightly every time you tried to focus. Everything around you—the colors, the lights, the sounds—smeared together into something loud and soft and dizzying, like a dream.

You saw a couple of your coworkers nearly face-planting into the table, and Mingi's blurry figure pacing nearby with a phone pressed to his ear.

"Are you okay? Can you stand?" Mingi’s voice filtered into your ears, strained with concern.

You blinked up at him, then giggled. "Of coooourse I can stand. Oops. Maybe?" you slurred, flopping back down against the table with a dramatic huff and knocking over two empty bottles with your arm.

Everything was so comfortable. You could have curled up there and fallen asleep if it weren’t for the loud thudding of boots approaching.

Footsteps. Voices.

You opened one eye sluggishly, just in time to see two dark figures approaching the table.

"Thanks," Some voice said distantly.

And then—suddenly—you were lifted off the ground like you weighed nothing at all. Strong arms cradled you against a warm, broad chest, and you blinked through your hazy vision to see familiar lips, a strong nose, and messy black hair peeking out from beneath a hood.

"Hey! What—what are you—" You shrieked, squirming uselessly in his hold. "Are you insane?"

"You love making a fucking scene, don’t you, princess?" Bangchan growled low against your hair. "Keep your voice down. I'm taking you home."

"I don't want to go home! I was having fuuuun and—and—" you sniffled, your voice wobbling embarrassingly. The bar, the lights, the laughter were all fading away as Bangchan marched toward the car, his pace determined and irritated.

"You’ve had enough fun for tonight," he muttered under his breath, as if speaking to a disobedient child.

The second he set you down inside the car, everything changed. The world turned softer, warmer. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he buckled your seatbelt, his fingers brushing your coat as he secured you in place.

You inhaled deeply, catching a whiff of something sweet and familiar—vanilla, musk, leather. Him. You sighed, feeling your body sink deeper into the seat.

"Why do you smell so good?" you mumbled, your lower lip jutting out in a pout as you crossed your arms stubbornly.

Bangchan just shook his head and laughed—a deep, throaty sound that filled the car. "You're adorable, you know that?"

And you were too drunk, too soft, too wrapped up in him to say anything back.

"That would be comical if you were sober," Bangchan muttered under his breath, slamming the passenger door shut before rounding the car and sliding into the driver's seat.

"Hey!" you protested weakly as he buckled in, his fingers brushing against his hoodie. "I didn't even drink that much."

Bangchan huffed a dry laugh. "Angel, you can’t even stand up straight. You’re like a drunk bambi on ice."

You groaned, slumping back against the seat. Ugh. As much as you wanted to argue, he wasn’t wrong. And it annoyed you even more that he was right. You tugged at the seatbelt uncomfortably and with a huff, pressed the button to roll the window down. The cold night air immediately hit your face, shocking your skin and making you shiver, but you welcomed it. Anything to clear your head.

The car smelled like him. Leather and something a little sweet—something infuriatingly comforting. You closed your eyes and tried to focus on the sharp, bracing wind instead of the fact that Bangchan was sitting just inches away, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel impatiently.

It stung, the kind of sting that settled in your bones, to think about how close you'd once been under different circumstances.

You met Bangchan years ago, back when the air between you still crackled with teasing and unsaid things. It took time — time and reckless choices — before you both stopped pretending it was harmless.

He was always brutally honest, almost cruel in how easily he wore the truth. You’d known it was him, long before you had the courage to admit it. And he had never cared about messy pasts or whether he was your first anything; he only cared that you were his last.

He met you through Jisung — who, true to form, stuck to your side like a second shadow — and it hit him like a punch to the ribs. That kind of sick, dizzy want that didn’t go away no matter how hard he tried to drown it.

Bangchan had been patient in the way only a man desperate for something real could be. Every party, every careless night out, he made sure he was there — close enough to touch, close enough to drive you crazy with it. Until you finally gave in and kissed him like he was air and you were drowning.

And he didn’t say it out loud — he wasn’t that kind of man — but he knew he’d won the fucking lottery. You weren't just beautiful; you were built from the same sharp, stubborn material he was.

You knew how to love him in a way that didn’t shrink him or tame him.And he loved showing you off — not because he needed to prove anything, but because he could.

Wherever you went — parties, concerts, rooms full of people who wished they were you — heads turned. You didn’t just look good together. You fit. Like some cruelly perfect puzzle, made to make everyone else feel like they were missing something.

You were the ‘it couple’ — not because people said so, but because no one could look at you and believe otherwise.

And now you had to pretend  like it was easy that none of it had ever meant anything. That you hadn’t once been stupid enough to build your whole heart around him.

The ride was quiet for a few moments, except for the hum of the engine and the occasional shuffle of your jacket as you shifted. Your head lolled slightly to the side, and even in your blurred state, you caught the way his knuckles tightened around the steering wheel every time he glanced at you.

"You always cause trouble," he said finally, voice low, almost fond. "Even when you don't mean to."

You scoffed. "You're the one kidnapping me from my fun."

"If I left you there, you'd either end up passed out on the floor or flirting with some idiot," he said coolly, not taking his eyes off the road. "Neither option sounded good to me."

"I wasn't flirting," you muttered, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. "I was just... being friendly."

Bangchan snorted. "Yeah, well. You're mine. You don't need to be friendly with anyone else."

The words hit you harder than the cold wind. Your eyes snapped open, your heart giving a traitorous, unsteady beat. He said it so easily. Like it was just a fact of life, as simple as breathing.

You opened your mouth to say something, to argue, but no words came out.

And Bangchan just kept driving, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the dashboard.

When he pulled up outside your apartment, Bangchan didn't even give you a chance to reach for the door handle. He was out in a flash, slamming his door and rounding the car like a man on a mission.

You caught up to him, your boots clacking against the sidewalk in a staggered rhythm. He didn’t even bother to look back; he knew you were following like he always knew, smug bastard that he was.

"You think you're so clever," you muttered as you caught up, breath puffing in the cold air.

"Well," Bangchan said, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets. "That's because I am."

You rolled your eyes so hard you were surprised they didn't fall out of your head. Still, you brushed past him at the entrance, key in hand, making a show of being thoroughly unimpressed.

The door creaked open under your push, and you turned just enough to toss a casual, biting smile over your shoulder. "You coming in, or are you too scared I'll bite?"

Bangchan's mouth twitched, that almost-smile he saved just for you. "If I was scared of your teeth, princess," he said, stepping inside after you, "I wouldn’t be imagining all the places I'd want you to leave marks."

You slammed the door a little too hard behind him, the bang echoing off the hallway walls. Not because you were mad, because if you didn't, you might've launched yourself at him like a woman starved.

"You need therapy," you said, dropping your keys in the dish by the door.

"Probably," he agreed, kicking off his shoes like he owned your place, moving through your apartment with easy familiarity. "But you first."

You crossed your arms, leaning against the wall as you watched him with half-lidded eyes. "You’re awfully confident for someone who just manhandled a half-drunk girl out of a bar."

Bangchan grinned, throwing himself down onto your worn-out couch like a king claiming his throne. "I call it rescuing."

"I call it kidnapping."

He shrugged. "Semantics."

You hated—hated—how good he looked sitting there, manspread like he paid the rent, your hoodie bunching around his arms, the glint in his eyes daring you to push him. To challenge him. To keep playing the game you two were never quite able to quit.

"You’re so annoying," you muttered, peeling off your jacket and tossing it somewhere near the coat rack.

"And you're drunk," he said, patting the spot next to him without a hint of shame. "C'mere, princess. Let’s have a little chat."

"I’m fine right here, thanks."

Bangchan tilted his head, studying you with the kind of intensity that made you want to squirm. "You sure? ‘Cause you look like you’re one good glare away from either ripping my head off or climbing into my lap."

You scoffed, pretending not to trip over your own feet as you crossed the room and dropped into the armchair instead, curling your legs up under you.

"Dream on, studio rat," you said sweetly.

He smiled slowly, eyes dark and lazy and a little dangerous. "You call me names like that, and then wonder why I wanna ruin that mouth of yours."

The worst part? You did wonder. You wondered all the time.

You tucked your chin onto your knees, flashing him a slow, mocking smile. "Big words, Bangchan. Too bad that's all you're good at. Talking."

The spark that lit behind his gaze was damn near nuclear.

He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice dropping so low and smooth it wrapped around you like silk.

"Careful," he said, voice edged with warning and wickedness. "You poke the wolf enough, princess, don't be surprised when he bites back."

Your heart was beating so fast it was almost dizzying. And you knew—you knew—you should tell him to leave. Should tell him you needed to sleep it off. Should slam a thousand doors between the two of you before you made a mistake you couldn't take back.

Instead, you grinned like the little devil you were.

You batted your lashes like a brat, voice dripping sugar and spite. "What are you waiting for then? Afraid you’ll get bitten too?"

Bangchan let out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were real.

"One of these days," he said, standing up slow, every muscle under his hoodie stretching and pulling in ways that made you bite your lip, "you're gonna push me too far."

You kept your smile in place, but your mouth was suddenly dry. "Promises, promises."

He came to stand over you, his shadow swallowing you whole. He leaned down, palms braced on the arms of the chair, caging you in without touching. Without meaning to, the chain around his neck slipped loose from his sweatshirt, dangling just above your eyes like a silent dare.

"You have no idea," he whispered, his breath ghosting across your lips, "what you're asking for."

Your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it. Still, you refused to look away. You refused to be the first one to break.

Bangchan’s mouth curled into something feral, something proud, like he could see every stubborn, reckless thought in your head and loved you more for it.

He brushed his nose against yours, just barely, before pulling away.

"Go to sleep, princess," he murmured, backing off like it cost him something. "Before we both do something we'll regret."

You watched him move across the room, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch and tossing it onto you in one smooth motion.

"Goodnight," he said, turning toward the door.

"Goodnight, asshole," you mumbled back, snuggling into the chair despite yourself.

Your head was pounding before you even opened your eyes.

The sunlight filtering through the blinds felt like a personal attack, and the taste in your mouth was proof that maybe you weren't as immune to soju as you thought.

You groaned softly, pressing the heel of your palm against your forehead, cursing every life choice that had led you to this very moment. 

Everything hurts. Your brain, your pride, your soul.

You didn’t even remember getting into bed. The last thing you recalled was sitting in the armchair in the living room, long after Chan had left. You turned your head carefully, expecting to find an empty room, expecting to be alone—like you always were after nights like that.

Instead, you found him. Curled up like a fucking angel in your beat-up armchair.

One arm slung lazily over his stomach, the other bent so his hand could half-cover his face, messy black curls spilling out from under the hood of his sweatshirt. His legs were awkwardly folded up to fit, his whole body making a kind of soft, exhausted nest in the chair way too small for him.

And God, he was beautiful. Ridiculously, stupidly beautiful.

Your throat tightened without permission. Because somehow, it hurt a little, seeing him like that. Vulnerable. Still. Peaceful, like he'd finally stopped fighting the world for five minutes.

You sat there blinking at him, trying to convince yourself it was just the hangover making you emotional. Definitely the hangover. Had to be.

Slowly, you shifted to sit up, careful not to make any noise. But even that tiny movement made Bangchan stir, his body tensing instinctively before relaxing again.

You watched as he buried deeper into the chair, pulling the hood lower over his eyes like a child hiding from the morning.

It was absurd. He looked like a stray puppy you accidentally fed once and now couldn’t get rid of.

And the worst part? You didn't even want to get rid of him.

You loved so many things about him — stupid, quiet things. The way he smiled, all crinkled eyes and wrinkled nose, like he couldn't help himself. The way his face looked when he just woke up, soft and defenseless, so beautiful you couldn’t resist tracing his skin with your fingertips, half-convinced he might dissolve like a dream.

You loved his curls too — how, beneath all that cocky, rough-edged swagger, he still looked like a boy you could never quite stop loving. 

You sat there for a few minutes, silent, just...watching. Taking in the ridiculous boy who drove you insane but still made sure you were safe. The guy who would argue with you all night but leave you his coat when he left. The boy who threatened to bite and ruin and wreck, but slept like a kid in your living room without asking for anything in return.

Your chest aches in that stupid, traitorous way you hated.

"Idiot," you whispered, your voice breaking the silence.

Bangchan didn’t stir.

You dragged yourself up off the bed, every muscle in your body protesting, and grabbed a blanket. With more gentleness than you’d ever admit to, you tucked it over him, careful not to wake him.

For a second, your fingers hovered over his hair, aching to brush the curls back from his forehead.

You didn’t.

Instead, you backed away, wrapping your arms around yourself, needing the distance before you did something even stupider. You padded into the kitchen and turned on the kettle, moving slowly, quietly.

Because you could be a lot of things. You could be stubborn and sharp and bratty as hell. But you weren't heartless. Not with him.

Not when he looked like that.

You were halfway through pouring hot water into a chipped mug when you heard the shift of fabric and the low, scratchy groan of someone waking up.

You didn’t turn around. You weren’t ready to see him awake yet.

Not when you were still trying to glue your heart back together after catching him sleeping like some exhausted little god on your chair.

Instead, you muttered, “Morning, sunshine,” as you dumped two sugars into your cup.

Bangchan’s voice was still thick with sleep when he answered. "You're alive, huh?"

He sounded way too pleased about that fact. You shrugged, sipping your tea. "Barely. And only because I’m too stubborn to die of embarrassment."

He chuckled behind you, the sound low and rough, and you cursed how good it sounded.

"You should be embarrassed," he said, stretching his arms above his head, making the chair creak. "You were one soju away from getting banned from half the bars downtown."

"Bold words for someone who kidnaps girls from happy hours," you shot back, finally turning around to look at him.

Big mistake.

His hoodie was bunched up around his waist, revealing a sliver of tan skin and the waistband of his sweats. His hair was a glorious mess, dark curls flattened on one side, and he had the nerve—the nerve—to blink at you like he wasn't aware he was slowly killing you just by existing.

You yanked your gaze away. "I need a shower. I feel like death."

"Yeah, you look like it too," he teased under his breath.

You flipped him off lazily as you padded toward the bathroom.

Inside, the hot water was bliss. You stood under the spray for long minutes, letting it wash away your headache, your regret, your dangerously soft feelings. Or trying to.

When you finished, you wrapped yourself in a towel and wandered back into your room, dripping wet, not even thinking.

That's when you saw him again. Through the mirror.

Bangchan was standing just outside the doorway, frozen halfway into a movement, like he hadn't meant to be caught. His eyes caught yours in the mirror’s reflection—and then flickered lower, to your bare shoulders, the curve of your back, the towel barely clinging to your hips, and your wet hair dripping water down your spine.

For a second, neither of you breathed.

He clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides, as if he could physically force himself to behave.

You smirked at his reflection, wickedly pleased at the way he was practically vibrating from the effort of not touching you. You snickered and sauntered toward your closet without another word, feeling his gaze burn into your skin the whole way.

By the time you made it back to the kitchen, fully dressed and mostly composed, the smell of something burning hit you in the face.

"Chan," you said, deadpan. "What fresh hell is this?"

He looked up from the stove, sheepish. A frying pan in one hand, a horribly mangled attempt at eggs in the other.

"I was trying to make you breakfast," he said, voice half-defensive, half-hopeful. "Y'know, so you don't die from alcohol poisoning."

You folded your arms and tilted your head. "You can't cook for shit, can you?"

He tossed the spatula into the sink with a clatter and scowled at you, but there was no real heat behind it.

"You're welcome, princess."

You plopped into a chair, grinning like a little devil. "Aw, you really do love me."

Bangchan grumbled something incoherent under his breath, ears turning slightly pink as he banged around the kitchen trying to salvage whatever dignity he had left.

You bit your lip to hide your smile. Because he could fight it all he wanted. You both knew exactly where this road was heading.

You were still towel-drying your hair when Bangchan’s phone buzzed across the counter.

He checked it absently at first — one glance — but then his entire posture changed. He straightened up, jaw clenching, and answered it with a tight, low, "Yeah?"

You hated the way your chest dropped before you even knew why.

From the kitchen, you heard bits and pieces. Another producer. Some “quick fixes” needed. A session that apparently couldn’t survive the weekend without him.

When he hung up, the room went heavy. He didn’t meet your eyes. He just shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his sweatpants, shoulders stiff with guilt.

You sat down with your mug of burnt coffee, the faint smell of your vanilla soap clinging to your skin. You looked... soft. Kissable. And for a wild second, Bangchan thought about crossing the room just to taste you — hair damp, cheeks flushed from the hot shower — to press his mouth to yours and make you forget the rest of the damn world.

But the words came out instead. "I gotta head to the studio," he said, voice almost apologetic.

You took a slow sip of coffee, then set it down harder than necessary, the sharp clack making both of you flinch.

"You’re seriously going to the studio?" you asked, too casual, too light to be anything but fake.

Bangchan finally looked at you. His eyes were heavy, tired. Maybe even sorry.

"Yeah," he said, like he hated himself a little for it. "Deadlines."

You hummed — a sharp, disbelieving sound — and tapped your nails against the mug.

"It's Saturday," you said quietly.

"And?" he shot back, more defensive than necessary.

You stared at him, really started, like you were trying to scrape something real out of him with your eyes alone. "And nothing," you muttered, voice tight.

He sighed, confused and already losing patience. "What? You want me to blow it off or something?"

You laughed, sharp and humorless. "Oh, no. God forbid you miss a day at your precious studio."

Bangchan blinked at you, and you saw it happen — the slow realization that this wasn’t about today, or even about the stupid phone call.

It was about every time before it. Every late night. Every broken promise. Every time you sat exactly where you were now, waiting for someone who never really came home.

"You’re mad," he said slowly, stupidly, like he was still putting it together.

"No. I’m not." you snapped, standing so quickly your chair screeched against the floor. "Maybe it’s a hangover. Or maybe I’m just allergic to the same fucking story."

His jaw tightened. "What story?"

You crossed your arms across your chest, feeling dangerously close to either screaming or crying.

"You," you spat. "You and your work and your excuses. The plans you cancel, the calls you forget to return. The way you make everything — everyone — secondary to your next big project."

Bangchan flinched, and for once, he didn’t try to spin it. He didn’t even deny it. He just stood there, breathing shallowly, like he was bleeding out and didn’t know how to stop it.

"That was different," he finally managed, voice rough. "That was when—"

"When we were together?" you cut in, voice low and sharp as a blade. You watched him wince like you’d hit him. 

Good. He deserved it.

"It’s easier to forget about someone when they’re still stupid enough to love you, isn’t it?"

He opened his mouth — maybe to apologize, maybe to plead — but you shook your head, feeling the final snap of something deep inside you.

"You should go," you said, barely above a whisper. "Wouldn’t want you to be late for your real life."

Bangchan looked at you for a long, breathless second. There was so much there — regret, anger, longing — but none of it mattered anymore.

He grabbed his keys off the counter without a word. You turned your back to him, rinsing your empty mug in the sink even though your hands were shaking.

You heard the door creak open.

He hesitated. Waited. You didn’t look. You didn’t move. You didn’t stop him.

Except—"Bangchan," you called sharply, almost involuntarily.

He froze, half-out the door.

When he turned back, there was a flash of hope in his eyes, quick and raw.

You crushed it without mercy.

You threw his jacket at him, hard enough that it hit his chest with a dull slap. He caught it reflexively, stunned.

"There," you said, your voice brittle and shaking. "Go save the charts or whatever."

Bangchan’s face darkened. His jaw flexed hard enough to crack. But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t beg. Didn’t stay.

He just yanked the jacket on stiffly, avoiding your gaze, and left, the door clicking shut with a finality that made your stomach twist.

You stood there long after he was gone, feeling hollow and breakable and so, so stupid for still loving the sound of his stupid footsteps fading away.

You had sworn you’d stay in this weekend — locked away with bad TV and worse wine — but then Jisung, being Jisung, practically collapsed at your feet, begging you to come to a party some friend of his was throwing.

Apparently, the guy was rich, bored, and had a habit of throwing the kind of parties that made people lose entire weekends without noticing.

On one hand, it sounded like the perfect distraction. On the other, it meant risking running into the headache you were currently trying to scrub out of your system: Bangchan.

After the last fight, he'd gone radio silent. No texts. No late-night calls. No nothing. And, really, that was for the best.

If he wasn't reaching for you, it made it easier not to reach back.

You chose violence anyway — or at least the fashion equivalent — sliding into a rose-gold slip dress so decadent it felt illegal. Fendi and Versace had stitched the thing like they wanted you arrested. Paired with heels sharp enough to commit crimes and a final swipe of lipstick, you were ready to forget him, even if it was only for a few hours.

Jisung pulled up, grinning like he'd just pulled off the heist of the century. Almost on time. Almost.

The second you stepped out in front of the mansion — all cold marble and warm bodies packed inside — Jisung shifted nervously beside you.

"I should probably tell you something," he said, his voice too light, too innocent.

You gave him a flat look, elbowing him hard enough to make him grunt. "Spit it out, Han."

He winced, hands raised in surrender. "Bangchan... might be here. Maybe. Possibly. Almost definitely."

You stared at him for a beat, then shrugged, hooking your arm through his.

"Relax, Ji. I came here for you," you said, flashing a grin that maybe even you didn’t fully believe. "I’m going to have fun. With or without him."

Jisung exhaled like he'd just narrowly avoided death by your hand. And maybe he had.

The interior of the house was obscene in the best way: sleek, brutalist luxury. An infinity pool glittered beyond the glass walls, champagne flowed like water, and waiters glided around balancing trays stacked with cocktails too pretty to drink.

A guy passed by offering glasses of something pale pink with tiny flowers floating inside. You plucked two without hesitation. "Fancy," you muttered, raising a brow at Jisung, who just laughed and stole one from your hand.

The party belonged to some entertainment mogul — the kind of man who collected artists the way other people collected cars — and, apparently, he was old friends with Jisung, Changbin, and your ex.

Music production royalty. Big names. Bigger egos.

Wading into the crowd was like slipping into warm water: bodies pressed together, laughter sticky in the air. You felt it immediately — the stares. The second skin your dress had become. It clung in all the right places, caught the light like it was made to worship you.

You moved through the room like a knife through silk, cruelly aware of the way heads turned, conversations stuttered.

The music was loud, a beat that pulsed in your bones. You danced with Jisung, spinning, laughing too loudly. Letting the thrum of the night drown out the creeping awareness settling at the back of your neck.

Of course he was here. And of course you saw him.

You didn’t even have to look hard; his presence was magnetic — or maybe it was just the fact that you could feel his stare burning into your skin.

Leaning against the table like he had every right to be the center of the universe. Black long-sleeve shirt clinging to the brutal cut of his muscles, like sin wrapped in cotton. Chains glinting at his throat, sliding obscenely down the line of his leather pants.

It should have been illegal to look that good in anything. It should have been illegal to look at you the way he was looking at you.

And when your paths crossed — when you drifted closer on the tide of the crowd — his gaze sharpened, darkened, locked onto you with a slow-burning intensity that made your spine straighten involuntarily.

It took every ounce of your willpower not to react. Because you knew that look. You knew what it meant when Bangchan looked at you like that.

And it wasn’t fair.

Not when you knew damn well that dress — that very dress — had once been a gift from him. A whispered promise wrapped in silk. A secret only the two of you shared, stitched invisibly into every thread.

You could feel him watching you — his stare carving a path along your skin — but you refused to meet his eyes.

Instead, you let your gaze skim over every other face in the circle. Everyone but him.

“Ji," you purred, tipping your head toward him, "aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” The sweetness in your voice was pure venom, and you knew it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Bangchan's hand tightening around his glass. So tight the blood drained from his knuckles.

Changbin you already knew — he greeted you with a familiar grin — but the others were new: “Wooyoung, Yeonjun, Hongjoong,” Jisung rattled off, and each offered you a hand and a polite smile.

Musicians, all of them. Some of their biggest tracks? Produced by 3RACHA. Produced by him. Not that you spared him so much as a glance.

Bangchan stood there, rigid and simmering, a silent storm cloud just beyond the conversation. Acknowledging you only in the sharp way his jaw flexed. The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

You could almost hear the accusations unsaid: How dare you wear that dress. How dare you parade yourself around like that. How dare you pretend he wasn't standing right there — burning for you.

You tilted your glass back and drained the last of your drink with a careless shrug.

“I’m grabbing another,” you announced, lifting the empty glass between two fingers like it was something disposable. “Ji, want one?”

Jisung shook his head, distracted by something someone said.

You turned on your heel without waiting for an answer, feeling the hem of your dress flutter like a taunt around your thighs. You knew the way the fabric shifted when you moved. You knew exactly what you looked like walking away.

And you knew exactly who was watching you — fists clenched, jaw locked, fighting the losing battle not to follow.

You ordered a Sex on the Beach and leaned casually against the bar, tapping your manicured nails against the counter. The party roared around you — glittering, chaotic — and you welcomed the momentary lull.

That was when someone appeared. Leaning against the glass with the lazy confidence of a man who thought he had a shot.

"You here alone?" he asked, eyes skating over you without a shred of subtlety.

You tilted your head, lashes brushing your cheekbone in a mockery of innocence. "Why?”

"Would be a crime if you were." He smiled — all teeth and ego — and even had the audacity to bite his bottom lip.

You almost laughed.

He was textbook: handsome in that obvious, forgettable way. The kind of man who thought every pretty girl at a bar was just waiting for him.

The bartender slid your drink over. You took a slow sip before answering, savoring the citrusy burn. "Oh, yeah?"

"I could make your night a hell of a lot better," he said, stepping closer, his voice low. "If you come dance with me."

You barely smothered a smirk. Empty promises rolled so easily off their tongues, didn’t they?

"Then show me," you said, voice syrupy sweet, slipping your hand into his outstretched one.

He led you toward the dance floor, weaving through bodies under the pulse of strobe lights and pounding bass. The air thickened with sweat, perfume, and something wilder.

In the crush of the crowd, he planted a heavy hand on your shoulder, sliding it boldly — too boldly — down your spine to your waist. Guiding you into the rhythm like he owned you.

You let him. For a moment.

The music throbbed through you, rattling your bones. You moved your hips, eyelids fluttering shut, letting yourself drown in the beat — in the slippery feeling of rebellion and defiance.

Behind you, he pressed closer. His hands skimmed down the backs of your thighs, fingers hooking under the hem of your tiny dress, tugging it higher without shame.

Your jaw tightened.

You caught the stranger’s wrists mid-climb, dragging his hands back to rest just above your waist — a silent warning. You didn’t know what game he thought he was playing, but you weren’t about to be the pawn.

Another song bled into the air — a pounding, bass-heavy beat — and you let yourself sway lazily against him, pretending you didn’t feel the way he tried, and failed, to take control. 

It was cute, really. Men always thought they were the hunters.

After a few more minutes of indulging his wandering hands, you turned around, flashing a sugar-sweet smile that didn’t even reach your eyes.

"I really need to go to the bathroom," you purred, lips grazing the shell of his ear.

He grinned, clueless. "It’s okay, babe. I’ll be right here."

You gave him one last pitying look — poor thing — and slipped into the crowd, knowing damn well he’d never see you again if the universe had any mercy.

Bodies pressed around you, glittering, sweating, shouting. You ducked and weaved, humming under your breath to the song vibrating through the walls — Guess by Charli XCX — your hips still carrying the ghost of the dance.

The mansion was a maze of glass staircases and too many doors. People were tucked into dark corners, mouths on mouths, hands lost in hair, slipping into rooms to do things better left unspoken.

Finally, you spotted salvation — a guy stumbling out of a door, belt half-buckled. Bathroom.

You moved fast, fingers curling around the handle — only for a much larger hand to slam the door wide open, forcing you back inside with a jolt.

You barely spun on your heels before a wall of heat and muscle cornered you, the door clicking shut with a deliberate, dangerous finality.

His chest rose and fell like he’d sprinted through hell to get to you. His jaw was locked tight enough to crack, and those dark eyes…

You knew that look. You knew it too well.

Anger. Lust. Hunger.

The kind that never asked permission. The kind that didn’t need to.

He took a step forward — and the bathroom shrank into something much too small for the two of you.

"You think you're fucking funny, huh?" His tongue poked his cheek, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way your stomach gave a traitorous flip. "Not in the mood for your little games tonight."

"Don't fuck with me, princess." His voice dropped, low, gravelly — as he crowded you against the marble sink. 

You had to lean back, your ass brushing the cold counter, because there was nowhere else to go.

"I didn't do anything," you shot back, biting the inside of your cheek to hold your nerve. "You're imagining shit."

He let out a humorless laugh, the sound scraping low in his throat. "Yeah? You didn't let that asshole put his hands all over you in my fucking dress just to get under my skin?"

Touché.

Maybe you had. Maybe you wanted him to burn. To suffer the way you had. Maybe you were desperate enough to crave this — the anger, the jealousy, the way it made his whole body vibrate with restraint.

Bangchan shook his head slowly, a wicked glint in his eyes.

"I always knew you were a little fucking attention whore, but this?" His gaze dragged down your body like a physical touch. "Dressed like a wet dream and acting like you're not desperate to be caught."

His mouth ghosted over yours — not a kiss, just a threat of one — and your fingers dug into the cold edge of the sink so hard they ached.

"What part of we're not together anymore you don’t fucking get?" you hissed, hating the way your voice cracked at the edges, giving you away.

Bangchan’s smirk deepened — like he knew exactly how close you were to losing it. Like he was savoring it.

And God help you, if he came even a breath closer, you would do something reckless and ruinous, like drag his mouth down onto yours, like admit that you were still starving for him.

As if he could read every filthy thought running wild through your head, his fingers brushed the hem of your dress, just skimming the bare skin of your thigh. Your breath caught — your whole body betraying you in a single, shivering heartbeat.

You squeezed your eyes shut for half a second, as if that would save you from the avalanche rolling through your veins. One month without him, and his touch still had you crumbling like a fucking amateur.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice dark silk as he pressed closer — chest to chest, heat to heat — the hard line of his body trapping you against the marble. His hand slid higher, fingers grazing your inner thigh now, so close it made your hips tilt on instinct. "Fucking glowing." The praise was venomous, devouring.

"You’re dripping for me, aren’t you?" His lips brushed the shell of your ear, almost tender, almost cruel.

"You think I'm gonna let you walk around like that—" his fingers inched up, grazing the thin, soaked scrap of your panties, "—let some other asshole touch what’s fucking mine?"

His hand flexed against you like he wanted to tear you apart.

Your cheeks burned, your body burned — your thighs, your stomach, your ribs — everything thrumming with desperate, unbearable heat.

And worst of all,  you were wet. God, you were soaked for him.

He could probably feel it without even sliding his fingers under.

You hated it. You hated him for knowing it. You hated yourself for wanting him to ruin you all over again.

You wanted him brutal. You wanted him careless. You wanted him to use you until you forgot your own name. But somewhere, buried deep under the throb of your pulse, that thin, pitiful thread of reality was still whispering:

You’re not his anymore.

He kissed you — but it wasn’t a kiss you were ready for. It was brutal, a quick, greedy clash of mouths that stole the breath from your lungs.

By the time you tried to react, he’d already pulled back, staring down at you with eyes so dark they barely looked human.

"I won't do anything you don't want," he said, voice dropping low, a threat wrapped in a promise.

Meanwhile, his hand dragged upward, maddeningly slow, fingertips grazing the inside of your thigh like he had all the time in the goddamn world. He ghosted over the thin barrier of your panties — a brush, a tease, not enough, never enough — and the pressure made your knees weaken.

His fingers barely pressed against you, just enough to make you ache harder, just enough to make you silently beg.

"Tell me to stop," he said, fingers still tormenting the edges of your sanity. "Come on, angel. Open your pretty mouth."

You couldn't. You couldn’t even think straight, not when he was touching you like that, not when your body was trembling with how badly you needed him.

It wasn’t fair — how he could burn through you with nothing but a touch.

He stilled his hand purposely, the absence of movement so punishing it made your stomach drop.

"I need to fucking hear it," he growled, forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged.

Your voice broke on the first attempt, your throat so dry it hurt. Finally, you swallowed hard and forced the word out. “No.”

The second it left your mouth, something snapped in him — like you had given him the keys to every dark, filthy thing he'd been holding back.

His mouth twisted in a smile that wasn’t kind at all — it was wicked, ruined. His pupils were so blown out, he looked possessed.

"Turn around," he ordered, voice sharp enough to cut.

Your body obeyed before your brain could even catch up. You turned to face the mirror, your hands gripping the edge of the marble sink like it was the only thing keeping you standing. The reflection was obscene — your face flushed, your pupils wide, your body vibrating with want.

And behind you — him — towering, overwhelming, the black of his clothes a stark contrast to the mess he was about to make out of you.

He shoved your back down with a firm hand, bending you over until the marble sink disappeared from view and all you could see was the cold, impersonal wall. Your ass lifted automatically, desperate to meet him, and Bangchan let out a sharp breath between his teeth at the sight.

“Fuck, princess.” His voice was rough, shredded with want as he shoved your dress higher, bunching the delicate fabric around your waist.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging hard into your flesh like he could brand you with them. He rubbed a slow, dirty circle over your panties, right where you were soaked for him.

“I missed this pretty little pussy,” he muttered, almost to himself, almost reverent.

You moaned under his touch, your whole body vibrating with the filthy thrill of being manhandled like this — like you were something he owned.

Bangchan smiled against your skin, because it was exactly what he wanted — your surrender, your desperate little sounds.

You gasped when he pressed his body against you, his erection thick and straining against the rough line of his pants. You couldn't help it — you pushed your hips back, chasing the friction, needing more, needing everything.

He bent low against you, lips brushing your ear as he ran two fingers slowly, maddeningly, along your lips. The fabric of your panties clung wetly to your folds, making the sensation almost unbearable.

“Suck them," he ordered, voice low and wrecked. "Make them nice and wet for me."

You let out a shaky breath, the filth of it lighting your nerves on fire. You twisted enough to meet his hand, parting your lips and taking his fingers into your mouth without hesitation. 

The second you did, Bangchan groaned — a raw, broken sound that made your thighs clench.

You wrapped your tongue around his fingers, licking slow and deep, dragging your mouth up and down them like you would if it were his cock. You sucked, sloppily, tasting yourself faintly on your own tongue.

Bangchan watched you with hooded eyes, his breathing heavy, his whole body coiled tight.

"Good girl," he praised, voice dripping with satisfaction. The words hit you harder than they should have, sending a fresh ache between your legs.

He pulled his fingers from your mouth with a slow, wet pop — a thin string of saliva stretching between them — and he smirked, absolutely wrecked by the sight of you.

The sight of you like this — desperate, obedient, filthy — was dangerous. Because all he wanted now was to fuck you so hard you'd forget your own name, until you were nothing but pretty, broken noises under his hands.

"Hold the sink," he commanded, voice low and dangerous. You spread your fingers along the cold marble, bracing yourself, every nerve in your body screaming for him to just touch you already.

Bangchan stepped closer, breathing heavily through his nose.

With a rough tug, he pulled your panties down, exposing you completely — slick, glistening, dripping for him. The second he saw you like that, he swore under his breath, his cock pressing harder against him like it physically hurt to wait.

He dragged two fingers slowly through your folds, gathering the wetness, coating his skin in you. You let out a breathy, involuntary moan, your hips twitching at even that minimal contact.

He watched, obsessed, as your body reacted to him, so easy, so natural — like you were made for this, made for him.

Three fingers circled your clit in a slow, maddening rhythm. You bit down on your lip, trying to muffle the desperate whine building in your throat.

It was useless. You squirmed under his hand, hips jerking against his teasing strokes, shamelessly greedy for more.

Bangchan laughed — low and cruel and possessive. "I'll show you who this greedy little pussy belongs to," he promised darkly.

Without warning, he slid two fingers deep inside you, filling you with a brutal, perfect stretch that tore a hoarse moan from your lips. Your knees buckled, the shock of it nearly sending you collapsing onto the sink.

On instinct, your hand shot up to cover your mouth, but Bangchan was faster.

He yanked his fingers free, leaving you clenching around nothing. Your head snapped up in frustration, but he was already growling in your ear:

"Hands on the fucking sink. Be a good girl and take it."

You barely managed a whimper of compliance. Trembling, aching, you placed both palms flat against the cold marble again, desperate to behave if it meant he'd touch you again.

Satisfied, Bangchan plunged his fingers back inside you — deeper this time, rougher. Your whole body jolted at the sudden invasion, a broken cry ripping from your throat.

He crooked his fingers ruthlessly, zeroing in on that perfect, devastating spot he knew too well.

You sobbed his name, helpless, lost to the overwhelming pleasure. Bangchan leaned closer, his chest flush against your back, murmuring filth against your ear while he fucked his fingers into you like he never planned to stop.

He knew your body better than anyone ever had. And tonight, he was going to make damn sure you remembered exactly who you belonged to.

"Want me to fuck your pretty pussy with my hand?" His voice dripped mockery, even as he thrust shallowly, barely letting you feel the stretch before pulling back again.

You moaned, your body shuddering against the marble. But it wasn’t enough. Not even close.

"Say please," he demanded, slowing his movements to a cruel, torturous crawl.

You gritted your teeth, rage flaring hot inside you. This was a punishment — and you both knew you deserved it.

Still, when he stilled his hand completely, your pride crumbled like sand.

"Fuck. Please." You whimpered, the word breaking out of you, raw and desperate. "Please, please, fuck me."

Bangchan muttered something under his breath — a filthy prayer or a curse, you couldn’t tell — before he slammed his fingers back inside you, hard and deep. You sobbed, the sound guttural, ripped straight from your chest.

He set a brutal pace, fingers pumping in and out of you, making a messy, obscene noise every time he bottomed out inside your dripping heat. 

It was filthy. It was everything you needed.

"More," you gasped, hips chasing every thrust shamelessly. "I need more."

He groaned low, a sound almost pained. "Fuck, princess. You're too greedy."

And then, without warning, he shoved two more fingers alongside the first — stuffing you so full you thought you might snap. Your body seized, a broken scream caught in your throat. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming stretch, the ache, the impossible fullness.

Bangchan didn’t give you a second to adjust. He moved slow at first, deep, devastating strokes that made you feel every inch of his hand inside you. You whined his name, nonsense spilling from your lips, your hips rolling uncontrollably against him, desperate for more.

"Stay the fuck still," he growled, pressing a heavy hand between your shoulder blades, forcing you down against the sink. You whimpered under his weight, blinking away the tears threatening to fall.

He shifted his stance, muscles flexing — and then he started fucking you fast, reckless, fingers slamming into you at a brutal pace that left you gasping, clenching around him, chasing an orgasm that was already boiling over inside you.

Your toes curled against the floor. That fire built and built in your belly, spreading up your spine until you were teetering right at the edge He didn’t let up for a second. Bangchan drove his fingers into you brutally, mercilessly, the slick, wet sounds of your body devouring every thrust filling the bathroom like music.

You were swollen, red, and trembling uncontrollably. Every nerve ending screamed with overstimulation, but the way he pressed you down — completely at his mercy — only made it filthier, made the pleasure spiral harder, darker, sweeter.

"Fuck," he groaned, voice rasping with something feral. "Look at how you take my fingers."

He leaned closer, tongue darting out over his lips, starving for the sight of you wrecked and desperate for him.

"I—I can't anymore—" you choked out, voice cracking in a whimper. "Chan!"

His hand moved faster, the thrusts deeper, knuckles brushing obscene against your insides.

"Are you gonna cum for me, princess?" he taunted, rough and low against your ear. "Show me. Show me who this greedy pussy belongs to. Cum for me."

It was a command you couldn’t disobey.

Like a snapped wire, your orgasm hit you so violently that your whole body jolted forward. Bangchan ripped his fingers free at the exact moment, flattening his hand against your clit and rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves with the heel of his palm. 

The sensation tore a scream from your throat, your vision whiting out.

He wrapped one thick arm around your waist, holding you upright while you convulsed, grinding his palm against your throbbing clit, prolonging every brutal, ecstatic wave of pleasure. You sobbed against the cold marble sink, tears streaming hot and fast down your cheeks.

"Look at yourself," he snarled, voice thick with pride and hunger. "Look at you when you cum for me. All fucked out. Mine."

His hand moved up, gripping your chin roughly, forcing your gaze to the mirror. What you saw made your knees almost give out: Your face flushed, wet with tears, mouth slack in a helpless moan.

Behind you, Bangchan looked like a fucking monster — wild-eyed, hair a mess, his body pressed possessively against yours.

And when your cum spilled down your thighs in thick, shining streams, soaking his hand, his grin was wolfish.

"That's it," he growled, dragging his wet fingers slowly over your skin, smearing the mess across your trembling thighs. "My girl. So fucking good to me."

You slumped back against his chest, your head dropping onto his broad shoulder, boneless and ruined. Bangchan stroked your waist like you were his prized possession, tracing the outline of your body with greedy, adoring hands.

"Taste it," he murmured against your temple, voice gentler now, darkly satisfied. "This is how good you’re, baby."

He shoved two fingers between your lips, pressing them flat against your tongue. You accepted them greedily, wrapping your mouth around him without a second thought.

Because deep down — as much as you tried to deny it — you belonged to him in ways that you couldn’t undo.

Bangchan stared at you like he was starving, his eyes black with lust, devouring the sight of you so eager to please him. His thumb dragged lazily across your bottom lip, smearing your gloss, leaving a wet, messy sheen all over your mouth like a mark he wanted the world to see.

For a split, torturous second, you thought he was going to kiss you.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your body tilting toward him instinctively, aching to feel his mouth against yours. One simple touch that would have undone you completely.

But he pulled away at the last second.

It was like being doused in ice water. The heat between you evaporated instantly, leaving a hollow ache behind.

You stumbled back, spine hitting the cold bathroom wall, every part of you trembling — not from pleasure now, but from something colder, crueler.

He stood there for a long, agonizing moment, his face carved into something unreadable, chest heaving like he was still fighting himself.

Then he said, voice hoarse and brutal, "Better clean yourself up, princess. You're a fucking mess."

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel, unlocked the door, and vanished into the pounding music and flashing lights beyond.

You were left alone, the door swinging half-shut, the air around you still heavy with the smell of sex and sweat. Staring at your ruined reflection — lipstick smeared, cheeks wet, eyes hollow — you barely recognized the girl looking back.

Destroyed. Empty.

Still aching for a man who had just reminded you exactly how much power he still held over you.

PART TWO TOMORROw!

[hellsquills]

Unknown Scars

A small drabble about the Stan twins at sea and hidden memories. No trigger warnings for this one, other than the mention of scars. There'll probably be a second part too. Thank you so much to @babyblankyerror for encouraging me to post this <3 Enjoy!

⪻ ⪻ ⪻ ⨳ ⪼ ⪼ ⪼

There’re a few scars that Stanley doesn't remember getting after the memory wipe.

It makes sense, of course, but it is a reminder of the parts of his life that he's missing. Part of him tries to convince himself that it's better this way; the last one he remembered was the one at the base of his left foot, and boy that memory sucked. He could've gone the rest of his days without ever feeling that glass again.

However, these remain a mystery. Ford asked him about them as soon as he saw them, worried about their size. Stanley simply made a joke, as he usually did whenever he found it difficult to talk about something. Seeing Ford's expression, Stan shrugged and admitted that he had no clue.

Obviously, that didn't stop his hypochondriac twin from writing down every single detail about them. Stan wasn't happy about it, but obliged, probably because he knew Stanford would otherwise interrogate him relentlessly. In his new journal, next to their encounters in the last months at sea and some sticky notes courtesy of Stan, there was a page dedicated to their injuries, a way to keep track of the damage the creatures (or the stove, in Ford's case) had dealt them. The new text read:

March 14th, 2013

I have discovered some new scars on Stanley's body, although they are not the product of any recent altercation. He has not regained that memory yet, which is most definitely worrying: his worst ones are those that take longer to come back, as I have been noticing lately. If I had to guess, I would assume they belong to his decade away from home; this part of his mind is still locked away somewhere in his mindscape, and I’m fairly certain that it is more than just the effects of the memory gun.

They are located on both sides of his torso: two sets of semi-even parallel lines over his ribs. On each set, the upper scar is around six inches below the armpit, and the remaining two are three inches apart from each other. What concerns me about these scars in particular is their size: they are about eight inches long, horizontal, not straight but parallel between them. Their even distribution leads me to believe that each set was done at the same time, probably with a sharp object with three blades, like a trident of some sort. I have yet to figure out what could’ve caused such strange markings. Stanley said he shouldn’t have gotten involved with Wolverine during his 20s, quote “he didn’t take it well when I told him we should break up”. As stupid as the joke might’ve been, it made me think about the possibility of some animal-like creature being the culprit of the scars. However, as I said before, it is highly unlikely that Stanley encountered supernatural creatures before arriving in Gravity Falls, whether he remembers it or not. Therefore, I believe it is more plausible that whatever happened occurred before we reunited the first time.

The “animal” theory would make sense, if it weren’t for the way the scars look. They are nothing like some of the others I’ve previously seen on him. The first one that comes to mind whose size resembles these new ones is the one above his left kidney– or rather, where his left kidney used to be. It is a long and poorly healed line that, even 30 years later, still looks like it was heavily infected, forcefully done and clumsily stitched back together, probably several times. These new, unknown scars are completely different: they're roughly the same color as the rest of his skin, which usually means it wasn’t a deep cut, but they have a slight relief, which means that it was. They don’t have any noticeable stitch signs, even though cuts this big would almost definitely need them, and judging by some other scars on his body, I doubt he ever managed to get suture thread and/or staples. Although wobbly, they look neatly done, which makes me skeptical to believe it was some vicious animal.

The nature of these scars remains a mystery for the time being. Even though I would like to ask him more questions until we figure it out, I don’t want to force him to remember something that his brain is obviously trying to lock away. I will keep my inquiries at bay. In the meantime, I will do some research to at least figure out what the weapon was.

⪻ ⪻ ⪻ ⨳ ⪼ ⪼ ⪼

It's a rough night for the Pines twins. Ford's latest research had led them further from land that they had expected, and it was too late to turn back. Now they are right in the middle of a storm, a pretty wild one at that.

Both men are doing their best to keep their ship afloat. Even though the boat is resilient, the waves are slamming hard against its side and crashing onto the deck, making it almost impossible to stand straight.

"There's no reason for a storm of this size to have formed in such a short time! There must be some sort of climate irregularities of supernatural ilk, otherwise–”

"Sixer, does it look like the time right now?!" Stan's voice roars over the storm, cutting his brother's train of thought. He cannot afford to have Ford distracted. "Go downstairs and get the life jackets, now!"

"Are you insane? I cannot leave you here by yourself, the boom is too heavy!"

"Well you better hurry the fuck up, then!"

"Stanley, you can't handle this on your own, if a bigger wave hits it'll—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GET THE LIFE JACKETS!" Stan's voice is now impossibly louder, and desperate. "If I let go, the boat will overturn. If you stay, we'll both die out here. Get the damn jackets before the big wave hits, now!"

Stanford is quick to puff his cheeks in annoyance, but as stubborn as he is, he's not an idiot. He runs to the cabin, rushing downstairs to get the only thing that might keep them alive in case the sea decides to eat their boat for dinner. As he reaches their bedroom, lightning crosses the sky outside their window, and he makes out the shape of the life jackets, their color heightened by the sudden light. He quickly puts on his own, damp hands shaking with cold, and makes his way out of the room.

He barely has time to process where he is when the boat shakes, almost as if it had collided with another at an intersection. The crash is so brutal that it sends him almost flying against the opposite wall, falling to the ground unceremoniously. Thankfully, the cabin has a good few layers to protect the ship from impacts like this, so he isn't too worried about the hull.

The exterior will be fine. What won't be is whatever is on it.

Ford's vision goes tunnel in an instant. That was the Big Wave, and it was hard enough to make him lose his usually impeccable balance. But Stan isn't as agile, and he's outside, on his own, and without a life jacket.

He's out of the cabin in a matter of seconds, although in his mind it might as well have been hours. His eyes scan the deck, finding only a pool of water covering it and some broken boxes they didn't manage to put away in time, as well as Stan's fishing chair stuck in a corner.

STANLEY. WHERE. SEARCH. NOW

His mind, usually as eloquent as his speech, is now screaming the words he can’t manage to get past his throat. Another bolt lights up the night, and Ford can clearly see everything for a few moments.

Everything and nothing. His brother is not on the deck.

STANLEY. WHERE. WHERE

Stanley was holding the rope when he left, making sure the sail wouldn’t turn around and disrupt the ship’s balance— or worse, break the mast with its weight. Ford’s eyes follow the mast, then the boom, then the rope Stan was gripping. He stares at the spot he was at, noticing that the rope is now securely tied around a cleat. No trace of his brother.

WHERE. STANLEY

Ford’s ears are starting to ring from how hard his jaw is clenched. He walks around the deck, checking every single corner behind the cabin, the only place that was out of his view when he exited. Stan is nowhere to be seen.

NOWHERE. WHERE. NO

With his right hand still firmly gripping his twin’s jacket, Ford makes his way to the gunwale and looks around the water. The boat isn’t shaking as violently as before now that the sail is tied in place, but the waves haven’t stopped hitting the hull the whole time. His eyes stare at the infinite mass of water in front of him, which now resembles more a deadly trap than the freeing space they both have loved since childhood.

He wants to shout his brother’s name, but the screaming words in his mind can’t seem to make their way to his vocal cords. Instead, all he manages to emit is a sort of roar that emerges from his guts. It isn’t entirely animalistic, but it definitely isn’t human either. His vision is getting blurry, and he quickly wipes his eyes. There’s no hint of Stan anywhere, the waves making it impossible to discern any shapes on the surface.

GIVE HIM BACK

The smallest voice at the back of his head, the only remnant of his non-wild persona, keeps him from jumping overboard and swimming until he finds Stan. It would be useless; the waves don’t appear to be slowing down any further, and the water would be too turbid to see anything regardless. Besides, even though they’re not far from the equator and it’s spring, the water might still be cold enough to provoke hypothermia if exposed to it for too long. The risk is too high.

A bright red spot appears on top of the next wave. Stanley’s beanie.

Ford’s inside voice stays complicitly quiet as the man jumps overboard.

To be continued...

[linartblogs]

First, thank you very much for your response ! Also, I apologize for any mistakes, I'm not a native speaker, but I'll try to map out my thoughts as well as I can ! Also, for anyone reading, spoilers ahead for s6 (El Toro de Piedra).

On the Adrien = love thing, I see what you mean, I guess I just tend to ignore certain messages the show seems to push and interpret some things my own way (keeps me sane). s1-s5 already made me so skeptical about Adrien's parents, but s6 is just making them look worse to me, especially Gabriel. Him being involved with the cult they introduced in s6 (idk if you're caught up with that) makes me go "yeah no that guy was still weird even before his wife's death ? And she's maybe on it too ? They both wanted to reform the world ?" or maybe that was after Emilie's death who knoooows.

I guess a reasonable "fanon" interpretation of Emilie and Gabriel would be that while they DID love Adrien, they're still shitty, self-centered people and parents who always projected their own dreams/wants onto their kid, whom they wish to shape into the perfect little man. However, near her death, Emilie seemed to have semi gained some self awareness which is why, in her final moments, she tells Nathalie to change Gabriel's mind and to let Adrien choose who he wants to be. Idc if the show wants me to think that she was a good mom, but to me that seems to indicate that she only had a change of heart towards the end. So she was somewhat controlling at first, but finally understood that she could not mold Adrien into just who she wanted him to be. I guess making her a semi decent mom is a more interesting thing. It also makes her a more complex, realistic character.

So, maybe Adrien is made of multiple complex emotions : His parent's love, his mom's desire for freedom as you said, but also her desire for him to be a "better" version than her, destined for bigger, great things (to go with that theme of her projecting onto her kid). So I see him breaking free from Gabriel's control as a first step, which gets him some extra power, like shielding the ones he loves since he's so attached to his identity as a super hero ? Make him go like, marie-sue style and face off his dad in the finale ? Well, at least it has to be impactful to signify his emancipation from his father's control.

Felix being a copycat makes a lot of sense to me, I think he's naturally a genius (was made that way), which is why he is skilled at so many things. But him being a shape-shifter would add to his manipulator aspect a lot.

As for Kagami, truthfully I'd love for the show to release more information about her or her mom, since we don't even understand fully Tomoe's motivation, or even who actually made Kagami. Her father maybe, since he seems to be absent ?

Globally, Miraculous is a real mess to rewrite, because you have the sort out a looot of stuff. They have so many good ideas but they always execute them poorly or drop something right after being on the good track. I still think it's entertaining, and they seem to be fixing some stuff in s6 although it's a bit late lol.

Sentimonsters are beings made from a single emotion and Adrien's emotion is heavily implied to be love. Sentimonsters can also have any random power the writers decide to give them and have been established to sometimes get powers their creators didn't intend (see Feast). That is the ultimate setup to use the power of love to empower Adrien and yet the show gives us nothing.

(See power of love rant for more)

[sysig]

Justify away (Patreon)

[blacksapphirecookies]

ᴡᴀʀᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ

^᪲ ⁞ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ : ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ ᴍɪʟᴋ ᴄᴏᴏᴋɪᴇ / ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴛʀᴜᴛʜʟᴇꜱꜱ ʀᴇᴄʟᴜꜱᴇ / ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ ᴍɪʟᴋ ᴄᴏᴏᴋɪᴇ / ᴛʀᴜᴛʜʟᴇꜱꜱ ʀᴇᴄʟᴜꜱᴇ

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ : ᴏɴᴇꜱʜᴏᴛ / ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ : ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏɴᴠɪɴᴄᴇ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴏᴋɪᴇ'ꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴄᴇɪᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ. . . ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜱᴏᴜʟᴊᴀᴍꜱ ᴛʜᴀɴ ɴᴏʀᴍᴀʟ.

ᴏᴠᴇʀᴠɪᴇᴡ : ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ᴅᴏᴍɪɴᴀᴛᴇ / ᴛᴏᴘ ꜱᴍᴄ, ʙᴏᴛᴛᴏᴍ / ꜱᴡɪᴛᴄʜ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜʟᴇꜱꜱ ʀᴇᴄʟᴜꜱᴇ, ʀɪᴅɪɴɢ, ꜱᴏᴜʟᴊᴀᴍ ᴘʟᴀʏ ( ? ), ʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴏᴜʟᴊᴀᴍ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅᴇɢʀᴀᴅᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ɴᴇᴜᴛʀᴀʟ

ᴀ / ɴ : ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛꜱ... ɪ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴇᴛᴇʀɴᴀʟ ꜱᴜɢᴀʀ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴏᴜᴛ... ɪ'ʟʟ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ.. ʟᴏꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴏᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ, ᴍʙ. ᴍᴅɴɪ, ꜱᴏʀʀʏ !

You had both of the men on their knees on the mattress in front of you, with one of them looking a bit more intrigued by the idea than the other.

The faint hum of their soul jams was the only sound that broke the silence in the room, and you let your eyes wander over the pair of them, taking in the keen glow that emitted from the fragile gem.

It was just so.. beautiful. And they were letting you touch them?

Letting you take their most prized possession in the palm of your hands? You still had a hard time wrapping your head around it, but the eager look on Shadow Milk and Truthless Recluses' faces gave you the confidence that you needed to go through with this.

Before you could actually touch the souljam, a low chuckle came out of the Beast of Deceit, causing you to look down at him- only making him grin in return.

" You going to get on with it already? It won't bite. " he said, a small pout appearing on his face as if he was the one waiting to get the attention he needed. Just as second ago, he seemed extremely excited for you to touch his souljam - but now, his impatience was showing.

Truthless Recluse only rolled his eyes, letting out a sigh before turning his attention back towards you. His darkened bicolored eyes held a sense of comfort, something he always managed to do, even with the slightest movements or actions.

" Please don't mind him, darling. Go ahead and do what you wish, I trust you with it. " the other Cookie of Deceit's voice was a lot softer than his partner's, which made your heart skip a beat. It was moments like these where you loved the two of them the most, even if you wouldn't dare admit it out loud.

" You could even choose me first if that would make you feel more comfortable, although I'm sure he would beg to differ." Truthless Recluse's comment got a reaction out of the other cookie, who was glaring at him at the moment.

" Hm. . I guess we could, but it would be a lot better if we did it together. Besides, I've been wanting to get my hands on the two of them since. . well, a while." the words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop yourself, and a red flush crept up your cheeks.

Your words didn't mean to come out that blunt whatsoever. It seemed like the air had tensed in the room, and you opened your mouth to explain yourself - only for Shadow Milk to let out a snort and interrupt you.

" I think we all know that, princess, " he commented, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. " I've seen the way you've looked at us before, so don't be embarrassed. In fact, why don't you tell us what you want, hm? What were you dreaming about when you had those looks on your face? When you couldn't even take your eyes off us? "

He had moved closer, and his lips were now inches away from your own, his dual-toned blue eyes glimmering with a hint of hunger. Your gaze drifted from him and back to the other man, whose heterochromia eyes seemed to be watching your every movement.

Truthless Recluse let out a sigh, before scooting closer towards the two of you, his eyes narrowing. " If I recall correctly, I was the one who offered to let her have my souljam first. " he said, the tone in his voice coming off a bit stern.

Shadow Milk clicked his tongue, turning to look at his partner. " Ah, come on. She didn't answer the question, " he complained, before glancing back at you, the smirk on his face returning once more.

" Well? Are you going to keep us waiting? " he asked, raising an eyebrow, a teasing smile being prominent on his face.

Harsh, ragged breaths escaped Truthless's parted lips, his mind hazy as he felt the rough pace Shadow Milk had set. You sat in front of him, your fingers tracing his jawline, and the look in your eyes told him that you wanted to hear him.

But it was nearly impossible for him to do so, his mind completely blank and his mouth hanging open as his moans and whines slipped out.

He couldn't focus on anything else but the pleasure that racked his body, and the feeling of the other man's cock thrusting inside of him.

Your tongue darted out of your mouth, licking your lips before you leaned down, the darkened souljam slightly glowing brighter with anticipation.

A shudder ran through his body as your tongue lapped over the smooth surface, the warmth of your mouth overwhelming his senses.

" Haa.. hah, please. . " he managed to choke out, the feeling of his orgasm building up quickly. His hips bucked forward, the sensation almost too much for him to bear.

Shadow Milk smirked, his movements quickening, the sound of his thrusts echoing throughout the room. His hand came down, fingers grasping his jaw, and the other man whimpered, the sound making the Beast's stomach coil.

" You look so pretty like this, y'know. . " he said, his voice dripping with arousal. " I could fuck you until I couldn't anymore. Maybe I'll make a mess out of you. Would you like that, Vanilly? "

Truthless Recluse's back sharpened at the nickname, a low groan escaping his throat as the other man's pace quickened. He could barely speak, his words coming out jumbled and broken, but it didn't matter to the other cookie, who was focused on him, and him alone.

" Y'know. . if you weren't so stubborn, maybe we could do this more often. . " Shadow Milk continued, his voice low, and his fingers trailed up his jawline, stopping at his cheek.

[vro0m]

Maybe this is my own bias wanting to see things that are not real but both Charles and Lewis strike me as drivers (at least in this current moment and season) who do care about the team overall doing well and would be ok with strategists using them to maximize team points? If they would just take fast and smart decisions, I don’t think the drivers would question it too much. But this constant hesitation and unclear calls over time also builds up a feeling of uncertainty in the drivers maybe because then you start to question what is actually taking so long, do they not know what to do, etc

Just me analyzing for you for free on the basis of gut feeling alone! You’re welcome vrooms! (Would love to hear your thoughts on this more though for real. )

I think most drivers are fairly okay with collaborating when they are in a car that's not very competitive. The closer they get to the front the less they're willing to put the team ahead of themselves. In this context it did seem to me like they were okay with swapping the cars around when needed, and could have done it better and more efficiently if the engineers weren't hesitating about it. It's like the strategy team is the one unwilling to prioritise the team, which makes no sense.

I agree with the uncertainty thing. Imo the big issue is that drivers need to trust their engineers deeply because the engineers can't spend too much time explaining stuff over radio. Look at what happened with Max and GP. GP said "stay within 5 seconds of George" and Max asked why. GP refused to elaborate, he said "just do it". And Max does what he's told in these cases because he knows he can trust GP and the team behind him.

Charles and Lewis can't trust their engineers because they don't trust that the team is making good decisions. Yesterday I brought up the first race I watched that got me into F1. It was back in 2019 and Charles was already contesting the team's decisions over radio. At length. That's an issue.

Similarly, do I remember correctly that when mclaren got back to the top they also had to adjust because suddenly we were listening to radio calls lasting several dozens of seconds?

So yeah on the one hand, they should be making decisions faster. On the other hand, for the fast decisions to be accepted by the drivers without further dicussions, they need to be able to trust that those are the correct decisions. And that's the deeper issue for me.

[moonlit-imagines]

Headcanons for being a speedster and dating Peter Maximoff

Peter Maximoff x reader

warnings: blood/injury

a/n:

prompt:

the world moved in slow motion…

oh, literally

you and peter were usually moving around the same speed. it took a while, but you guys learned to line up with each other when you moved

some said it was annoying, others said it was romantic

you couldn’t find a better way to live life

you initially met in the 70s during a pretty intense plan to break into the pentagon and free magneto from incarceration

you were a ward of professor xavier and peter was the mischievous boy you’d fallen for at first sight

“hey! no” -logan, swatting you on the arm as you zoned out when you’d first met peter

logan, who knew one possible future and might have known whose fates intertwine for better or worse

but the warnings of the man leading you and essentially your family into what could be a massacre didn’t exactly find you well

you quickly sped up and peter followed suit

“whats a place like you doing in a mutant like this?” -peter, jokingly

“yeah, yeah, you heard them” -you, smirking at not only him but the opportunity to do something like this “have you ever…been able to do this?”

“do what? talk to another person while im going fast? no, never had the chance. this is really cool. we should do it again sometime” -peter, rambling

“maybe we can if you listen to the old guys. from what the guy with the weird haircut has told me about you, we’ve got an offer you cant refuse” -you

“oh yeah? how does he know anything about me?” -peter

“from the future or something, still trying to make sense of it—hey, man, can you spare a twinkie?” -you, pointing to the wall of boxes

“take a box…” -peter, falling for you already

you sped to a box and ate while peter ran circles around your crew, the fact you were still pining after him drove charles and hank insane

and all peter wanted to do was impress you

“y/n, everyone in the world and you’re interested in the kleptomaniac. can you maybe reevaluate?” -hank

“no, i don’t think i will” -you

for the boy that agreed to help for free, they sure did want to steer you away

you gave him your number before you went your separate ways, but duty called

“well, i know where to find you” -peter, holding up the business card for the xavier school he lifted off charles when you’d all met

it’s only about 500 miles between you two, takes maybe 10 minutes

it took maybe a week for you to catch his calls, but he knew you were busy

the day you finally called back, he was bouncing off the walls (literally)

“hello?” -ms. maximoff

“hey, ms. maximoff! it’s y/n, we met last week” -you

“PETER, ITS FOR YOU” -ms. maximoff (less than half a second later the phone had vanished from her hand

“y/n! i was expecting your call ever since i saw magneto on the news, how’s it going?” -peter, pacing around the house tangling the phone cord around every single thing he could find

“pretty good, i’m still alive! lunch sometime?” -you

charles was “listening” btw but both of you were talking in superspeed so all he could hear was “MEEMEEMARNEEHLININAM” or like some other really squeaky nonsense

“how about now?” -peter “i’m down to visit new york”

“works for me!” -you, hanging up and immediately rushing to get ready

you guys got each other like no other

never wore each other out

some people told you to “slow down” but they didn’t see the world from your point of view

speed was a good thing when two people experienced it together

“hey, wait. too fast, i cant understand you” -you when peter got excited and started talking fasted than you were going

sometimes you would slow down, when the moment called for it

and peter got a little restless

ok you both did

“this is so boring, lets shoplift” -peter

“peter!” -you

“pleaaaase?” -peter

“…where are you thinking?” -you

oh yeah charles did not like his influence lol

“y/n, i know you have something in common that very few could have, but him?” -charles

“uh, yes him, do you hate happiness?” -you

“no, i just mean that—really, y/n? it is not because i left moira!” -charles

“don’t read my mind!!” -you

“it was loud, like you wanted me to hear it” -charles

“don’t make excuses” -you

peter looooveessss gossip

especially when the school reopened and you decided to take on a class to teach and become somewhat of an RA

“ohhh, my god. one of the kids called hank ‘blue balls’ and the whole class started screaming laughing and i was trying sooo hard to be professional—how do you say ‘shut the fuck up’ to a fourteen year old in a professional way? i am stumped” -you

“‘shut the fuck up’” -peter

“you’re so right” -you

peter would visit the x mansion pretty often while you were working

brings you food and gifts and such

“did you steal this?” -you

“want to see my receipt?” -peter

“yes.” -you

*patting pockets* “i think it fell out” -peter

he gives lotta kisses

LOVES to dance but only fun fast dances where he can spin you

like if there was a dancing contest you would win

you like the slow dancing tho so you can be close to him

peter cleans your room for you while youre working

“one of the kids set fire to a desk today” -you, exhausted

“but at least you have a clean room!!” -peter

he will get very competitive about arcade games

he will NOT take pity on you

sore loser

big baby

oh, what about you? if you can’t take it then dont dish it out!!!!!!

“hahah, i beat your high score” -you

“NOOOO” -peter, who wont stop playing until he gets the high score again

you guys race

he WILL trip you to get a head start

peter luvs to share his music with you

he sings but just in front of u

when you fight, its over fast (bc you talk fast)

*more fast forward voices sounds*

jubilee once tried to record it and slow it down but it didn’t work

peters mom loved u but she was SOOOO exhausted by speedsters

“at least you clean up after yourself when you’re here” -ms. maximoff after you do the dishes for her

making peter’s sister dizzy by running around her

(she wants to be fast too)

peter fake proposes CONSTANTLYYY

you might kick him over while he’s on one knee if he ever does it for real

when the x mansion blew up, you and him were quick to evac the mansion

“are you okay?” -peter, checking you for injuries

“as okay as you are, what the hell??” -you

you were kidnapped together <3 nothing says romance like being trapped in a cage together

peter’s confession that erik was his father was a surprise to you

“WHAT?! you never told me that!!” -you

“it didn’t seem important” -peter

“oh, it didn’t seem important that your DAD is charles’s best friend who we literally BROKE OUT OF PRISON” -you

“not really” -peter

“you getting any of this?” -raven (you were speed fighting)

“not a thing” -hank

“this happen often?” -raven

“comes with the mutation. they’re lucky they found each other. nice to have someone that gets you like that” -hank, side eyeing raven

regardless of that BIG FUCKING SECRET being casually dropped, you guys took apocalypse head on

and man were you guys a unit on the battlefield

one speedster is a wildcard. two? it’s like they couldn’t keep their heads on straight

“wanna make this a game?” -peter

“what’d you have in mind?” -you

“who can punch the blue guy the most” -peter

“nice try, i’m not punching hank” -you

the jokes were fun and distracting, but you guys took quite a few hits

you were bleeding from your head and peter got really serious really fast

“does it hurt? do i need to get you back to the jet?” -peter

“yes, it hurts. no, i’m not giving up” -you

peter broke his fucking leg <3

“alright, you’re done” -you, lifting him up and taking him to safety

he felt like a pretty princess being lifted bridal style by you

“i love you” -peter

“well, duh. nice if you said it more” -you

“i will. thanks for saving me” -peter

“save it for when we get home” -you

taglist: @locke-writes // @randomawesomeperson102 // @captainshazamerica // @dindjarinsspouse // @summersimmerus // @simp-legend // @nekoannie-chan // @groovy-lady // @deanzboyfriend // @mr-mxyzptlk-1940 //

[factual-fantasy]

21 Asks! Thank you! :}} 🏁

I've thought about redeeming Starscream and his brothers here and there somehow. But I think the problem I have with TFP Screamer is he is SOOOOO power hungry.

I think even in season 3 when he got whipped into shape and started being a proper lieutenant, I have no doubt he would snuff out Megatrons spark if he got the chance. I cant see him being loyal to anyone but himself. Or even really believing in anyone else or any other cause.. it feels like he just wants all the power for himself and to do what he wants.

Now if I'm wrong here please correct me- if it actually seems really in character for Screamer (AND his two brothers) to get a redemption arc/proper second chance in TFP then I'm willing to give it a go! :000 I thought it would be fun for them to be a thorn in Megatrons side as stupid lieutenants but an Autobot redemption arc is something I'm always willing to explore! :)))

I think you're right actually, in my opinion I think Ratchet would have a better understanding of internet memes than any other bot.

Some people might think Bee would understand better. But the truth is him and Ratchet are both cybertronians. Just because Bee is younger doesn't mean he automatically has a more based sense of humor. Their level of understanding of internet humor boils down to how much of the internet they have been exposed to. Which I think Ratchet has had the most exposure.

Not that's not to say he really understands it or finds it all funny. But its more like-

Arcee: "What... what even is this image. What am I looking at..??"

Ratchet: "Ah, that is another one of those "meme" things. It is meant to be a humorous image that humans send to each other to make them laugh."

Arcee: "...So.. how is funny..? What does it mean?"

Ratchet: "I have absolutely no idea."

@flutehammer

I have :0 I think I'll only want to watch it if its based around the Octopod and its crew. If it branches out to all the Octoagents I don't think I'll be interested <:/

Monster trucks are not in demolition derby's- <:0 Monster trucks are in Monster Jams and demolition derby's consist of normal sized cars.

As for the separate events, They wouldn't want to be in a demolition derby, cuz that would be painful 💀 but I'm sure a lot of them would have fun watching it :00

And none of them would be able to participate in a Monster Jam even if they wanted to. The bots that would be interested don't have a big enough frame to transform int a monster truck :( but they could at least watch them! Just like Bulkhead and Miko! :)

I imagine that would be very irresponsible of them XD so much for laying low. But I can see Vega, Miata and Zippy daydreaming about it. 😅

@florafandoms

Aww! :D Thank you so much! :))) And I watch a TFP playlist here on YouTube. So far the playlist is still up! :}

@milk-powrit

Actually now that you mention this, all 4 of the factual fam couldn't walk at first after becoming a drawing.

I always meant to draw comics over time of them slowly getting better and better at walking. But never got around to it.

In present day I guess I can say all that development was behind the scenes and they can all walk just fine now <XD

I don't think they'd pull any pranks on me of any kind. They wouldn't want to upset or confuse me in anyway. But boy would they probably mess with each other XDD Jangles and Cici especially.

I couldn't really put the gifs in this ask post <XD but I've always imagined trying to animate my fam and I wanted them to be very smooth and soft looking. Like Disney animation or something James Baxter would animate.

Bibi and Cici especially, smooth and flowy :0 Maybe someday I'll try to animate that....

I feel like Jangles would really dig that :00

@lilylink

AAAAA THANKYOU! :DDD 💞💞💞

I hate to day it, but his voice drives me up the wall 😅💔I cant watch anymore playthroughs of the demo because his voice annoys me so much. <:/

As for the fam. I feel like Gerald might have what it takes. But the other three would be a bit camera shy <XD Bibi especially.

I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the Stephen King or Harry Potter cars.. but I'm sure they'd have an interest in Doc Hudson! :D

I do that once in a while if I get an ask that inspires me. :0 But I don't think I'd want to do that regularly <XD That feels kind'a like I'd be roleplaying which would be kind'a weird for me-

@glitchhayden418

don't call me that 🫵👁️👁️🗡️

Also Walter sounds like a great name XDD But if not that then maybe Timone?

Bibi XDD

@randomfandomarts

There's more than one?? :0 I had no idea! If I could get my hands on them somehow maybe I'd be motivated to read them :000

@beryl-shade

I'd say its Bibi :0 And not just because he's actually the eldest sibling XDD Its also because he is usually the voice of reason and keeps the other 3 out of trouble. 🤭

@digi-vie

AAAWWWWW FLUFFY BABYEEEEEE😭😭💞💞💞

(First link in ask) (Second link in ask)

Aww, she seems so sweet in those two videos! 🥰🥰

Oh boy- I hope they don't make a cruddy movie just for the money 💔

[greyskyflowers]

Thunderbolts discussion. Spoilers ~

First of all, I had forgotten how much fun it was to see Marvel movies in theater. I meant to go see the new Captain America no one ruin it for me I still need to watch it in theaters too, but I ended up not being able to. I regret it, though, because I had so much fun with Thunderbolts.

Second, I've seen so much stuff about the end of thunderbolts and SamBucky.

So, I'm going to ramble a bit about it because I can.

I feel like we don't have anywhere near enough info to really discuss the fight.

So it blows my mind that people are actually fighting over it?

Sam and Bucky are very good friends, and if anyone here has ever had a very good friend, then you'd know that fights happen. Sometimes nasty ones.

My concern is that most of you don't seem to actually have friends or go out in the real world. Because some of the stuff you guys say makes me think that you've never had a conversation with another person before. Stg it's embarrassing how proud some of you are about that. You have to learn to work with people in the real world. You don't always agree but you put on your big girl/boy/person pants and get over it.

Sam and Bucky disagree on some big stuff, but they always work it out.

That's how coworkers work. That's how friends work. What's how family works.

That being said,

I'm not shocked if they did have a fight.

A breakup? A divorce? Nah. I don't think that for a minute.

Steve and Bucky butted heads on stuff all the time, and of course him and Sam butt heads over stuff. It's practically Bucky's love language at this point.

In terms of working with/trusting/accepting people who have a messy and violent past, Bucky was the exception, not the standard.

Most people didn't trust Bucky. They thought he needed to be brought in, punished, etc. And that was with them knowing he had been brainwashed and tortured.

Even Sam thought that for a while. Steve only thought different because he knew Bucky.

If Natasha hadn't already been brought in by Shield and working with them for awhile, I'm not sure any of the original Avengers besides Clint obviously would have wanted/trusted her enough to give her a chance. I'm not sure if Sam would have.

And I can't blame them. Would I have given Bucky or Natasha that a chance if I had been in their shoes? I like to hope so, especially because they have both proven to be better/changed/trustworthy/etc but I don't really know. There's a lot of things that would have had me hesitate.

It's logical to be critical in situations like that though.

So, a group of people like the thunderbolts?

I can't imagine really anyone thinking that was a good idea or being 100% on board with it.

I personally think it's completely within Sam's character for him to say no nope not a good idea.

Because it's really not.

There are probably a lot of other things that would make way more sense and have a better chance of success.

I think if Bucky hadn't been directly involved in the thunderbolts, then he would have disagreed with it, too.

We even see that he didn't trust them when he caught them and was waiting to turn them in. He doesn't believe their story because why would he?

This is going to be a hard topic for Sam and Bucky because while rationally they both know a group made up entirely of people who could fit in the category of villian more easily than vigilante isn't a super smart idea, Bucky is a part of that group.

Expressing a distrust that they are capable of change or being better could be taken as not thinking Bucky was capable of those things either.

He only got a second chance because of Steve. What if Bucky is the only way this group gets another chance? Not to mention that he's got to be seeing a lot of himself in them.

From Sam's side though, what the fuck is Bucky doing?

Except Walker. Fuck Walker. He needs so much more character development before I'm trusting him with anything. I enjoyed his character in the movie and in TFATWS, but to me he has not shown himself as a redeemable character at this time.

Could also see Walker being involved as a huge reason Sam doesn't like support it.

He had a good thing going. He was in congress, he was on good grounds with the public, etc. And now he's running around with a group of criminals and calling themselves the new avengers?

Does that put Bucky's pardon at risk?

What if they drag Bucky back into a bunch of bad shit?

Sam cares about Bucky, he doesn't want him back into the dark side of things. He had to watch some of that in Madripoor in TFATWS and it wasn't pretty.

Not to mention just the hurt of not being told any of this. Even though it wasn't planned or intentional on Bucky's side.

It looks bad. It looks bad from both sides.

To Sam, Bucky is hanging out with the wrong people, potentially putting his pardon at risk, potentially disrespecting and not talking to Sam.

To Bucky, Sam is potentially showing that he doesn't think people like the thunderbolts can change/be trusted which is going to hurt because what about Bucky? Who's arguably done much worse than most of them? Doesn't understand why Bucky is doing this, and potentially feels like he's not listening to Bucky.

They're both hard headed and have a habit of talking over each other without listening. I imagine that the conversation was very similar to the conversations about the shield.

They're both coming from valid spots, but they've got to meet somewhere in the middle. They have to listen to each other.

This is also all speculation. We have literally no details about the conversation and trying to take sides based on a comment that it "didn't go well" just shows that you're probably a very frustrating person to work with in real life.

They'll be fine. They're not going to hate each other over something like this.

They'll figure it out.

**Please comment appropriately. Everything discussed is speculation and personal opinion.

Shit comments get deleted, and the user blocked ~

[c-u-c-koo-4-40k]

A New Treatment - Part 2

Summary: Lullaby has managed to treat Most of Lana's issues regarding the invasive bond of the Silver menace, but the issue is by no means resolved. So now the question remains, how does one move forward when the path is blocked by an adversary that is both stubborn and lethally competent? 

Warning: Emotional Breakdown , Eavesdropping

Previous Chapter : Here 💙

Next Chapter: Currently Unknown

First in the Series : Here 💛

I must give the usual kudos to @kit-williams and @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan for use of their ocs!

Other awesome creators in the husbandry sphere include BUT are not limited to...

@sleepyfan-blog @egrets-not-regrets @legionsofthehungry

@passionofthesith @bispecsual @bleedingichorhearts @beckyninja

@moodymisty @boop-le-snoot @angronsjewelbeetle @jaghatai-khock

He always carries you. When will you stop being useless and carry him for a change? 

The guestroom is dark, save for the afternoon sunlight streaming through the shear curtains. You'd asked Khopesh to turn off the lights when he'd carried you in here. 

Shut up! 

Now you're both laying against the headboard of the reinforced bed, you wouldn't ask Khopesh to doff his armor in a strange place, even if you desperately want to feel his warmth and more of his skin against yours. 

You burrow your face deeper into the crook of his neck, and force yourself to drown out those awful thoughts with the sounds from his heartbeats and purring. It's not happy purring, but he's doing it to make you feel better. And you feel like if he stops holding you, your entire self will break apart. 

But you know Khopesh won't do that, but it doesn't stop the pain and the fear and the overwhelming sense that things Just Keep Getting WORSE. 

“Why do things keep getting Worse!?” You ask, partially muffled by the skin of his neck. 

Khopesh doesn't have an answer, nor do you expect him to really. But it does surprise you when he asks. “Are you…truly unhappy with our life?” 

You immediately pull back to look in his eyes. “No!” How could he even Think that? You grasp his face, mostly gently and emphatically tell him. “No! NO! Sweetness you are the Light of this life!” You plead, but nowhere near done. “You Are the warm shadows that hold and protect me at night! You're the laughter I feel in my gut when I see your face each morning and I think about your goofy antics! You're The best damn thing I've Ever been able to hold and call mine!” You promise, and pull his head to your chest. “I'm sick of anything and everything that keeps getting in the Way of that!” You growl. 

You feel Khopesh smile against your chest, as his arms wrap you closer. You both stay that way for a moment. 

“I'm…tired,” You admit, and begin running your fingers through your Khopesh's hair. “We should've been able to just stay Home today.” 

Khopesh shifts his gaze to yours. “Do you wish to leave? Because if so I will carry you out that door and you will Never have to even Think of this place again.” He promises, and you know he means it. 

You smile at his consideration, then sigh. “No…there's still more that Needs to be done.” You'd already told him Who that silver magic belonged to. “Besides…It's not Lana's fault she's caught magic jeebies from an asshole.” Your words cause Khopesh to snort and chuckle. You smile, and take a moment to just breathe in Khopesh's scent. 

The Hydras seem touched by Lana's compliment towards them. “Oh Lana…”

“...Do you regret coming here?” Khopesh asks you. 

You take a moment, and then you shake your head. “No…I don't. Because I can't regret helping someone who needed it. I just don't…like being caught off guard.”

Khopesh hmms, adjusting his hold slightly so he can trace his nose along your jaw. He inhales your breath, he can feel the pumping of your blood through your veins.

God you wish you could both be having reunion sex in the shower right now.  

You inhale deeply, and exhale. Then you repeat that a few times. You sit back and look Khopesh in the eye. “We should go back out now. Lana deserves to know what's going on.”

Khopesh smiles softly. “Then so it shall be.” He begins to shift so you can both dismount the bed. 

“But yeah when we get home we're having a LOOOOONG fucking nap. And a hot shower before that.” You declare, sliding down the bed to stand on the floor and offering your hand to Khopesh. 

The Nightlord smiles as he takes your hand and ‘pulls’ himself up to stand. “Hot as in the temperature or hot as in…” He cocks an eyebrow. 

“Both.” 

“Yes!” Khopesh purrs and walks with you to the door. 

At which point you hear some scuffling and whispering. 

“Back up dammit.”

“Can you hear anything?” 

“Even if I did I'm Not telling you and Move your elbow Hydra!” 

“Gee snappy snappy Hatchling.” 

“I am Not your hatchling!” 

“You’re certainly whining like one.” 

“Aren't you all supposed to be giving them some Space?” A voice slightly further away asks the bickering space marines. 

“Shit!”

“I Told you this wasn't your business face stealers!” 

“Oh that's rich coming from you, tell me, who snuck down here and pressed their ear to the door first?” 

“That's not!..I'm not! They are Both my Family! It's different!”

“So eavesdropping is Fine as long as it's Family. Right…”

“You all need to back up.”

“Wait, I think I hear something!” Followed by a few small sounds pressing to the door. 

You turn and smile at Khopesh who can tell you've got mischief on your mind. He smiles back and you take that exact moment to open the door. 

Thunk! THunK! THUNK! 

A stumbling gaggle of Space Marines fall into the room. Claude, then two of the Hydras…it's actually Talos and Keed, you Think. 

“Oof! Ah Brother! Lullaby! We were-I mean I- ah, I was just…” Claude fumbles. 

“Eavesdropping?” Khopesh smiles pointedly. “Really Claude I thought I taught you better.”

Claude sighs, and deflates a bit. “I know…” He works to get to his feet with a quickly muttered. “Get off.” To the hydras, who acquiesce with some more grumbling about Claude being prickly. 

“You got worried,” You address Claude as he stands, and take his armored hand. “I appreciate it sweetie. But Khopesh is right, it's better to give people space when they need it instead of hanging outside doorways.”

“Well no, I mean I taught him how to eavesdrop better than That.” Khopesh corrects. 

You turn to your Love, your Light, your shining moon with that Fucking Audacity and he greets your look with a smile. 

“The damn Audacity on you!” You chastise but there's laughter under your words. “I should make You repair the bathroom door for that!” 

Khopesh's teeth show as he smiles with delight. “Oh but my Love you Know I'm no good with builder's tools! You'll just have to find some other way to…correct me.~” He purrs, bringing his face close.

A blush erupts over your face, and you huff with a “Hush you!” before turning back to the door and proceeding on your way. 

The Hydras make room, and Khopesh follows you like a shadow once more. Claude follows on the other side and you see Anrir in the hallway. 

His ancient eyes regard you with a level look. “How are you feeling?” He asks. 

You quirk a half smile. “I'm well enough to talk about where we go from here.” You reply. “Something tells me this won't be an easy patch of road ahead, for Any of us.” You walk on, shaking your head. 

“Oh joy…” Anrir groans, but doesn't argue. 

Your group proceeds back to the living room, and the attached dining/kitchen area where sounds of upbeat chatter are emanating. 

At the table eating the various take out items the Hydra's had brought, were Lana, Orlys, and Zarius. Zariel was sat there as well, clearly taking some time to have Lana in his arms. 

If he's the busiest of the shoal he may get far less time with her. He and the others are also probably happy to see her eating well. The dining group turns to you as they see you. Lana jumps up. 

“Are you okay?” She fusses worriedly, then turns to grab a mug from the counter and a kettle of hot water. “Here, let's pour you that cup of tea I promised, any preference for type?”

You smile at her generosity. “I'll take green tea with milk and sugar if you've got it.” You pull out a chair and sit down. The others follow suit, sitting or standing in the dining area. 

Lana nods with an “Of course,” before she gathers those items, and gives them to you so you can prepare your cup. While it steeps you fold your hands and take a breath. 

Time to try…and explain. Khopesh is sitting next to you, providing you silent support. 

“So…I'm sure you're wondering why…everything.” You begin, opening your hands. “While I can't explain Everything…I can tell you what I saw. And what I Think is causing your issues.”

Lana holds her own mug, and her face shows concern for your tone. “But I thought you managed to treat me. I already feel so much better.” She assures. 

You smile, but it doesn't touch your eyes. “I've treated your current symptoms.” You correct. “But the root cause is still very much a problem. One that we'll need your input on how to address given…the exact nature of it.” 

“Okay,” Lana agrees. 

How to put this? “So…You've got what Looks like the roots of an intense bond. And the being it came from is a Silver Space Marine who attacked my Astarte friends and family and is now being held in custody.” You say. “And he knows about my abilities because I used them to help defeat him. And if he didn't already know he Definitely knows now because I was somehow able to jump into his head when I touched the main source of the silver magic. Aaaaand I'm pretty sure he wants me dead for that. Well…More dead anyway.”

A moment passes. And Everyone in the room doesn't truly know how to react, even those who already know most of this information. 

“Also I think the invasive bond is messing with the bonds from your Alpha Legion Marines And your life force in general, which caused your symptoms.” You explain further. “So if we can't get rid of the main vine the exhaustion and pain will just keep coming back as the invasive tendrils regrow.”

Lana's face is so…so heartbreakingly hurt and confused looking. Zariel holds her closer, and her other Hydras crowd around her. “But…I don't understand? How could this have happened? I've never even Met a silver space marine, let alone whoever you're talking about!?”

You bite your lip, you'd been thinking about that while decompressing, and a painful Painful possibility had come to mind. 

“I'm afraid it might be…My Fault.” You say, flexing your grasped hands together. It's a soothing motion. 

Zariel looks at you incredulously. “How on Earth could you be responsible for Any of this?” The other Hyrdas murmur similar sentiments. Keed particularly looks concerned or…frightened? 

“Lullaby…?” Khopesh asks worriedly, wrapping an arm around you. 

You take a deep breath. “When my Family had that encounter with Draco- the Silver  Space Marine. I used my powers to absorb his psychery, and empower my loved ones.” You state. “But I absorbed too much, and ended up having to expel it. I was able to ground some of it with help but…” You swallow. “The rest forced its way out in a scream.”

Anrir interjects. “Dear child, do you really think an invasive bond could form from that?”

You look to Anrir then to Lana as you speak. “We know I can help bonds form if the two parties are close enough together. And I have No Idea how far that scream traveled, but it's possible that if you happened to be in the radius it could cause some of the silver magic to…reach your soul and seed the bond?” You explain. 

“This is speculation…but I can't help but feel it's a possibility and I'm so, So Sorry, for pulling you into all this.” You say, feeling tears begin to prick at your eyes again. 

After a moment, Lana reaches out and grasps your hand. “Please don't blame yourself, I mean…you couldn't have known your power would do that. If that's even what happened in the first place.” She pleads with you through her eyes. “This is Not your fault.”

You wish you could believe that as deeply as she seems to. But before you can move to your next point, Keed speaks up. 

“Indeed, it is Not the only possibility.” He states grimly.

The others look at him, Lana included. They note his fear and…like he's remembering something painful. “Keedy?” Lana asks, reaching for him. 

Keed takes her hand, and brings it to his lips. “Forgive me my precious jewel. But I have withheld something from you.”

“Are you sure you wish to discuss it?” Zarial asks his shoal mate. But Anrir interjects. 

“After All that has happened I feel I must Insist that you do.” He says, and you feel your stomach twinge a bit at the growl under his tone. 

Orlys shoots him a look. “The experience was Not a pleasant one. Give him a moment.” 

“I will give him as many moments as he needs, but my patience is Not limitless.” Anrir responds cooly. 

“You needn't tell me twice.” Keed assures. “I did not explain this as I Hoped this could be resolved without bringing it up. In fact I'd hoped to put the entire event behind me and Never have to consider it again. But…I Too have had an Encounter, with the Space Marine you speak of.”

Khopesh's arm wraps around your shoulders just a hair tighter. “You Knew where the malignant psychery came from, and you Did Not tell us?”

“As I said, I Desperately wanted it to not be needed. I could see and recognize the psychery and it's origin…but I had No Idea that it had actually latched onto Lana as an intense bond.” Keed elaborates. “As Talos told you, we noticed Lana's condition began to deteriorate about two months ago and before the most recent Sanguinala celebration. Slightly Before that, is when…He found me.” 

You note how Keed shudders, but he composes himself quickly and continues. 

“I was just walking home after a patrol. And I suppose he thought I was an easy mark.” He growls. “It must've been shortly after he was zapped here. He…he invaded my Mind, he Plundered my memories for information.” He breathes sharply. “And I Know he could've seen Lana, there.”

Realizing what he's implying, you ask a plaintive question. “Do you think Him seeing Lana through Your memories could be enough to seed a bond?”

Keed lets out a heavy breath. “I don't know…after he'd violated my mind. He placed a mental block upon my memories so that I would not remember seeing him. Pfft! It's almost Merciful compared to what most Grey Knights would usually do.” He shakes his head. “After that I went about my normal life until my brothers pointed out the gaps in my memory, and I could get the block removed. The bastard even had the Audacity to attach a small psychic flare to the block, so that when it was undone it would lash out at whoever tried to remove it.”

He rubs the bridge of his nose as he finishes. “Fortunately, it wasn't able to cause much harm due to Ancient Terra's psychic weakening effect. I thought I could put this aside but now I Wonder…could seeing our precious jewel through My memories, or even coming home with the silver bastard's spell still attached to me…could That be the reason our Lana was affected so?”

“I…I don't know…” You hmm, and decide to mix your tea and take a sip. “But I guess no matter how it happened…we have to figure out how to move forward.”

The Hydras glance between each other, perhaps having another mental exchange. Eventually Zarius speaks. 

“What are our options?” 

It takes you a moment, but you are actually a little shaken by them addressing you so directly. I mean up until this point your figured it would be: do your magic removal services and bounce but now…

Now things are far Far more complicated, and this group of Alpha Legion who are far more experienced and dangerous than you could ever be…are looking to you for guidance. 

You glance to Anrir, who gives you a weary smile. “The ball is..How do you say? In your court my child. It has to be as you are the only one here who can affect bonds.”

You take a moment, then you nod, and fold your hands together to think. 

Then you speak. “Well the way I see it we have two options.” You announce. “Option one is leaving the intense bond as it is. I'm pretty sure it would be called…incomplete at this stage, and we develop a schedule where I can treat Lana regularly so the bond's effects don't have a chance to become so severe again. The drawbacks would of course be travel for either of us as Lana would have to come to me or vis versa. I also won't disregard the possibility of diminishing returns…no that's not the right world ah…”

“Medicinal Resistance?” Anrir supplies. 

You snap your fingers. “That! Yes, there's no guarantee my treatments will remain effective, for all we know every time we trim the bond back it could just regrow faster each time. And that's not even considering the risk of jumping into the Silver bitch's brain again by accident.” 

You lift your other hand for emphasis. “The Other option is bond rejection, if you refuse it the bond will die and wither and I'll be able to swoop in and prune it the rest of the way.” You say. “Come to think of it I might have to prune the bond from His side in order for it to be properly removed and not affect the Hydra bonds more.”

Lana leans forward. “Rejection. No question!” She states emphatically. “There's no way I'd want to be bonded to someone like that!”

A beat passes, and you almost expect to get a call from Hura about Draco thrashing in agony from the bond snapping. But…nothing seems to change. 

Lana follows up. “So…how do I do that?”

You chew and shift your lips around as you think. “Good…question. I mean in theory saying ‘I don't want this’ should be enough but…” You pull on your warp sight and…

The ugly silver Tumor is still there. You cuss under your breath. 

“Yeah of course it's not gonna be that easy…” You sigh, putting your head in your hands. 

Anrir strokes his chin. “Well…you did say the bond seems incomplete. Perhaps it must be made complete Before it can be refused?”

You stare at him. “Are you saying we have to bring Lana to Him?”

““ABSOLUTELY NOT!”” Keed and Zarius snarl in unison which startles you and causes Khopesh to grab you into his lap. 

“You must be Losing your Mind in your old age, Nightlord! If you think we'll let our Lana anywhere Near that Monster!” Zarius actually stalks over to Anrir, but before he can get properly in his face (bad idea, bad bad idea) Claude gets in his way. 

Anrir remains completely calm, but does speak slightly louder so he can be heard over Claude's defensive growls. “I believe this is your mate's choice as She is the one affected.”

Zarius's growls cut off and he whips his face towards Lana with a panicked expression. All the other Hydras look at her with similar expressions. 

Lana thinks for a moment then meets Anrir's eyes. “You know what? Yes.”

“Lana!” “Precious jewel you Cannot be serious!” “It's far too dangerous!”

“Enough.” The protests cut off with that single word, and she slides down from Zariel's lap and approaches Anrir with a confidence fueled by rage. 

“Let's go Meet this…what did you say he was?”

“Grey Knight.” 

“Fuckface, got it.” Lana nods. 

Zarius and Keed both try to plead directly with Lana. “My Pearl Please, you don't know how Dangerous he is!” “He could invade your mind and do Throne knows What to it Please Reconsider!”

Lana turns to the Hydras with a sharp look. “I want to see him. Not because he's apparently bonded to me, but Because I want to give him a damn piece of my mind!” She states. “He's made All out lives so much harder and for What!?”

Claude chimes in. “Ah…at the time he insisted the psychery inclined Scouts come with him to receive more…training. Ugh.”

“Abuse, he was going to ‘train’ them with abuse.” You supply, flexing your fingers with displeasure. 

Lana gestures emphatically at your explanations. “See!? Even if Nothing else can be done. I want to march up to that…that…that Son of a Bitch and tell him! I wanna tell him he's Damn well out of Luck because I've already got some Great Astartes for partners and I Don't Want Him!” 

“Perhaps, perhaps not my boy.” He answers, with a smile. 

Zarius cooes, wrapping her in his arms. 

The others follow soon, they're still unsure but…they love their Lana and want her to get better. 

Also seeing her chew out the Grey Knight would be Amazing, if also stressful and scary to think of her being that close to such a monstrous beast. 

Finally Talos speaks up. “You won't let him replace us right…if the bond ends up sticking?” He asks and his voice is so, so painfully genuine. 

Lana pulls back a bit so she can look him in the eye. “Never!” She promises, bringing her hand up to gently brush his face. “Even if he Didn't do all those awful things and approached me like the perfect gentleman…I'd never oust Any of you for him. You're not dolls or toys to be thrown away when a new shiny one comes. You're Mine, and you're…you're damn near the best things I've ever loved.”

“”’’💙 LANA! 💙""” The Hydras cry in unison and hold her even tighter. They press enthusiastic kisses to her face and she giggles at the ticklish feeling of being overwhelmed by affection. 

You smile at the scene, and feel a familiar warmth bloom in your chest. You turn to Khopesh, who smiles at you but is also wrinkling his nose a Little bit at the abundant PDA going on. But he can't deny he'd do the same to you if there were five of him. So he decides to focus on pressing his lips to your forehead. 

Anrir and Claude stand by, one imagining his own bonded love, and the other well…

“If I ever get bonded will I become so…forward?” Claude asks his adopted father, which causes Anrir to chuckle. 

[dw-flagler]

How about this?

Where there any instances on canon (or in a midlly divergent timeline) you could see a character second triggering who didn't canonically, and what do you think the resulting altered power would be like?

really interesting idea!

Very obvious answer though. Single most likely character to second trigger who didn't is lisa. I wouldn't go as far as to say she should have triggered, because I think that's too far and kind of accusatory but she absolutely could have second triggered during Speck and not for a second would I think it was out of character or unfitting. I mean it would have shattered the pacing but it would fit her character.

There is literally nothing anyone can do to lisa more truly agonizingly torturous than what happened to her in canon. Except for some dead dove fics by figures like Alotoaxolotls and even then it's still close.

The parahumans series is basically about lisa wilbourn triggering from watching her brother die and knowing she could have saved him and didn't and then watching that happen again. Twice.

I think the line "you couldn't have made it easy?" is maybe the single most heartbreaking line in the entire parahumans series for me. The whole pepper spray thing genuinely crushes me every time.

Close second is "this makes me feel really sorry for your dad, because I’m starting to get a sense of what you put him through." Not very pithy, though.

If lisa triggered during speck it probably would have been late, when lisa realizes that she can't be the one to translate for khepri. This is a fucking crushing moment for smugbug fans (platonic or otherwise) because it's truly the moment where lisa had nothing left of taylor (and her facade as the smartest one in the room fully shattered).

If you wanted to put it somewhere else for some reason, maybe you could put it at the point where taylor leaves the undersiders to join the protectorate, but gold morning is just better. Or worse? If both of those are out for some reason then you could look at my fanfic where taylor dies post-leviathan, but that's distinctly divergent from canon, where these other two would just be completely canon until lisa second triggers.

For her second-trigger powers, this I always had trouble with. I'm not sure, cause the problem is that a second trigger has to be powerful compared to a non-second trigger, but still at least a little limited, and if you take like any limits at all away from lisa she basically becomes a god in purple spandex. Practically omnipotent. And that's not very interesting to write, except as a "lisa stomps all of canon" thing I guess.

My first and most comprehensive idea is basically that you increase her capacity for power use, making it way less of a debate whether it's worth it to use her power (it almost always because the tradeoffs are far less significant) but you make it far more prone to misfires or unhelpful tangents, especially about how people around her are lying-to or betraying her! This basically shifts the debate lisa has from "should I use my power?" to "should I trust my power?" The idea being that her power is less reliable but she's necessarily more reliant on it.

The opposite is also a possibility, where her power basically becomes way more reliable and accurate, but she has way less capacity. So it's basically always reliable but she really has to consider whether or not it'd be worth it because she gets very little power use per day. So it's more reliable but she can't rely on it. This one is probably a more concrete upgrade compared to tattletale 1.0 than the machine gun approach to thinker powers.

Since lisa's first trigger is mainly about regret, I guess her second trigger would be mainly about what she regretted. Did she more regret not knowing more or not knowing better? Something like that.

The problem with these is that they're kind of conceptually boring.

A third idea some others have floated around is if she gets an ability to control who suffers the migraine, so she could make others around her suffer the brunt of the migraine instead of her. However, my main gripe with this is that it makes her even more comically powerful than the other two options. Not only is it a lisa without migraines, it's a lisa with a shaker effect to induce migraines in others!

I'm not actually sure which of these (or maybe a fourth option i had not even considered) is the best option.

tl;dr: ask a lisa expert. I dunno. get silvianorton on the horn

[mycroftrh]

Hot take here but based on movie canon (or even movie plus show canon, unless I’m forgetting something from like the end of Kenobi) I don’t think Sidious trained Vader in the Dark Side literally at all.

I mean, there are really only two powers we see him using as Vader that he didn’t use as a Jedi.

1) Force-choke. He figured this one out all by himself, in Revenge of the Sith. He gets better at it, in the ensuing couple decades (learns to use it over Space FaceTime) but he taught it to himself in the first place and there’s no reason to believe Sidious got involved later.

2) Different use of telekinesis than the Jedi employ. This one’s super fuzzy (the Jedi very much do use powerful telekinesis, in both OT and PT, see eg Yoda and Luke on Dagobah, and Anakin very much had telekinesis pre-Vader, see eg The Pear) but that thing where he gets pissed and things implode or explode is very Dark Side flavored… but again he taught himself that in RotS. He uses it when Palpatine tells him Padme is dead.

The only power I can think of that he used as Vader that he didn’t already know by the end of RotS - at which point he had definitely not received any training from Sidious - is deflecting Han’s blaster bolt.

Which could be a result of Dark Side training? Possibly? But also his hand is made of space-carbon-steel so that might not be a Force power at all and also he is Very Powerful and the Dark Side doesn’t really give “harmless defensive maneuver” vibes, tbh. It seems much more reasonable to me that he figured that out on his own too (or is just using his physical hand) than that Sidious taught him Evil Harmless Defense.

Anakin only Fell in order to learn Dark Side powers - he never actually pledged fealty to Sidious; Sidious promised to teach him the Dark Side, that they would work on the “defeating death” thing, and Anakin said “I pledge myself to your teachings.” And then not only was that motivation rendered moot (Padme died anyway) he never even got those teachings.

Which makes really good sense from Sidious’s POV! It was damn stupid for other Sith to teach their apprentices how to kill them, and Sidious is many things but he is not stupid. Vader’s already insanely powerful and Jedi-trained, teaching him how to actually use Dark Side powers - instead of just drawing on the Dark Side to use Jedi powers, as we see him do - would be wildly ill-advised, especially given that Sidious probably knows perfectly well Vader hates him.

(I think it’s reasonable to conclude that that last bit - he’s trying to use the Dark as fuel for Light abilities - may be why he’s as beatable as he is, by Obi-Wan and Luke, but that’s extrapolation and a whole ‘nother meta.)